Latest Short Film Reviews

Bitter Tides follows a grieving mother, Anna (Jade-Olivia Patrick), as she meets a taxi driver (Duane C Tucker), who changes her course in ways she never expected. The piece is a devastating depiction of the damage grief can cause and how you learn to carry it, as it never leaves you.

The film is deeply rooted in isolation and stillness as Anna attempts to grapple with her grief, and the screenplay tackles themes of memory, loss and self-forgiveness. One of the most powerful tools the filmmakers employ is the frequent use of visual storytelling in the film's opening, which conveys Anna’s deep suffering and inner turmoil. Jade-Olivia Patrick, in her portrayal of Anna, is terrific as she conveys her grief in a harrowing way, and it's emotionally devastating to witness. While it may be a challenging viewing experience, it's an essential watch to understand the impacts grief can have on individuals. Duane C Tucker, in his portrayal of the taxi driver, complements this by offering a helping hand of empathy to Anna, helping her understand and carry her grief. From the opening frame to the last, the film sinks its teeth into the viewer and may linger in their mind long after the credits roll.

The lack of dialogue in the opening of the piece allows for some frenetic editing choices that are harrowing in their attempt to showcase Anna’s nightmarish thoughts. While the visual storytelling does a lot of the heavy lifting, it's ultimately the performances that anchor the heart and soul of the film's themes. Epidemic Sound, serving as the music and sound department for the film, delivers a deeply haunting and hypnotic musical score that enhances the more isolating moments of stillness. The score can be overbearing at times; however, it's an intentional artistic choice to convey Anna’s pain. Sound is an essential aspect of the film, as evident in its title, where the tides of the sea influence the noises in the more intimate scenes. Unfortunately, some of the ADR is rough, making certain pieces of dialogue indistinct, and is a detriment to some of the most pivotal scenes. That being said, the dialogue is deeply provocative and offers different perspectives on human nature and grief.

Ned Wakeley, serving as the film's cinematographer, primarily shoots wide shots as Anna crosses the beach and switches to close-ups when she is in anguish. This choice effectively makes the more heart-wrenching scenes more visceral as the viewer is placed in her point of view. The use of flashbacks is another formal decision that pays off beautifully, particularly with the dynamic camerawork that tracks Anna in her moments of happiness. These moments help to unpack Anna’s grief through their surreal and haunting nature. It's a deeply moving and hugely affecting piece of filmmaking that doesn't shy away from the sheer isolation of grief and loss.

Bitter Tides is an emotionally overwhelming experience that shows how certain encounters can have an impact on how you navigate life after loss. Assisted by two tremendous central performances from Jade-Olivia Patrick and Duane C Tucker, and despite some questionable ADR, Bitter Tides is a deeply haunting and mesmerising piece of work.

A short horror film written and directed by Joseph Ringland and starring Lyud Hristov, Adie Mueller and Charlie Smith.

Things are not going well for young Norman (Hristov). He is being regularly plagued during night-time by some otherwordly supernatural and sinister-looking figure that magically appears in his bedroom. Not knowing whether this entity is real or not, he seeks the help of Dr Thorne (Mueller) in an effort to find a way to deal with this.

This short starts as a supernatural psychological horror story, before getting into comedy and finally into heavy drama. The narrative alternates between Norman being tormented by the mysterious apparition and attending his therapy sessions with Dr Thorne. Things take an unexpected turn when he proceeds to develop a friendly rapport with the frequent and unwanted visitor. Clues appear here and there and they include the time three thirty-three in the morning, which seems to be significant and related to a fateful past event that severely impacted Norman's life.

