Latest Short Film Reviews

The Quiet Ocean follows Kansas (Juliette Crosbie), a receptionist at an Irish motel, in a future where individuals go to end their lives. One night, she meets a guest, Maria (Jennifer Zamparelli), and finds herself falling in love with her. The short piece is a dystopian tale of melancholy and regret, focusing on themes of queer love and gender roles.

One of the most astounding aspects of The Quiet Ocean is its visually striking production design. Despite evident budget constraints that ran counter to the filmmaker's vision, the piece is a staggering achievement in production values, with all the technical aspects firing on all cylinders. The titular motel is visually stunning, with neon lighting set against a gloomy fog. While the filmmakers intentionally don't expand the worldbuilding beyond the expository voice-over explaining how the motel operates, the ambiguity is welcome, allowing the audience to piece it together themselves. The low-key lighting in the exterior of the hotel is another commendable choice, giving the motel an eerie feel.

Serving as the film's cinematographer, Carol Tormey does a tremendous job of framing the titular motel and both central characters. The piece primarily consists of close-ups between Kansas and Maria to create a sense of intimacy and yearning, essentially assisting their already compelling chemistry. The shift to establishing shots of the motel is also a commendable choice, as it gives the audience a sense of the scale within the exterior sequences. These specific framing choices are complemented by the boxed-in 4:3 aspect ratio that gives the piece a sense of claustrophobia and intimacy. Seeing the grainy photography set against the gloomy fog makes the experience visually appealing throughout.

Katie McNeice, serving as the film's director, executes the themes of queer love and gender roles sincerely. It takes a steady pace to establish the relationship between the two central characters without ever putting a foot wrong. Despite the film's brisk runtime and lack of worldbuilding, every dramatic beat is executed profoundly thanks to the writing and direction from Katie McNeice. The way the filmmakers tackle the themes of regret and the inevitability of death in a bleak, dystopian future is an apt topic for this narrative, and it feels wholly singular and original. While the piece could have delved more into the relationship of Kansas and Maria, the short runtime feels welcoming.

Each interaction between Juliette Crosbie and Jennifer Zamparelli in their portrayals of Kansas and Maria, respectively, feels natural and nuanced. This is thanks to two committed central performances that bounce off one another to create a magnetic sense of chemistry. While the audience doesn't spend a substantial time with Kansas and Maria, both performances shine and convey the themes of longing convincingly.

The conclusion to the piece lands on a quiet and meditative note that may linger on viewers’ minds. Despite how abrupt it may be to certain viewers, the execution is undoubtedly moving and may leave audiences wanting more.

The Quiet Ocean is a deeply moving portrayal of queer love in a dystopian world. It's a beautiful and unique tale drenched in melancholy and longing. Despite its lack of characterisation, the piece is held together by two terrific performances, a subtle yet effective musical score and admirable editing choices.

The new short film by Daniel Florio, Swiped is very much a comedy told in two distinctive parts – each with its own style of heightened comedic tone. In the first, we witness a girls’ night transpiring with all its amusing social politics, one-upmanship and general awkwardness of a gathering of old friends. It’s an increasingly hilarious game of Whose life is better and Who has the biggest news to share, with the escalation of “new job” to “I’m pregnant” serving as some of the short’s funniest moments. The second half takes a turn into the crime genre with a development so unexpected, ridiculous yet spectatorially stimulating that you can’t help but admire the audacity of Florio’s screenplay. This latter section is more focussed on our protagonist’s boyfriend whom she’s been showing off during her girls’ night via social media pics, with the suggestion being that her Italian tinder-match is seemingly the only thing she has to brag about (I should note that characters’ superficial tendencies all play into the purposefully heightened tone of the piece).

Despite the general sense of absurdism present throughout the film, perhaps its most admirable characteristic is that it is utterly relatable. Maybe not the mafia stuff; but the simple idea of exaggerating one’s life so as to impress a group of snobby old acquaintances is such a clear yet potent dramatic weapon that can so easily lead to interesting places. You may argue that it’s a concept that’s been done before, and for the film’s first half, that would be true. However, my retort is twofold: firstly, the execution of this gathering is so snappy and well-performed that there’s nothing to complain about in the watching of it; and secondly, by the time you reach the halfway mark (at around six minutes), you understand that this is someone who wants to experiment with structure – and to effectively do that in an entertaining manner, and without alienating the audience, the filmmaker needs to deliver some conventional laughs and dramatic beats in this opening section.

