Latest Short Film Reviews

In Search of Forgotten Crafts - The Heart of the Iron follows the personal story of a blacksmith, Márton Kocsy, who offers an insightful look into one of the oldest traditionally male crafts. The piece is the fourth episode of a documentary series and narrated by actor Gábor Csőre. The idea for the documentary was originally conceived by Dániel Majoros, who invited director Marcell Betlej to join the project as creative director, editor and cinematographer.

While the material is fairly simplistic in its attempt to provide the viewer with enough insight into the disappearing professions in forgery, the formalism on display profoundly elevates the piece to impressive heights. Firstly, the drone photography is absolutely breathtaking, and the point-of-view camerawork is visceral and admittedly a sight to behold from cinematographer Péter Szögi. The opening of the piece is paced like a creature chasing its prey, with its ferocious camera movement and rapid editing. On the other hand, the sequences of the blacksmith forging are enthralling to witness due to the use of extreme close-ups and frenetic editing choices. It's simply a visual treat and satisfying to endure, accompanied by a remarkable title card drenched in flames from the forgery. The musical score is wonderfully incorporated into the piece, with its incredible motifs matching the forgeries on display.

The filmmakers set out to explore the elemental relationship of forgery and the craft that is fading as the years pass due to technological advancements. However, the cultural and symbolic aspects of forgery still live on in the lives of individuals such as Márton Kocsy, who have devoted their careers to this art form. Márton Kocsy offers a unique perspective that is rarely seen in cinema, such as explaining the spirit of blacksmithing and the underestimated necessity for blacksmiths. The dialogue can be delivered at such a brisk pace that it's almost overwhelming to process at times. That being said, this decision is ultimately necessary to provide the audience with enough context due to its tight runtime. This particular episode could have delved more into other blacksmith forges and explored another individual's perspective on how much has changed in the past few years. Gábor Csőre’s voiceover is impactful and provides context for why fewer individuals visit blacksmith workshops in this current climate, as they have become increasingly inaccessible. The use of voiceover also underscores the significance of recognising the blacksmith's work and dedication to the craft, despite technological advancements.

The Heart of the Iron alludes to future generations carving a path in this career to ensure the craft stays alive in years to come. Despite the restricted material, the piece never fails to engage the viewer due to the thought-provoking and fascinating dialogue from Márton Kocsy. The pacing rarely lets up, and that's a testament to the material and sublime filmmaking on display.

In Search of Forgotten Crafts - The Heart of the Iron is bursting with energy from the first frame to the striking and surreal conclusion. Forged in flames and iron, the filmmakers tackle a profound subject matter that delves into the necessity of blacksmiths and the cultural aspect of forgery that endures for future generations. The piece is a palpable piece of filmmaking beautifully helmed by Dániel Majoros and Marcell Betlej.

The debut short film by Oddly Optimistic Pictures, written and directed by Tom Murphy and starring himself, Alex McGonagle, Michelle Taylor and John O'Gorman.

The opening title card explains that this film depicts fictional characters with stories that were inspired by people who perform certain actions and that the goal is to acknowledge and normalise these actions that are done for comfort.

This six-minute-long short is structured as a documentary and is divided into three parts, each of which concentrates on a character who has adopted a specific activity that they repeatedly perform in order to hopefully find some form of solace. These individuals are played by McGonagle, Taylor and O'Gorman and each of them are apparently interviewed inside their homes and they talk about their chosen special activity.

McGonagle's character tends to pick up a pen or a pencil or a pen and repeatedly drop it on a surface, before picking it up again and doing the same again and again. Taylor's has a habit (or perhaps enjoys) sitting in a revolving chair and spinning, while O'Gorman's records messages on his phone, utilising his own voice, and creating messages for himself for a variety of reasons, including reminders and self-encouragement. By having these characters and their treasured actions present, this film develops an image of why some people choose to repeatedly perform some actions that could be perceived as unusual.

Why do some individuals do these activities that involve repetition? According to this film's content, it is for a number of reasons. For instance, it could be comfort, for self-esteem, in order to remember things, because it provides them with freedom, joy, it helps them relieve stress and it can also be some kind of goal, an achievement.

