Latest Short Film Reviews

Johanna Martinez and Timothy Roarke star in this short, sharp two-hander from Guatemalan director Enrique A. Mendoza.

A young Latina woman called Fernada (Martinez) takes a drive seemingly out into the middle of nowhere.  However, we find out that she has an unexpected passenger (Roarke) to whom she relates a painful story of survival and violence, centred around the lives of two brothers in a remote village.

The opening 38 seconds of Fervor could not be more different from what comes next as we follow Fernada’s journeys out into the wilderness to the tune of upbeat rock.  Suddenly, the journey stops, so does the music and so does Fernada.  She steps out of her vehicle, takes a call that we cannot hear and sits alone, contemplating, or even waiting for something or someone.  

We soon find out what.  Or rather who.  A bruised, battered older man is hurled out from the truck.  Fernada appears to be an unlikely kidnapper.  The man makes a lucky break for it, but it’s no good.  Fernada responds violently and her story immediately turns darker.  “Things can get rough in my neighbourhood, but we endure.  That’s until we have no other option but to leave, to escape”.  The stranger’s role starts to become apparent.  He was an oppressor.  The hunter who has become the hunted.

The roles have reversed and so it is Fernada who is now the hunter.  Unflinching, ruthless and tough.  At least from what we see.  When she drives away at the film's ending, after her bitter, hard-hitting monologue, there’s a striking change and we see the real Fernada.  Sensitive, scared and shaken by what’s just happened, at the brutality she has unleashed and unveiled to herself.  She breaks down.  In waves of relief?  In tears of sweet revenge?  Or in revulsion at becoming the hunter herself?

Fervor is a solid accomplishment for both Martinez and Mendoza.  Martinez keeps the viewer entrenched with the film’s only speaking role and her character’s softening in its closing seconds is an impressive transition to the extent that one comes away with a sense that there is a third performance within the film - that of Fernada herself masquerading her new-found menance and wrath before her powerless captive.  For Mendoza, it’s a fine encapsulation of the director’s own mantra to tell stories that "actually stay with people".  Thanks to its simplicy and sincerity, Fervor does.

In a moment of crisis, a woman loses her faith and writes a letter to Jesus, pleading for a miracle.

Melinona is a survivor of the Easter Sunday Bomb Attacks, which took place in Sri Lanka on 21st April 2019. She carries mental scars of that day, when her Christian centre of worship was targeted by ISIS backed radicals, although she has always kept her belief – until now. In a letter, she explains to Jesus why she is putting him in a box and stuffing him under the sink, and how she has come to the realisation that she may have been wasting her time talking to him in the first place.

Melinona has got herself into a bit of a pickle, you see. She’s been lending out the money her son has been sending her from his faraway job, lifting iron in a cold country, and she’s not been asking for any interest on it. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when her son comes home and finds out that she doesn’t have the money, and so it’s JC’s fault for abandoning her in this time of need. She tells of her woes in this letter, never intending for it to be read by anyone but Jesus, but somehow it becomes a firelighter for the family’s shame, as it falls into the wrong hands and gets distributed far wider than anyone had imagined.

Over the course of twenty-seven minutes, we are treated to Melinona’s troubles and her Cursed Memory. The letter seems cursed, too, as it takes on a life of its own, passing between hands, being read through different mouths and in different voices. Director, Ranga Bandaranayake, appears to have a clear vision of how Melinona’s story should be told, and this comes through in how well thought out every scene is, with the writing from, Chamara Prasanna Kodithuwakku, giving plenty of characterisation and context to work with on screen.

When matched up with some strong production value, the solid writing and impressive direction help Cursed Memory to stand out as a well put together piece of film. From the full-on three-minute credits sequence, to the haunting melodic tones of Lahiru Madiwila’s music, to the casting choices and background detail in the scenes, there’s been a lot of thought and production behind getting Cursed Memory to be just the way it is – and it has paid off.

Melinona’s journey is one of trauma and of recovery, and it weaves its way through the lives of everyone around her, bringing us with along with it too, until we are invested in her story as much as her son, or daughter-in-law, or priest. The filmmakers certainly know how to put a film together, and show a real understanding of how to use visual language to tell a story, making Cursed Memory a little more memorable than the rest.

Behind the Pose follows Masha (Ksena Samborska), a teenage Eastern European model on the brink of losing her contract. She must redeem herself in one last photoshoot while being pushed to the edge by her teacher, Katerina (Natalia Volk), under threat of sexual exploitation and deportation. The piece tackles mature themes of power and exploitation, serving as a scathing indictment of the fashion and modelling industry and its abuse of power with young female talent.