To touch on the formal for a moment, the cinematography and sound are effective for their simplicity. Our two primary sequences are made up of very direct, central, tripod compositions which tend to place actors within an amusingly detached context – much like a Wes Anderson shot or even a shot from a Coen Brothers movie. The impact of this is subtle, especially since these are never the kinds of shots that deliver the wow-factor. But what’s intelligent about the direction and photography here is the awareness of that kind of stripped-down clarity suiting the form of an absurdist comedy perfectly. Arguably easier to praise is the practical use of lighting as well as the pointedly jazzy, sporadic nature of the music-track – implemented with great intentionality at points to match the playfulness of the filmmaking.

Swiped is a hilarious, inventively structured piece by Daniel Florio. Arguably indulgent, yet makes for a short film with a fresh tone and outrageous conceit. This is punchy work, and certainly entertaining to the casual viewer.

Time for a trip to Egypt. Filmed over the course of twenty days in Sinai, with a budget funded by the director, this short documentary was directed by Alice Rosano and it involves a film crew and highliners going to Egypt and filming themselves highlining.

Just explaining that highlining is a sport that involves a person walking on a narrow, flat rope (called a slackline) that is suspended high above the ground between high points such as mountains and cliffs.

Some of the dynamic individuals who decided to make this project a reality are the director, Alice Rosano, camera operator, Laura Heilanen, rope technician, Timo Elony and professional highliner, Giuseppe Di Bella. The result is a beautifully shot, fifteen-minute-long documentary that takes the viewer on a journey through Sinai. However, unlike what is usually seen in documentaries about Egypt, there are no pyramids or temples in view, (there are camels, though) instead this film visits various locations across Sinai, has a few locals share information about Egypt and themselves and, as expected, has plenty of highlining. Some of the locals include Sheikhs Saleh Abu Eid and Rabia Barakat and an elderly woman named Amreya Farag.

Thanks to Rosano's expert directing and hers and Heilanen's beautiful cinematography, viewers has the privilege of seeing the wonderful landscapes of Sinai and the atmospheric music adds to the sense of adventure. The creativity of Caterina Delli Carri and Chiara Mazzotta results in impressive illustrations that appear often, depicting maps that reveal the team's journey through Sinai. The whole film is of a high standard, however, special acknowledgement goes to the shots of highliners performing their sport.

This documentary offers to teach some things about Egypt and its people and become familiar with the sport of highlining. Moreover, it promotes the significance of pursuing a goal and having a passion, new discoveries and experiences. Through Amreya Farag, the film also explores feminism.

This project focuses on a lesser-known side of Egypt. It is a short and informative trip through parts of Egypt and it introduces the viewer to some inspiring individuals.

The Last Show is a documentary piece that follows the final London International Mime Festival and highlights its cultural significance to the theatre community. The festival featured miming, visual theatre, clowning, puppetry and dance from a wide variety of cultures from around the world. Primarily focusing on the artists who contributed to the festival, the documentary is a compelling portrait of theatre’s monumental impact.

One of the documentary's greatest strengths is its blend of archival footage and informative interviews based around many of the central figures. While the documentary maintains a brisk runtime, it never feels rushed, taking the time to explore the festival’s cultural impact and celebrate the many individuals who have devoted their lives to keeping theatre accessible. It's an inspiring and informative piece of art that has, sadly, been affected over the last decade by a lack of government funding and the pandemic. The documentary explores the artists impacted by this and how they cope with the lack of support. The filmmakers don't shy away from the profound pressure the arts council suffered from to gain funding, and it's engaging to see how many years the festival sustained its longevity despite its hardships.

It's a concise documentary that wastes no time, exploring the festival in depth while shining a spotlight on the inspiring artists whose passion and talent have helped shape its legacy. The film is a visually stunning portrait of the awe-inspiring aspects of theatre and its transformative power for audiences around the world. The material may encourage viewers to seek out more theatre productions due to how striking the archival footage is. While it may not resonate with viewers who have little interest in theatre, the filmmakers do a tremendous job of drawing audiences into the festival’s rich legacy and lasting cultural impact.