It is worth acknowledging the horror DVDs and posters, whose presence is probably to highlight the fact that this is a horror film. Arguably, the highlights occur when the humanlike creature appears (although it is not indicated in the film, this could be the titular Dreamcrasher). Dressed in what appears to be a hooded black robe, this being has a monstrous appearance, with branched horns on the head, a deer-like skull for a face and glowing white eyes. It does not speak and moves slowly. Are its intentions good or bad? Its presence is often accompanied by unsettling and ominous music by Thomas Pearce, who also provides dramatic music at times. The creativity involving the sinister sound of a clock ticking is also worth noting and so is Ringland's use of unconventional camera angles.

As the main character, Norman is a tormented young man. Trying to secure himself a job, he is unable to do so due to the trouble that he is going through because of the entity. He is quite distressed and believes he might be losing his mind. However, it becomes evident that he is suffering the effects of a devastating experience. Mueller is sympathetic as a supportive and concerned therapist.

The screenplay contains a variety of themes that involve mental health, including high anxiety, paranoia, having nightmares and insomnia. Mainly though, this is a story that deals with loss, trauma and grief and it is rather apparent that it aims to communicate the message that people must try to come to terms with their misfortunes and move on.

A horror film that is frightening and also very emotional. On one hand it is about things that go bump in the night and on the other it concerns a terrible loss that has not been reconciled and it is the latter that gives this short the highest quality.

Trouble brews on a remote Irish farm, as the farmer sets out on his daily chores, and the whole family prepares for the birth of a new calf.

As the scene opens on the farm in the early morning, everything is already dark and brooding and faintly menacing. The clanking of the chain on the back of the tractor, and the view we have from the rear, shows us the black emptiness that we have come from without revealing yet where it is we might be going. Further into the darkness, alone in the shed, a cow lies prostrate on the ground, her calf moving inside her, undulating under her skin, looking like some sort of alien presence parasitically inhabiting its mother’s body.

Farmer Michael (Hogan) knows he’s got to get the morning work done quickly. He’s out there doling out the feed in the darkness, fag hanging from his lips, scooping pellets into troughs, knowing that the day is coming for him and that he needs to be ready for it. As we watch Michael in his work, we see what else is coming for him from behind, something he is completely oblivious to, as the tractor slips its handbrake and starts rolling down the hill towards him. Next to Animal Farm and Cold Comfort Farm, this might just be one of the most horrifying and cursed farmyards in all of narrative history.

Inside the farmhouse, Michael’s family are at the breakfast table ready to start their day. The sun has broken, the bacon is frying, and Cáit (Connolly) is listening to music on her phone, earphones in like most teenagers, waiting for her mum, Aine (Nic Chonaonaigh), to serve her. It’s only when Cáit is asked to go outside and fetch her father in for breakfast that we all find out together just what has happened to Michael, whilst also having to deal with the realisation that his daughter is not moved in any way to help him. Just what is going on down on this quiet, family farm?

As we are led into this dark narrative by writer/director, Jamie O’Rourke and cinematographer, Colm Hogan, we immediately get the feeling that something is off. The opening shot, looking behind us, not seeing where we’re going, is indicative of the direction of the narrative as most things are kept from us until right near the end of the film. This gives both filmmakers the time and space to build the tension and the atmosphere around the farm as we try to piece together just what is going on. The visuals spark a feeling of horror, with enclosed spaces, framed claustrophobically, dimly lit, giving off a sense of something hidden under the surface; a rippling tension that creates nausea and unease, hinting at the fact that something is going to have to be released sooner or later.

The constant referral to the calf that is due to be birthed that day, keeps bringing us back to the visceral reality of nature that exists all around us, in all of its dirty, mud ridden, bloody detail. We see that the family exist in this reality every day, working with nature, getting their hands dirty, and even becoming numb to the physical pressures and dangers that exist when living so close to the earth. This feeds into the characterisation of the family, especially Cáit and her mother, and we wonder at the seeming detachment of Cáit in the face of such brutal circumstances. Both Isabelle Connolly and Kate Nic Chonaonaigh play their roles with such understated grace and strength, that it keeps the viewer not just interested, but transfixed to the screen, as we become invested in understanding their situation as well as their reactions to it.