Behind the Pose opens with beautiful, surreal photography that feels heavily influenced by Sofia Coppola’s filmography, as the camerawork is haunting and melancholic. Focusing entirely on the female experience, it is a powerfully nuanced way to shoot the actors with a plethora of extreme close-ups lingering on Masha as she feels her youth being ripped away from her. Daniel Cho’s cinematography is one of the substantial standouts of the piece as it primarily anchors the material and never feels intrusive. The pacing feels urgent, and the propulsive dialogue exchanges feel overwhelming to witness as a viewer, due to the central conflict that consistently leaves you on the edge of your seat, fearing for Masha’s future. While the runtime is extremely sparse, the film's engaging and evocative material never fails to hook you in and get under your skin. It's a daring character study that subtly draws you into Masha’s journey and doesn't let up until the credits roll.

The performances are terrific, particularly Ksena Samborska’s portrayal of Masha, who conveys a profound sense of vulnerability despite the restricted runtime. It's the type of performance that sticks with you, thanks to her expression of the pain and manipulation she endures through her facial expressions alone. The supporting cast, including Natalia Volk and Rick Irwin in his portrayal of Freddy the photographer, is also unforgettable in their limited screentime. One of the most striking aspects of the film is Masha and Freddy’s relationship, which starts as something endearing, thanks to their absorbing chemistry, then slowly descends into something much more sinister. The narrative is profoundly nail-biting and unpredictable, and would not have worked as well without the cast's commitment to their performances. While it is a tough viewing due to the mature themes it depicts, these are essential topics and a glimpse into the world of the fashion and modelling industry.

The director/writer Sally Lomidze clearly has a keen eye for the suitable way to depict the topics of body image, as the film feels understated in its direction and never exploitative of Masha’s characterisation. The conclusion doesn't convey much closure to Masha’s further journey beyond the credits; however, perhaps that is the point, as the narrative is infused with ambiguity and the filmmakers evidently wanted to leave the viewer with something to chew on instead of a melodramatic conclusion.

Behind the Pose is a terrific film that exposes how disgusting the fashion and modelling industry can be, and how people in power can push younger female talent to the limit in order for them to achieve stardom. Elevated by an unforgettable performance from Ksena Samborska and Sally Lomidze’s formalism, the film is an insightful piece of filmmaking that evokes discussion regarding body standards and how unfairly women are picked apart in the industry.

If one singular hot button issue has dominated 2025, it’s AI. What once was a trope limited to science fiction is now seemingly reality, and that reality is closer to dystopian than we may like it to be. Raindog taps into the dizzy excitement of the AI boom, while gesturing at something more sinister and uncomfortable beneath the surface. In doing so, writer and director Euan Munro successfully navigates a minefield of clichés to deliver something that feels entirely original: a short and punchy science-fiction film that will have audiences desperate for a rewatch and hopefully questioning the world around them.

The premise of Raindog is elegant in its simplicity: roommates Eli (Munro) and Stuart (James Crutcher) have developed a weather forecasting Large Language Model (LLM, more commonly known in reality as AI) that may be able to predict more than just the weather. The two are giddy in their excitement, keen to test the limits of their new creation, until they begin to question the fabric of their reality. The film is shot entirely from the perspective of their computer screen, putting the audience in the proverbial shoes of the LLM named Raindog. The camera never shifts from this position, and it's through this lens that the entirety of the film is viewed. It’s interesting as a literal framing device, but what elevates Munro’s short is how this perspective begins to take on narrative and thematic purposes in a delightfully clever twist. Few stones feel unturned in Raindog’s intriguing premise that evolves in a truly unpredictable direction, and there’s no doubt that audiences will be kept on their toes watching Eli and Stuart wrangle with their creation.

The filmmaking on display may appear on the surface as quite minimalistic, but the creative choices all coalesce to give the short a great sense of energy. Munro and Crutcher give naturalistic and compelling performances, with a lot of the film’s success riding on them. Raindog feels play-like in its presentation, with most of the runtime taken up by the two lead actors sharing a fairly compact stage. It’s fortunate then that the two leads are able to handle the drama, and it’s a credit to them that the stakes feel personal and infinite at the same time. Combined with stellar editing, sound, and music, Raindog feels very competently put together, moving confidently through its scenes to deliver a well earned and satisfying climax.

Raindog may take place in a world somewhat unlike our own, but like a bite-size Twilight Zone, it reveals something about our reality. AI is a technological marvel and has the capacity to change the world in so many positive ways, but it must be used responsibly, and the cost of this technology could be earth-shattering. There are personal costs too, of course, and many would do well to remember that life exists way beyond the boundaries of screens.