As the film’s cinematographer, Kie Cummings does a terrific job framing each interview, using intimate close-ups that foster a strong sense of connection with each subject. While the shift to archival footage may be jarring to some viewers, the blend of interviews keeps the material utterly engaging. One of the most surprising aspects of the documentary is its musical score. Though understated throughout, Jonny Pilcher’s score is imbued with melancholic motifs that perfectly complement the documentary’s tone and elevate its closing moments to impressive heights.

The documentary conveys a powerful message about the state of the arts in the UK and the importance of supporting a widespread art form such as theatre in the current post-Brexit climate. It also explores how theatres embraced virtual performances throughout the pandemic, aided by additional government funding that helped keep the arts accessible. Perhaps the most emotionally compelling aspect of the piece is the question asked about how future generations will champion this art form. It's a hopeful and awe-inspiring sentiment that comes with an anxiety about how long artists can sustain theatre. It may deeply resonate with viewers who have a connection to theatre and the festival itself.

The Last Show delivers an emotionally resonant portrait of the artists grappling with the loss of the London International Mime Festival, confronting their anxieties with honesty and compassion. It's an inspiring piece of work that shines a heavy light on the struggling theatre industry and the incredibly inspiring artists who poured their hearts and souls into it.

When Christopher Nolan took a look at the competition that his blockbuster Odyssey was likely to be compared with this summer, he will have no doubt circled Spider-Man, Moana or Toy Story as his greatest opposition. He probably didn’t account for a small, student-created microbudget project starring a cast of semen, but if you somehow stumble across The Odyssemen whilst looking for the ancient epic, you will find a bizarre, yet against-the-odds charmingly obscure short film.

After their cellular divisional split births them as meiosisters, Orchis (Clara McGough) and Semes (Daniel Adams) find themselves in the strange, barren land of Test, where the annual Testy Festy is well underway. This festival harkens the journey of the sperm to heaven, but a mysterious sister by the name of Seed (Lujane Yacoub) warns that the journey is a lie. An alternative path ahead is offered by ‘The Great Jac’ – an event that could lead to a civil war. But which side will the sisters fall on?

The Odyssemen is an upstart short film that manages to use the appearance of a gross-out comedy to explore much deeper questions about humanity, faith and belief. Whilst the absurdity of a cast of sperm in human form (dressed proudly in painter’s coveralls) or some fine use of word-play (the ‘phallus palace’ an obvious yet amusing example), the themes that are behind the inner and external conflicts that affect the characters are drive their motives and curiosities are much more salient. The struggle with going against ones most potent and sacred of beliefs, pushing back against values that have become corrupted or misguided, or defying the gods whose orders have always been followed would not look out of place in Nolan’s epic. And where there is ultimately a limit on how far director Minh Ngo can dig with this within timing and budget limitations, it is quite impressive how comfortably more serious concepts are able to be introduced to the world.

The film is spoken in a Shakespearian dialogue throughout its runtime, coupled with monolithic, monk-like chanting from the sperm hordes as they await ‘salvation’. The chanting in particular, coupled with the haunting red landscape gives an unnerving alien feel to events. Despite being set within the human body, there are distinct sci-fi flavours at play amidst the old-world overlays. Whilst the Olde English verbiage threatens to become trite in moments, it is nicely counter-weighted by these unearthly settings that place us in a timeless space, created uncertainty in the viewer as to what fate belies the sperm (even in those of us who have knowledge of the anatomy…).

There are moments in which the film loses its way. The characters or Orchis and Semes do not carry enough distinction to really stand out as unique or memorable – with the film instead relying on its absurd concept to stand out. Once one adjusts to this as normal, some of the problems with the plot’s ability to sustain the concept become clearer, and stronger storytelling would have benefitted the audience’s appreciation for the two paths ahead of the heroes. There is also an awful lot going on in the 20-minute runtime, and simplifying the events given the limitations at play may have meant the overall experience would land with more vigour from a story-perspective.

Yet when put against its $250-million namesake, there is a triumph in The Odyssemen, which no doubt is the result of an epic journey in its own right.

A short drama directed by Sophie King, written by Kate Radcliffe and starring Ophelia Lovibond and Jacob Anderson.