By focusing on people who execute such doings, this short serves as a commentary about issues concerning mental health, including low self-esteem, anxiety and stress.

Taking under consideration that the director has suffered from depression and anxiety and most of the crew have experienced neurodiverse diagnosis, this makes this film a personal project and it raises awareness of mental health problems. Furthermore, viewers who perform actions similar to the ones described in this review will most likely identify with the characters.

Little Brother follows Mark (Frankie Wilson), a loving husband to his wife, Sarah (Catie Ridewood), as they struggle to conceive a child. Alongside their own struggles, Mark is reunited with his brother Lee (Théodore Sylvain), who has just been released from prison and is trying to reconnect with Mark and find intent in his life. The piece is a raw depiction of brotherhood with stunning direction from writer/director Jack Sambrook.

While the viewer is provided with a slight context for why Lee was in prison, the chemistry between Frankie Wilson and Théodore Sylvain is incredibly magnetic, allowing the audience to connect with their estranged relationship. Both central performances are undoubtedly well nuanced, and the dramatic beats completely land thanks to their screen presence, accompanied by an evocative musical score by Simon Pitt. The musical score not only elevates the material, but it also never feels intrusive or overbearing in the dialogue-heavy sequences, making the experience more visceral. Rowan Bahçeli Holford’s cinematography is captivating, as most of the runtime is condensed to Mark and Lee in a car; the use of close-ups is mostly effective, capturing their complex relationship and Mark’s attempt to see beyond Lee’s flaws. The use of visual storytelling is another astounding formal decision that pays off beautifully within its haunting and emotionally striking conclusion.

Despite its tight runtime and a lack of exposition, Jack Sambrook’s screenplay does an incredible job of establishing the central three characters and their struggles to a suitable degree. The dialogue is captivating and never loses sight of its themes, balancing the comedic and dramatic beats astoundingly. The film flows remarkably well, never overstaying its welcome and conveying its message and thematic elements eloquently in its limited duration. However, the scene transitions feel episodic as they cut jarringly to black for a brief moment before cutting to the next scene. An extended runtime could’ve potentially enhanced the characterisation of Mark and Lee more profoundly; however, the lack of expository dialogue is refreshing and a unique way to tell this story. The performances across the board are phenomenal, particularly Catie Ridewood’s portrayal of Sarah, as she conveys the inner turmoil and emotional support for Mark as they both struggle to conceive a child.

One of the only minor gripes with the piece is its lack of staying power after the credits; despite its meditative conclusion, there is rarely anything to latch onto outside of the performances and central theme of forgiveness. That being said, the filmmakers accomplished a rare feat of maintaining an engaging narrative that uses subtle formal decisions to enrapture the viewer and suitably conclude without feeling rushed or anticlimactic. While the filmmakers could’ve implemented more context to Mark and Lee’s relationship before his prison sentence, both performances from Frankie Wilson and Théodore Sylvain elevate the material, allowing the audience to sympathise with their misunderstanding of one another's differences.

Little Brother is a masterful depiction of two brothers learning to grapple with forgiveness and self-purpose. Despite flaws in the episodic nature of the editing, the piece is anchored by three incredible performances from Frankie Wilson, Théodore Sylvain and Catie Ridewood, and is a powerful piece of work that concludes wonderfully.

It Must be Done is a strange, arresting – but tonally unruly – horror short from writer-director Heather Bayles. The setup involves a woman, who is clearly being abused by her husband, attempting to maintain a genial appearance in front of her two children and orthodox Christian mother. Immediately, we’re in tricky territory. Despite its issues though, this is an impactful piece which is quite well-constructed.

There’s a certain level of aggression through which this story is being told that will inevitably turn off some audience members. Whilst it’s a given that any work with a principal interest in domestic abuse as theme will be a tough sell, this one becomes especially hard to swallow due to its heightened tone and performances. And by the end, one can’t help but be left with the nagging question: Is this film exploiting its subject-matter for cheap thrills; or are the filmmakers using the horror genre to tell a deeper story? This critic’s conclusion is that it lands somewhere in between...