Calf does in fifteen short minutes what a lot of horror films fail to do in a full ninety or more, and that is to build the feeling of tension and horror in the audience without giving too much away. Not until the last scene do we understand what horrors have really transpired on that farm, and the subtle recognition visible between mother and daughter then allows the dam to burst on all the emotions the audience has been feeling, keeping inside, up until that point. The narrative, and subsequent direction and photography, along with a subtle but affecting score from Orla O’Rourke, all pull together to build the scenario and all of the unease that the audience feels, creating a clear vision of true horror that is expressed in every frame of the film.

Calf is a nightmarish vision that needs very little to be said in order for it to get its point across to the audience. It is a story told not in words, but in pictures, and in light, or the absence of it, as the world of nature on the farm is revealed to us piece by piece. The relationships between the characters don’t get explained to us, and they never need to, as everything is expressed to us visually in front of the camera, from small facial expressions, to silent movements, to bloody births and deaths, which tell us everything we need to know if we just look close enough. Calf is a tour-de-force in terms of visual storytelling, and the absence of too much dialogue only enhances the seclusion and anxiety we feel while we’re down on the farm.

For a small indie film with only fifteen minutes to tell its story, Calf reaches into your insides and wrestles with your guts to pull your emotions from the inside out. It doesn’t need big scares, or gory overtures to get the blood pumping and the tension rising, and its quiet, understated nature helps define it as an artwork of pure horror; one which builds inside the mind and body of the viewer until it can finally be released in its closing moments, in another quiet, simple showing of unmitigated, unseen horrors that are often silently endured.

The trailer for an upcoming documentary, directed by Ron Podmore and written by Joni Vasquez, Pierre Ferguson and Rie Sasafu, set for a theatrical release in the U.S. during the end of summer 2026.

The overall impression is that for many life is currently not easy in the United States of America.

Filmed over the course of a year, this film examines the financial difficulties that American citizens are facing today and it does so by documenting three simple families who live in the U.S. and disclosing the struggles and frustrations that they deal with while living in a country where it has become difficult for them to have a comfortable life and have therefore decided to relocate to another country.

From what the less-than-two-minute trailer reveals, the reasons that these families (and many other people) have given up on building a life in the States, are motivated by reasons involving healthcare and financial instability and some of the resulting problems are costly healthcare and inability to secure work.

Although serious issues are clearly being addressed, it is evident that the tone will be (at least at times) humorous, with a voice-over that sounds childish and a soundtrack consisting of amusing songs.

The general impression is that this is going to be a feature-length documentary that aims to examine the economy of the United States, which appears to be crumbling and it does so by adding some comedy. It appears to be painting a negative image of life in contemporary United States, indicating that it is a country that is failing its citizens.

It will probably be intriguing to find out what this film has to say, although its contents might worry those who are planning to move to the U.S.

Faith and The Christmas Star is a new animated short film made for children. Through almost entirely audio-visual means (without dialogue), it tells the story of an ice-skating woman, headed to deliver a Christmas letter for her mother. On her journey she learns to express kindness as she encounters two abandoned dogs and seeks shelter from the cold. This piece offers a unique mode of family viewing; one defined by a flow of images, a poetic narrative, and a less expository approach to storytelling. Written by Abby Davenport and Anne Trenning – with Davenport directing and Trenning composing the score – this is a satisfyingly structured, wonderfully crafted expression of festive spirit.

To begin, let’s discuss this gorgeous animation style. Clearly, a great deal of care and attention has been placed into the character design, backgrounds, and – perhaps most impressive – the movement. You can’t help but love the way the subjects onscreen interact with their surroundings, further immersing the viewer, not through realism, but through a comforting recognition of signs and behaviours. Our protagonist’s facial expressions are astoundingly dynamic for a relatively low-budget animated production, evoking emotion and allowing internal plot developments to take place without the inconvenience of speech.