Jessica (Lovibond) and Max (Anderson) are expecting a baby. Although this is supposed to be good news, the soon-to-be-parents are facing complications involving the pregnancy, particularly Jessica, who appears to be quite anxious.

This short focuses less on the plot, concentrating instead on the effects the anticipation of having a baby has on the couple, especially Jessica. The film examines the emotional struggles she goes through, ostensibly because she is worried that something might go wrong with the pregnancy. Then the dramatic revelation arrives.

The twist makes the viewer question everything they saw before as it reveals that as well as being apprehensive about the future life-changing event, Jessica has also been devastated by a terrible experience that took place in the past.

As the story is told though her character's perspective, Lovibond's performance is vital in order for the film to work and she pulls it off terrifically, playing a woman who is distraught for reasons that are not clear, until the end. The film relies primarily on her facial expressions to capture her emotions, with plenty of close-ups utilised to capture that. Interestingly, while attending yoga classes with the apparent intention to help her relax during pregnancy, she does reveal that she is expecting when the instructor inquires, making one wonder why. Anderson is sympathetic as Jessica's supportive partner and, although their appearance is brief, Phoebe Pryce, Alex Bhat and Jordan Alexandra effectively portray individuals who know and support the struggling couple.

For the most part, this short is about pregnancy, exploring the anxiousness and uncertainty a future parent can go through and it also points out the significance of support. More dramatically, it is also a commentary about the effects of trauma and loss.

This short manages to squeeze a lot of drama in ten minutes and the result is the emotional and unsettling aftermath of a tragedy and great acting.

An enigmatic spy is on a mission to take down the leader of a crime syndicate wanted by the International Criminal Court, traversing the streets and the underworld of Rome, kicking criminal ass, and trying to look as fabulous as possible while doing so.

Andrea (Honsa) is an international spy on the trail of master criminal, Victor Pavlov (Zamperla), who is the head honcho of an organised crime syndicate currently operating across Europe. Andrea’s investigations have led her to Rome, where she intends to catch up to Victor and put him away for good, but there’s a few rounds of goons and henchmen to get through first before she can consider her work done. There is also the very important job of catwalking through some of Rome’s most famous landmarks by night, and making shapes on the cobbled streets as she throws hoods to the ground, that Andrea just can’t avoid taking time out for.

Andrea’s mission, you see, is to set the world free, and not just from criminal enterprises, but from the shackles of ordinariness and social norms. ‘Be whoever you want to be’, she says to an unsuspecting bystander as she hands him her handbag, which he clutches covetously – and this is the message that she wishes to spread through her work and the kicking of criminal butts. Andrea is fabulous and fashionable and fully committed to her role, which means that she always has to look great doing it, no matter if she’s fighting dirty, or is getting personal with the scum on the streets. Looks come first for Andrea, and everything else is just extra, including the fact that she is a cross-dresser.

Think more Conchita Wurst than Baga Chipz, and you’ll get a good impression of Andrea, with her full face of make-up and neatly trimmed beard to go with her lean physique and catwalk wardrobe. This ‘twist’ is added somewhat giddily by the filmmakers, overtaking almost the entire film in lieu of an actual plot, any sort of characterisation, or even minimal helpful backstory, leaving us with an idealised protagonist that stands only as a symbol rather than anything real. The writing from writer/star, Timo Honsa is extremely basic, and only furnishes us with enough stilted dialogue to string the fighting (and walking) scenes together, so we can get from one to the other, but without actually filling us in on any detail.

The laughably named Victor Pavlov, leaves us in no doubt that he is supposed to be Russian, sounding like he was named by JK Rowling in a rush when she needed to add in a bad guy Russian character, and the criminal syndicate he is in charge of never gets referenced as anything other than the cunningly titled, Crime Syndicate, showing a distinct lack of effort and originality. Bad guys spout stock bad guy one-liners while Andrea gets to try out her witty repartee as she bonks them on the head or whacks them in their knackers, but all lines are delivered with a horrible staccato tone that imparts nothing in the way of emotion, or intent, or intelligence.