By mixing such cartoonish genre-based violence with more realistic content and potentially triggering depictions and suggestions, the atmosphere ends up feeling unpleasant and at odds with itself in terms of what it wishes to say. However, by shining a light on a tragically common aggression; and then morphing that into the form of a revenge-thriller; you could argue that the film is utilising cinema’s most important and inherently potent genre (horror) to effectively explore disturbing issues. I should also mention that there’s something backwards – or, perhaps, thematically overwhelming – about attempting to integrate some kind of religious commentary into this narrative. You can clearly see the positive intentions (many great horror movies focus on the results of extreme religious convictions); but it almost overshadows what this story should really be about – abuse.

As with any work, it will all come down to the individual spectator and their discretion. The problem is, no-matter how you look at it, is that for this to come across as prescient and probing – instead of icky and bizarre – a slightly steadier hand and more considered technical approach would be beneficial. That’s not to suggest that this film falls short significantly in any department. Every aspect maintains a minimum level of watchability. When it comes to how the story is being told through the camera and editing, there remains a clear sense of authorial purpose, which should be recognised. There is no particular problem inherent to any of the compositions and sequencing in this movie, but rather a more general aesthetic that slightly lacks polish and clarity of technique.

Nevertheless, this is a well-directed short film. The way in which the subject-matter is tackled risks polarising many viewers – yet we should still admire the valiant attempt to tell a confrontational story such as this; especially within the contexts of small-scale independent filmmaking. I would be most interested to see the evolution of this filmmaker’s career as all the elements seem to be present – the passion for genre and the willingness to go to these dark places as an artist.

A magical and emotional animated short film made by 3D animator and independent filmmaker Luke Angus.

Just explaining that 'solstice' refers to the period that occurs twice each year, when the sun reaches its minimum or maximum declination. And this is relevant to this short's plot which will be described below.

The story takes place in the Arctic Circle, where a male Inuit, who wears glasses, lives in isolation. Inside his igloo, he has a board, where he has inserted a large number of nails in a way that creates horizontal and vertical lines and everyday, he places a fishhook on a nail and the next day, he places it on the one to its right, creating a personal calendar. The reason for this is to count the days until the sun vanishes, leaving only the night sky, which is what the hero looks forward to so that his lost partner 'returns' and they can temporalily be together again.

Angus worked solo on this project over the course of nearly four years and the result is fantastic. The story, the visuals and the music are terrific, all of which will be analysed below.

The narrative is about a heartbroken person whose sole purpose appears to be to remember the wonderful times he had with his departed and beloved partner. The reason he longs for the sun to go away is because when he was with his partner, they used to play a game where they would look at the stars in the sky at night and, using their imagination, would visualize shapes of all sort being formed by the stars. And so, the hurt but strong and determined Inuit waits for the temporary but lengthy period of night-time to arrive, which helps him remember the joys he had with his lost love and vividly imagine that she is alive. It is a poignant but beautiful story.

Angus clearly utilises his animation experience very strongly, as the film looks fabulous. The colours and the lighting powefully create a snow-covered, isolated location, as well as a sky covered with shining stars. Everything just looks perfect in computer animation, including the likeable characters. Special mention goes to the way the flashbacks of the couple's past happiness are presented, that being like coming from a film projector.

The music is another massive plus, absolutely terrific. ANBR, Spearfisher and Turpak use their abilities and develop melodies that perfectly accompany the images. Since there is no speech in this short, as far as the audio goes, it is up to the score to generate emotions and it succeeds spotlessly, creating uplifting and melancholic moments via somber piano pieces, upbeat tones and dynamic orchestral music.

The concepts of isolation and living in the Arctic are taken into account, however, the core of this story is coping with loss and grief. Additionally, it also concerns romance, reminiscing the past and holding onto meaningful moments. Crucially, it acknowledges the idea of a person wanting to remember a loved one who passed away.