The soothing soundtrack then, in turn, ties the whole thing together with the score cleverly mixing classical tunes such as ‘How Much Is That Doggy in The Window’ with a sort of base theme. Similar to the images, the music is continuous... evolving with each narrative beat. And it’s through this approach that the filmmakers quite masterfully play with concepts of time, using match-cuts to express ideas and – even without editing – containing multiple environments and temporal moments within a single, flowing shot.

From this critic’s perspective, Faith and The Christmas Star has one flaw which I shall now dissect. Approximately halfway through the film’s runtime, our protagonist enters a church and opens a Bible. We then witness a montage of sorts, telling the story of the birth of Christ. This sequence slightly sticks out as an overdone and inelegant use of animation, and a detour from the established style. Whilst it still looks and sounds lovely, what the film lacks in these couple minutes is the poetry, wordless nuance and narrative flow of the other twenty. More than being a religious movie, the filmmakers clearly wish to express more the sense of universality and care that comes with spirituality. Nevertheless, the scene also sticks out like a sore thumb due to the fact that the rest of the film proceeds to make clear all the themes and messages of this montage in far more convincing and subtle a fashion, without needing to resort to a didactic recounting of a religious story.

It’s an unquestionably positive thing to be providing children with works which – in addition to being so refined in terms of quality – actively encourage thought, reflection and engagement with cinema’s core characteristics: sound and vision. Putting the Story of Christ Scene aside, our main storyline is one which so beautifully combines everyday occurrences with a quaint, almost Miyazaki-esque feeling of the exquisite; a tapestry of comforting environments and activities. Offering a deeply comforting viewing experience, Faith and The Christmas Star proves to be a successful entertainment, as well as being aesthetically ambitious.

Spirit Juice is an animated short that follows an alien bartender in a series of misadventures. Throw in an unhinged robot scientist and the result is five minutes of bewildering chaos. While the crude animation may be charming to some, Spirit Juice’s eccentric idiosyncrasies are unlikely to be enough to keep an audience’s attention for the duration.

Visually, Spirit Juice has an appealing style to it. To be blunt, the character designs are ugly, but they’re unappealing in a likeable way. The short is unique in its unrefined quality, and it certainly doesn’t lack a distinct visual identity. Unburdened by standard animation conventions, the characters are free to be ugly and idiosyncratic. My favourite example of this is a character who amusingly appears to be a clip-art fax machine, incongruous with the other characters’ visual style and bringing to mind other animated shows that play against standard design conventions like Smiling Friends.

Sadly, this is where comparisons to various animated Adult Swim shows end. Spirit Juice lacks interesting or even funny writing, and each character ends up feeling fairly repetitive. There’s no narrative to speak of and fairly few funny situations that each character finds themselves in. The result is a sense of improvisation, with no rising action or destination for the short to move towards.

At only five minutes in length, it’s disappointing that Spirit Juice feels so aimless. I’ve already made the comparison to Smiling Friends, a show that does a much better job of setting up the premise and direction that an episode will move towards, before diving into the pure chaos that it’s known for. Spirit Juice feels as though it’s lacking any sense of structure, resulting in an audio-visual splatter thrown at the wall.

Unfortunately, this is further compounded by the amateur level of voice acting which becomes grating as the short goes on. Most character voices are one note, sounding monotonous at best and headache-inducingly difficult to listen to at worst. What comes across is a lack of faith in the writing, the actors performing their lines with far too much effort in an attempt to sound funny. The performers are more than likely not professionals, but unlike the art, this is tiring more than charming. The combination of a weak script and unconvincing vocal performances may have audiences reaching for a mute button faster than the cast intended.