For the five-and-a-quarter minutes that we spend with Andrea Alive in Rome, we are witness to three fight scenes and a few transitions, but there’s nothing much more than that. These are well handled and well shot by director, Wolfgang Stegemann, who keeps things pacy and intense, while making the streets of Rome look simultaneously menacing and beautiful, but most of the heavy lifting in the film comes from the soundtrack. A cover version of The Bee Gees’ ‘Stayin’ Alive’ is played throughout the entire film, giving a modern edge to the transition shots in the city, and leaning in to Andrea’s gender role in the lyrics as she goes around beating people up, but mostly it ups the intensity of the fight scenes and offers a sleek soundtrack to the fashionably dressed visuals. This, however, is the only main selling point of the film.

What Andrea Alive lacks in terms of plot or dialogue or characterisation it tries to make up for in its style and presentation, without ever managing to make up the distance between them. It is fully an example of style over substance, where looks mean everything and anything of value is left by the wayside for us grey-lived normies to cry over. Unfortunately, once the main conceit is revealed, and we see that what we’re watching is a guy in a dress beating up some cons on the street, that is really all we see and all we get, which makes for a very empty and unsatisfying watch that offers nothing interesting or new for the audience.

The Red Lips of the Octopus is an eccentric surrealist adaptation of the poem by Aleister Crowley that will either utterly confuse viewers or leave them spellbound by the avant-garde ideas.

The short film directed by Lux Kapsaki defies the conventional cinematic narrative with no dialogue and no linear storytelling and instead has a drug-fuelled, stylised aesthetic about nostalgia and memory. The film follows Aleister Crowley’s, played by Jeff Kristian, trip down memory lane as he reminisces about his intense love affair with Herbert Charles Pollitt, played by Brandon Edwards, in 1898. Crowley met Pollitt whilst both were at the University of Cambridge, with Pollitt famously performing as the drag queen Diane de Rougy. Pollitt also maintained a close friendship with Oscar Wilde. Despite the time period, this is no Victorian-era romance biopic such as Pride and Prejudice or Far from the Madding Crowd but instead a maddening sequence of scenes that lend themselves to more of an acid rock aesthetic with multiple dreamlike superimpositions, saturated colours and a hypnotic psychedelic rock score which is also composed by Jeff Kristian. This is what I liked about the film the most, as the visuals and score create a captivating mood that keeps you guessing where the film is heading next. There is so much creativity being thrown at the wall that not all of it sticks, but it is admirable all the same.

Narratively, this film is purposefully ambiguous and does not follow a straightforward plot. It is a labyrinth of the past and present colliding. Scenes are stitched together as if Crowley were drifting in and out of different memories he had with Pollitt. Fragments of memories are thrown upon the viewers with little to no explanation about what is truly happening, and each sequence is like its own short film. This structure allows for the film to feel more dreamlike and realistic to how someone would remember love rather than a standard plot structure that could feel artificial. It also means that the film follows the structure and emotion of the poem more closely.

Due to there being no dialogue in the film, the actors are therefore relying on facial expressions and body language to convey the feelings of the characters. Much like a silent film, it is the actor’s responsibility to portray the emotional hooks of the film with glances and subtle expressions. The job is made harder by how vague the plotting of the film is, so the actors cannot rely on the scripting to give emotional depth. Jeff Kristian manages to portray Crowley with a heavy weight of bittersweetness as he reminisces on his past. The character is happy with his memories that he had, but now as an older man he may wish to be that young, free and in love again.

It is hard to write about the negatives or criticisms of this film purely because this film is so experimental and surreal that it really does depend on the person’s taste. If you want a simple standard film that has dialogue and a traditional plot structure, then this film might not work fully for you. The ambiguity and open-to-interpretation nature of the film means that different viewers may come away with different perspectives on the meaning of the film and the themes it is trying to tell. The film requires patience, but its barrage of abstract ideas may put some viewers off.

Overall Lux Kapsaki’s adaptation of Aleister Crowley’s poem is a swing for the fences that must be admired for its ambition, technical craftmanship and commitment to surrealism. The film will not work for everyone and will be divisive, as many viewers could be confused by the ambiguity of the film and lack of true emotional connection to the characters. The film will appeal to viewers looking for something unconventional and different from a standard film.