A short drama written and directed by A.R. Ugas and starring Malcolm Kamulete, Mina Andala, and Akai Coleman.

Marcus (Kamulete) is an up-and-coming rapper in London, and it is probably only a matter of time before his career launches. One day, he is convinced by his manager (Michael Salami) to attend and perform at a birthday party for a young fan, Joshua (Coleman). Marcus arrives at the location, an apartment filled with attendees, including Joshua's mother, Samantha (Andala), however, Joshua is nowhere to be seen. Then Samantha produces a tablet via which Joshua appears and interacts with the party guests. This unconventional method is used because Joshua is currently in prison, serving a lengthy sentence, and a shocked Marcus struggles immensely to deal with this situation.

This short film could be categorised as a mix involving family drama, music, and crime drama. The narrative begins more or less lightheartedly, with Marcus reluctantly going to the party, and things take a sharp left turn when Joshua's incarceration is disclosed. From that moment on, the screenplay turns into a whirlwind of emotions, as Marcus experiences massive self-reflection and bitterly argues with Samantha regarding why she requested his presence and whether Marcus is to blame for her son's imprisonment due to the lyrics in his songs.

Kamulete vividly portrays a young musical artist who goes through significant character development, beginning in ambition and carefreeness, then suddenly entering a world of sorrow where he finds himself forced to face the fact that his music might have played a part in a person going down the wrong path. Initially, he refuses to acknowledge that that might be the case; however, he gradually seems to think otherwise. With her dramatic performance, Andala plays a mother who is evidently doing her best to try to cope with the tragedy that occurred involving Joshua, attempting to bring some joy to him, even while he is in prison. She clearly wishes for honesty and dignity. Coleman's character is an individual who may or may not be a victim of music influence.

This film follows the aftermath of a terrible event, exploring its consequences, including the suffering it caused and the lives that have been affected. Additionally, influence is another major theme, particularly musical influence and the extent to which it could impact people, particularly youngsters. From a different perspective, this short also serves as a commentary about fame and being a rapper.

Can music about violence affect people in negative ways? Can it affect them enough to commit crimes? Two dramatic questions that this story ostensibly asks. An emotional and thoughtful viewing.

A Week follows Rebecca (Neva Leoncini), a waitress working at a diner, as she finds herself grappling with maintaining a peaceful job while also dealing with the consistent interference from her husband (Amir Yassami). Divided into days of a singular week, as the title suggests, Rebecca must confront her inner turmoil and do what it takes to ensure her husband pays for his sins.

One of the most impressive aspects of A Week is how much it accomplishes within its limited runtime, boasting a narrative structure that is rather unique and keeps the pace engaging. While the narrative is intentionally repetitive as the husband repeats absurd acts to interfere with Rebecca's workflow, it never overstays its welcome. The piece doesn't lose sight of how simple the story is at heart, accompanied by frenetic pacing that rarely lets up until the credits roll. The film deals with mature themes such as domestic abuse and emotionally abusive relationships, and provides a helping hand of empathy towards Rebecca and women like her who have been in the same situation. Juan Catalano’s musical score effectively builds nail-biting tension to pervade the atmosphere throughout the bleaker aspects of the narrative.

Unfortunately, the tone feels uneven at times, from a light-hearted tone within the diner to a much sinister vibe whenever the husband is on screen. While jarring tonal shifts are effective, this sadly feels awkwardly executed as it's clearly a serious subject matter with darkly absurd elements. The writer/director Tony Rakshith also makes some bizarre choices within the direction, as many of the formal decisions feel out of place, and the performances rarely elevate how stilted the material feels. There's also incomprehensible ADR that feels awkward, and pieces of audio are completely cut out between pauses of dialogue, which may take the viewer out of the experience. These moments are detrimental to the narrative and the conflict brewing between the three central characters. Thankfully, the narrative is wildly unpredictable as the husband commits different acts whenever he enters the diner, and it keeps the audience on edge throughout the entirety of the runtime. However, certain events that unfold appear confused, as bizarre time jumps occur, which make no sense in the context of what is being depicted on screen.

The DP Albert Baker utilises a plethora of unique choices within the camerawork with close-ups of the actors and low-angle shots of the characters in discomfort, making the experience visceral throughout. Sadly, the performances across the board are robotic and stilted in their delivery. Neva Leoncini, who portrays Rebecca, is clearly trying her hardest to anchor the material with a profound level of nuance; however, Tony Rakshith’s inadequate direction doesn't do her any favours. While the conclusion amounts to just minor, it's ultimately satisfying for Rebecca’s character arc and feels earned in its execution.