Animation is a challenging art form to fully realise, especially so for amateur or indie projects. Having said this, Spirit Juice is not visually compelling. The animation is disappointingly limited, the characters move around weightlessly, and each scene is poorly staged. Perhaps the short could have attempted some more ambitious shot compositions, using the limitation of the restricted animations as a strength. Dialogue could have been improved using more shot variation, perhaps making use of shot-reverse shot in the bar scenes. The short takes place entirely from the same camera angle which becomes tiresome before long. For their next project, maybe the crew could look towards South Park which does well to vary the staging of each scene even with its simple art style.

What it has in Spirit, it lacks in Juice. Spirit Juice is clearly a passion project, and while that’s admirable, there will be little appeal for those unattached to the short. There’s clearly room for improvement, and I hope that the team behind Spirit Juice are more ambitious in what they try next.

Wilbert Wire follows a robot art student, the titular character portrayed by Josiah Morgan, who is tasked by his human teacher with creating a painting about love. The piece presents the tropes of the autistic experience through the lens of science fiction. Writer/director Ricky Townsend being diagnosed with autism from a young age makes the experience a raw and authentic depiction of a neurodivergent individual.

One of the most relieving aspects of the piece is how the filmmakers treat the subject matter from the perspective of the neurodiverse experience. Writer/director Ricky Townsend treats the experience as delicate and raw in his depiction of Wilbert as he is tasked with creating a painting. In the wrong hands, this could've been executed in a tone-deaf manner; however, the filmmakers execute this unique concept with a profound sense of nuance. The piece is educational in teaching the audience and those around Wilbert to learn how he conveys his love; this is shown in a complex and subtle way without exaggerating or stereotyping characteristics of his autism, as is often the case in modern media. It's an incredibly visceral experience due to how the filmmakers always present the piece from Wibert’s point of view, giving the viewer a sense of the experience of autism through the lens of a robot. The sequences within Wilbert’s imagination are the most effective due to the dynamic camerawork, and the VFX are genuinely impressive despite the film's budget constraints.

While the narrative is fairly grounded in its setting, the science fiction elements work surprisingly well and never detract from the experience. The film also blends humour and the heartwarming elements of the narrative incredibly well without ever feeling jarring. As Wilbert is a robot, the editing matches his point of view as he rushes with ideas for the painting in a frenetic manner. Ricky Townsend's direction and blocking make incredible use of the limited space, and Josiah Morgan’s physicality in the titular role is profoundly executed in the sequences in his imagination. John Chrisstoffels’ camerawork is truly splendid, as it primarily consists of wide shots when tracking Wilbert’s movement as he uses the environment to his advantage when expanding his ideas. Liam Reid, serving as the film's composer, delivers a nuanced and understated musical score that evokes warmth and delicacy to assist the more intimate moments of the piece. The use of music is genuinely one of the film's greater aspects and is wonderfully placed throughout as Wilbert connects with others.

The central performance from Josiah Morgan in his portrayal of the titular character is wonderful, as he conveys a profound sense of empathy and heart as he tries to make his teacher and others understand that love knows no boundaries. The way he loves may differentiate from others, but it doesn't make his passion and aspirations any less important. While the piece does have an incredibly brisk runtime, it leaves the viewer wanting more with an incredibly moving conclusion that wraps up the film's themes in a satisfying manner.

Wilbert Wire is a heartwarming depiction of a robot placed in a scenario where he represents his version of love and connection through art. The film is an important reminder to show empathy and understanding, and to support others who struggle to convey their love to one another. Ricky Townsend's attempts at grappling with themes of art and connection make him a distinct voice in indie filmmaking and someone to watch out for in the near future.

Sisters Florine and Kim Nuesch write and direct this short sci-fi drama that stars Nikki Amuka-Bird, Nicholas Gleaves and Sven Ironside.

Set in the near future, the story follows middle-aged, childless couple Suzanna (Amuka-Bird) and Andrew (Gleaves), whose relationship is currently unstable and they decide to purchase a sex robot, a machine with a human appearance, whose purpose is to sexually satisfy people. They end up choosing an android named James (Ironside) who has the physical appearance of a young man and they bring him (or it?) home. Things take an unexpected turn as James eventually begins to affects their lives in unanticipated ways.