Derived from the Japanese name Satoru, roughly translating to "to know", this film of the same name follows a grieving mother, Stephanie, who longs to understand what happened to her missing daughter. When she learns of an ancient ritual called Satoru, she must decide whether to resist temptation or give into curiosity and invoke it. Directed by Andrew Short and Veronica Orciari, this surreal horror asks whether some things are better left unknown.

The opening scene features Stephanie visiting Emma and Jacob, though it is unclear what the relationship is between her and the couple. It seems likely Emma is either Stephanie’s younger sister or best friend. Whether it is intentionally vague to assist the motif of ‘not knowing things’ or not, it feels like essential information that the audience should be privy to. However the main draw of this scene is the simple but effective conversational arc shared by the three, feeling more akin to theatre than film in a fantastic display of understated direction, blocking and cinematography. This scene serves to explain the plot and, despite a rather convenient and on-the-nose delivery, it manages to achieve this in a way that keeps the audience firmly engaged.

Light on jump-scares, Satoru’s horror lies within the agonising tension throughout the piece. Short and Orciari achieve this through expert use of uncanny elements, such a stand-out sequence in which Stephanie pursues who she believes to be her daughter, only to discover it is someone else entirely. The representation of the Satoru creature itself also aids the tone of the film, with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearances sporting a surreal and simplistic design.

Perhaps the most effective, albeit subtle, aspect of the tone is the wonderful score and sound design. The music composed by Haana Lee knows exactly when to ramp up the fear with a composition that evokes dread, but is mature enough to know when to let the silence speak for itself, handing over to Michael Griggs’ stellar and eerie sound design to carry the tension alone. This marriage of score and sound plays like a perfect relay race, knowing precisely when to handover to one another.

With all this considered, and a simply spectacular emotional performance from lead actor Sarah Lambie, Satoru is a near-perfect horror from imaginative concept to meticulous execution. Compelling acting, a score that keeps the heart racing, and a story that makes the heart ache – this film is sure to stay with audiences long after the credits roll…

The new one-room action thriller Chekhov’s Bun is riveting, shocking and a great deal of fun. Writer-director Beau Fowler’s short film is about a woman, with a husband and daughter, who is struggling with the preparation of some baked goods for her daughter’s birthday party. Part way through the preparation, a man appears; a face from a past long forgotten. He persuades her to return to a life of crime and leave this comfortable family bubble behind, but she’s not having it... and it’ll take a fight to the death to convince her otherwise.

From a practical filmmaking point of view, the setup is ingenious; basing everything that happens in one kitchen means that the geography is clear, and the director is able to turn the limitation of a single-room setting into a weapon – much like our ex-assassin protagonist and the many ways she finds to utilise her domestic surroundings to her tactical advantage. An essential aspect of the setup working well lies in the kinetic, Raimi-meets-John-Woo nature of the cinematography. Seemingly every shot consists of some dynamic movement of the camera – either with the intention of revealing some further information within the shot, or to mimic/complement the intensity of motions from our subjects on screen.

It’s refreshing to see someone understanding why wide-angle lenses exist. Critics frequently point to their overuse in the current landscape of cinematography – the fact that many DPs seem to be building their whole visual style around an 18mm without apparently comprehending what a lens like that can and can’t accomplish on a level of composition and camera blocking. Yet here, the filmmakers know that it’s the perfect way to capture speed and agility; to pull the audience into the action through a dynamic push-in, or how to implement a dolly shot to shrewdly place an item of importance in the foreground. This style works even better in a tight environment because it places something the audience is familiar with (a kitchen) into a fresh cinematic context.

Addressing what might be a common complaint, you could easily argue that the plot is contrived. And whilst certainly many titles match in premise (an early set-piece in the first Kill Bill movie comes to mind), the fact is, a short film is a different beast. Often, a short-form work exists as a space of play, experimentation, and a method in which to showcase talent. The talent on display here is obvious from the outset – the visuals being the thing – and frankly, as soon as we get to the fighting, we level up a notch. The choreography is outstanding – every beat clearly thought-through, every increment of movement and timing rehearsed until it’s perfect. For a short film, the arrangement of this fight scene is an awesome achievement.

If you’re a fan of action movies, I would highly recommend Chekhov’s Bun. The short exists to deliver pure thrills through balletic action, and does so exceptionally well with the help of some sturdy visual work behind the camera. Starring Amelie Leroy and Eric Lim as her kitchen opponent.