A Week is a fascinating attempt at an idiosyncratic narrative structure that rarely overstays its welcome and makes suitable use of its budget restraints and limited runtime. It may suffer from a wide variety of issues within the technical department and artificial performances throughout; however, the piece is consistently engaging and never loses sight of its one-location setting and the mature themes it tackles.

A short documentary about people disappearing in Sri Lanka, directed by Ranga Bandaranayake and written by Chamara Prasanna Kodithuwakku.

For decades, countless of citizens of Sri Lanka have vanished without a trace. This twenty-minute-long film aims to acknowledge this. Via a large selection of dramatic photographs and several interviews, viewers will become aware of the tremendous suffering that has been caused due to people losing their loved ones and that this situation is continuing today. They will also be informed of the Monument of the Disappeared, a structure built in order to serve as a place of mourning and to honor those who vanished and of the Dabindu Collective, an organisation that protects the rights of women labourers in the free trade zone.

The photographs are quite vivid. They consist of people protesting, individuals holding pictures of lost loved ones and devastating results of brutal conflict. All this is superbly edited by Vishwa Ranga Surendra and the visuals are accompanied by dramatic music thanks to the contribution of Nadika Weligodapola and voice-over by Dhammika Bandara and Nishadi Bandaranayake.

The interviewees are Basil Fernando, a Human Rights activist, Samanmali Hettiarachchi, the Director of Dabindu Collective, Brito Fernando, a Human Rights activist and Professor Chandraguptha Thenuwara. Listening to them paints a picture of the dark side of Sri Lanka.

The filmmakers utilise an intertesting technique with the obvious intention of creating drama. This involves numerous sequences that begin with the photo of two to five people. Then the film cuts to a lit candle that goes out and when it does, the image turns black-and-white and there is a loud noise that resembles a gunshot. It then cuts back to the photo, where one person is suddenly replaced by a photo frame and inside it is a dark silhouette of a person, apparently of the one who is not present in the picture with the others. This method is a way of visualising a disappearance and acknowledging the emptiness that it causes to their loved ones.

This film emphasises a very serious issue that has affected many people in Sri Lanka, points out corruption and supports fight for justice.

This documentary is an informative, shocking and poignant viewing. It raises awareness of the disappearances that are taking place in Sri Lanka and pays tribute to the ones who vanished and this makes it a viewing worthy of attention.

Eleanor Shannon’s debut feature An Ríomh is an inventive and atmospheric reimagining of Irish folklore and its treatment of women, set in the modern age and framed around contemporary dilemmas and dangers.

The film follows Aine (Shannon), a young woman excited by her upcoming meeting with Ciaron (Jack Watson). Matched up by a dating app, Aine quickly relaxes in Ciaron’s presence and nerves are overtaken by excitement. When Ciaron reveals that he is not all he seems, a hidden supernatural presence reveals itself as well. And in a flash, the hunter becomes the hunted…

An Ríomh brilliantly uses the misrepresentation of women in historic Celtic mythology to engage with modern blights of violence towards women, abuse and sexual slavery. Women in many of these tales have been distorted, originating as righteous justice-seekers before being morphed over time into cackling, vengeful and malevolent spirits. Shannon seeks to reclaim elements of these stories from sexist reimagining, showing clearly in this short that Ciaron’s horrifying intentions are what brings about the wrath of the spirit that comes to inhabit Aine.

The non-linear structure helps hammer home this point further. Ciaron’s predicament is a mystery to the audience at first, and his panic alone is enough to have some sympathy for him. But as Aine’s story is told, it becomes clear the truth we are initially presented with is not what it seems. It is a clever way to demonstrate how stories become distorted and muddied – one of the film’s key themes – in a way that can be as true in 2025 as at any point in history. Those who get their story out first are usually the ones who are believed, and in cases of violence or hierarchical gender-based abuse, it is often men who benefit from this.

As the star as well as writer and director, Eleanor Shannon demonstrates a whole range of talents – easily immersing into the role of Aine. Her initial romantic swooning over Ciaron’s flirtatious texts is sickly-sweet and charming, but she just as easily convinces as the embodied vessel of vengeance that becomes of Aine – carrying a powerful degree of menace. Jack Watson similarly excels as Ciaron, an affable charmer with a dark side. His personality switch is jarring in just the right way, and when he becomes prey for the darker side of Aine and the film accelerates into full-blown folk horror mode, he makes for a brilliant target.