This film begins as an adult comedy, before moving towards much more serious territories. As James enters their lives, it becomes evident that this is an unhappy marriage, with Suzanna and Andrew being unable to connect. James is unable to satisfy either one of them, however, he manages to build a sort of father-and-son rapport with Andrew, while Suzanna becomes distant. By accident, the arrival of James has revealed the flaws in the couple's marriage and (to a degree), making them both reflect on their troubled relationship. There are awkward moments and a great deal of drama, including a heated argument that gives Suzanna and Andrew an opportunity to be honest about their emotions. The atmosphere is supported by Matthias Biermann's poignant music and Martyna Jakimowska's sombre cinematography.

Suzanna and Andrew clearly are a couple that have lost meaningful connection between them and Amuka-Bird and Gleaves portray them as characters with deep wounds. Suzanna is a workaholic, the main breadwinner of the household, whose determination to focus on her job seems to have damaged her marriage. Andrew, a dental hygienist, is unhappy because he does not have something that he deeply lungs for and his interactions with James appear to be compensating for that. At least to a degree. Ironside is quite convincing as an android, with no facial axpressions, a robotic voice and often remaining motionless. As he plays a product created for sexual gratification, his character spends the majority of his screen time unclothed. Starting off as a sex machine, James subsequently seems to be expressing an interest in human activities such as shaving and playing ball games. More crucially, he unwillingly ends up disclosing the troubles in the couple's marriage.

From a certain perspective, this film is about technological advancements, particularly artificial intelligence affecting people's lives. A limited part concerns sexual desires, however, the primary themes involve marriage, understanding, connections, self-reflection and regrets.

A sci-fi film that mixes technology with the values and complications of marriage. It tells the story of a couple who are together in spite of having different perspectives regarding life and the result is a dramatic and thoughtful viewing.

A couple living in a small, quiet, out of the way town, have their peace broken by the arrival of a police detective, who is looking for a fugitive that might have come their way.

Samuel (Cyrus) and June (Bailey) are enjoying a restful day on the sofa, quietly reading their books and resting in the silence that surrounds them. It’s snowing outside and there’s a blanket of white lying across the landscape and hanging off the trees, softening the sound further and enhancing the feeling of solitude that their quiet cabin seems to offer. Rolling up to their house, however, is Detective Martin (Medeiros), an out-of-town policeman who is looking for information and wanting to ask questions of the couple.

After rapping on the door, Detective Martin is needlessly enigmatic in his introduction, evading basic questions and finding it hard to reveal why he’s at the couple’s home. With a bit of badgering and sustained inquiry, he finally lets out that he’s looking for a fugitive who might be in the area, and we can at last get into the scenario of The Runner properly.

Detective Martin is invited inside and eventually gets around to telling the story of The Runner, a woman who embezzled millions of dollars from her clients in California and then killed her husband when he found out about it. Samuel and June listen to the story intently, not recognising the events or story that the detective is telling, until finally he gets around to revealing that this all happened over two years ago. Now there’s new evidence and a new lead to suggest that The Runner might be in the area and so Detective Martin has turned up to see what he can turn up in the small town of Pinewood.

At just over seven minutes long, The Runner doesn’t have a lot of time to explain its plot and work through its narrative. It’s a shame then, that time is wasted with bad dialogue and phony characterisation that offers nothing to the story or those telling it. Detective Martin takes an age to get around to the point of his visit and then doesn’t reveal the timeframe of the crime until past the midpoint of the film, stretching an already extremely thin scenario to near breaking point despite the fact that the film is so short.

The cinematography, too, is underwhelming and unconsidered, as the snowy background beyond the porch of the house is a blanket whitewash with zero contrast and heightened reflective glare. The focus on Detective Martin is also out as he sits on the chair opposite the couple, who are each in perfect HD focus, and this fuzziness follows him out to the car after he has completed his interview. While writer/director/producer/star, Andrew Medeiros manages to select his shots, fill his frames, and build his narrative fairly well with his direction, he is let down by a nonsense script that brings up more questions than it answers.

When the killer is finally revealed, and although I won’t give it away, gee whizz it doesn’t take much to figure out just who The Runner turns out to be, we really have to ask ourselves the question as to why Detective Martin didn’t click right away. Samuel manages to figure it out within the space of a minute, so you would imagine that someone who has been on the case for two years, and has had days to look over the CCTV screenshot of the presumed killer, would be able to make the link, or to know that he might be in danger.

There is no tension, no surprise, and no thrill, in this supposed thriller, with the only saving grace being that it is so short that we don’t have to sit through extended scenes of the nothing that is presented to us. The turgid monologue at the end, voiced over a black screen to begin with, is indicative of the horrible scripting throughout the piece, as The Runner tries to philosophise, or soliloquise, or romanticise, or who knows what it is she’s trying to do, as she delivers some sort of killer’s lament to us about her way of life. There is not a lot to recommend The Runner to the audience, and in the end the only running that should really be going on is in the other direction, away from watching another bad short film.

I Feel Lonely, directed by Alexander Tomov-Junior, is a short Bulgarian horror thriller following a young solitary woman who appears to be suffering a mental decline. The film opens with atmospheric, moody shots of motorways and other liminal spaces to establish an eerie sense of dread and displacement. The settings are combined well to highlight empty spaces, building up to introducing the film’s protagonist, the viewer is already familiar with the isolation they will see her endure.

After a crime thriller-esque opening, viewers are placed inside the protagonist's home. This is a sparsely decorated, coldly sterile apartment which swallows her form. She appears small and insignificant within this sea of dull space, highlighting her vulnerability and weakness. The choice of costuming her in juvenile pyjamas and having her undergo her nightly routine conveys the idea that she is in a private space where she should feel comforted, yet lacks this sense of security due to the depraved nature of the setting.

Quickly, the woman’s space is invaded by a force worse than cold isolation. She begins to hear voices from her sink drain, repeating ‘I feel lonely’. Perhaps a fantastical being is taunting her, or maybe it is her mind playing tricks on her, the film does an excellent job in blurring these possibilities, neither of which is any way more comforting than the other.

Throughout the film, sound is used effectively to create an atmosphere of dread. Silence is heavily incorporated to add to the horror, with intervals of a musical score, building up to enhance suspense. There is minimal dialogue, making the viewer constantly aware of each small movement and minuscule sound, keeping us on edge. By depriving the viewer of stimulation, an atmosphere of isolation and directionlessness is created, and every action is highlighted as we too look for answers in the strangest of places, descending into our own insanity as we search.

The setting shifts briefly from the woman’s apartment to the more communal areas of her residential building. Shaky handled camera work immerses the viewer within the space as if they were playing a video game, allowing the camera’s point of view to explore and observe the area. When outside her apartment, there is one conversation which takes place between the woman and a suspicious caretaker, and their interactions lack humanity in their uncanny tonelessness and their cold demeanours. Effectively so, despite this external stimulus, the viewer is never released from the eerie grasp that the space holds them in.

As the film comes to a close, a strong sense of unease and uncertainty is maintained. Viewers may find themselves unsure how to feel sympathy for the protagonist, as well as fear for her, and perhaps their own minds may surface.

Overall, I Feel Lonely is an unsettling short horror film which stands out through its strong use of sound to unnerve, as well as skilled camera work which subtly controls the viewer's gaze and attention. The film is well crafted and strongly succeeds in creating suspense, and a notably talented performance from Diana Kostova, who excellently plays the film’s protagonist, aptly unnerving to encapsulate both the film's message about mental illness, and its ability to engage the viewer through a well-conveyed storyline.