An Ríomh’s originality and boldness are its biggest strengths. It is not afraid to ask questions of its audience or flip their expectations, and uses historical precedents that surround the myths that inspire it to great effect. It is remarkable that this is a debut feature, and Eleanor Shannon is certainly someone to watch – not only as a performer but even more so as a writer and director with great depth of understanding around layering her stories with true substance.

A short psychological drama directed by Marc-Antoine Turcotte, written by Lydia Hopgood and starring Hopgood, Fraser Adams and Maeve O'Haire.

Emma (Hopgood) and Matty (Adams) are a young couple living together in a smart house by themselves. For a while they have been trying for a baby, however, so far, they have been unsuccessful. As Emma becomes distraught by her apparent inability to conceive, she discovers that her partner might be up to something sinister.

This story begins as a drama about having a baby and later turns into a thriller about betrayal. The primary focus is Emma, how the struggle that she is facing in her efforts to become pregnant is affecting her psychology and creating waves in her relationship with Matty. The screenplay is heavy regarding drama and the life-changing discovery brings the atmosphere to a whole other level.

Talking about the discovery, without any spoilers, although it appears that it will lead to a major confrontation, the ending is not very conclusive, leaving question marks and some might find that disappointing.

Emma is a sort of tragic figure. Even though she lives in a nice, big house, with a partner who ostensibly cares deeply for her and they plan to have children, due to not being able to conceive, her life has taken a wrong turn, leading her to a situation where she feels miserable and alienated as she is keen on becoming a mother. The presence of the song Captive emphasises the isolation that Emma is feeling and the fact that it is sung by Hopgood provides more depth to her character. Matty is physician and seems to be a supportive partner but also gives the impression that he is man who might not understand when he is wrong. Chris (O'Haire) has the role of Emma's bestie, a person who is there for her and willing to listen to her problems.

Self-reflection, anxiety, self-esteem, control and betrayal all play a key role in this story. Perhaps more heavily though, this film explores the subject of having a desire to become a parent, how it could affect people's mental health. Moreover, it is indicated that individuals who work in the medical sector could take advantage of their knowledge in order to manipulate others.

This is a dramatic film, one that relies on the perspective of a young woman in order to tell a story and explore its themes and it does so effectively.

Colorado-born director Ari Groobman's short comedy-drama Essentially Amy takes the viewer back to a time that feels both sureally distant yet also significantly recent: the pandemic.

Amy (Stacy Chu) is a competent supermarket supervisor who almost single-handedly runs the show, along with her pleasant but somewhat preoccupied colleauges Norm (Seyi Ayorinde) and Mia (Brenda Valencia).  Elsewhere, the aloof manager Mr Park (Hidekun Hun) is even more of an absence, whilst there is little solace for Amy at home.  Amy lives with her parents; her biogted Mum (Ping Liu) is weary of the African-American community, her father is crucially ill and hooked up to a ventilator whilst Amy herself has completely stalled on her application to study medicine.  Back in the store, tensions mount when an angry customer (Jim Todd) launches a foul-mouthed, racist tirade over the Covid catastrophe with Amy as the target.

Groobman's opening scene immediately jolts the viewer back into the sudden reality of post-lockdown.  On the one hand, the regime of enforced mask wearing and rigid social distancing feels like it just didn't happen (five years on).  On the other, the scene feels only too recognizable as we recall how the everyday suddenly became tainted with the alien.  

Another contrast is served up directly by Groobman in the jarring contrast between Amy's work and home-life.  At work, she faces frustrating but familiar challenges - serious staff shortage, the looming threat of reduced hours and, worst of all, ignorant customers.  Yet, she is no-nonsense, self-assured and in control.  But she's not where she should be.  It's all simply a stop-gap before her medicine programme.  And, unlike at the store, she hits a wall at home.  Her father is sick (perhaps as a result of Covid), is unseen and unresponsive, her mother is frustrated at her academic ambitions taking a plunge and her motivation to break away and get where she needs to be just isn't there.

Clocking in at exactly 15 minutes, Groobman’s script doesn’t take any particularly surprising turns.  Her brush with brutality is the catalyst for self-realisation and reconnection.  For all the troubles, Amy learns to put aside the problems and focus on what’s important.  It’s a familiar resolution yes, but it’s a story told with skilful restraint and wonderfully authentic performances that we really do believe in the drama that we're watching.

Essentially Amy may not be essentially memorable, but its warmth and intimacy are a welcome reminder of a time when the human touch was missed and sorely needed.