Huge commendations go to this heart-warming and moving achievement that offers 11 minutes of pure magic. One would be expected to look forward to Angus's next project

A thirty-something woman feels the pressure from everyone around her at her sister’s baby shower to have children of her own, so much so that her ovaries start talking to her to try and convince her.

Eva (Karlsen) is thirty-four. She’s fast approaching that life destroying cliff-dive of an age where women are told that their bodies suddenly change for the worse, and that fertility becomes a major issue until the long slow feminine death of menopause. All sorts of things are supposed to go wrong with having babies after a woman hits thirty-five, and Eva is fast running out of time, as she is constantly reminded by everyone around her who ‘cares for her’ and ‘has her best interests at heart’.

Granny is the most insistent member of the group to try and push Eva into motherhood, but everybody else is at it, too, with friends and family putting on their rose-tinted spectacles and throwing out platitudes that regale the simple positive pleasures of raising a baby. Eva is having none of it though, and tries to impress upon everyone that she still has time, and that she can make up her own mind about these things whenever she feels like it. This is not entirely true though and Eva’s fuzzy guts start trying to tell her otherwise as she bats away the onslaught of indoctrinated motherhood.

After a swift trip to the toilet (in the mother and baby changing area), Eva unexpectedly looks into the mirror to find herself pregnant with worry. This miraculous conception lasts a matter of moments before Eva is lying on the floor giving birth to her reproductive system. Her ovaries (and technically uterus, too) burst forth and land on the baby change mat, introducing herself as Ovy (Oxenham), the talking, floating version of Eva’s inner voice. Together, Eva and Ovy navigate the choices laid out in front of them as they discuss and argue over the idea of bringing a baby into the world.

Told in a cutesy animation style, with cloth puppets and their animated mouths and eyebrows, Ovary-Acting tackles some big issues with a gentle but firm direction and narrative. The characters are perfectly represented for the tale they are trying to tell, as nothing seems overly serious or terrifying in the fact that part of Eva’s insides have suddenly emerged from her body and started talking to her. The animation also allows for some surreal narrative moments which could not have been achieved through live action, or which could have appeared gross-out or just plain weird in a CGI context.

Around half-way through the twelve-minute runtime, Eva and Ovy break into a big song and dance number, which is very reminiscent and akin to those cemented in nearly every episode of the Netflix comedy, Big Mouth. This tongue-in-cheek attitude towards female reproduction is a soothing balm for those who may feel the pressure of the ticking biological clock along with Eva, and for everyone else it’s light-hearted and entertaining without seeming too flippant. Writer, Laura Jayne Tunbridge, obviously has to hit some pretty standard markers in the dialogue, of which some phrases and snippets can sound fairly tired and well-worn, with most comediennes, chat show hosts, and members of Loose Women having covered this ground many times before. However, she manages to blend this in with some fairly personal feeling dialogue and a light, modern touch, to keep things fresh, relevant and funny.

Ovary-Acting is a unique take on an age-old dilemma, which really comes into its own in terms of its style and storytelling. There is a lot to admire and enjoy about Eva’s journey into finding herself, and the fuzzy animation, led by Ida Melum’s direction, really adds to the feeling the viewer gets when watching her wrestle with her own emotions and self-justifications. There’s even a nice little fuzzy ballsack hanging about who just wants to say Hello. Ovary-Acting is a beautiful piece of storytelling which achieves the perfect balance in how it gets its message across, finding a way to not take itself too seriously while making points which everybody should consider, especially when they should keep their mouth shut and their noses out of somebody else’s business.

BAFTA® 2026 Longlisted Animated Short.

Without Kelly follows a young mother, Esther (Medea Strid), as she is forced to leave her baby daughter with the child's father. Caught in a wake of longing and desperation, through the night she chases comfort and purpose and seeks ways to hold onto what she cares for the most. The piece is an uncompromising and raw tale of motherhood, told in a rather simplistic narrative approach, entirely from the female perspective.

One of the most impressive feats of the piece is how immediately the viewer is swept into the sheer intimacy of the filmmaking on display. The visually stunning photography from DP Christine Leuhusen is commendable and eases you into Esther's experience as a mother. The camerawork at times is frenetic and urgent as it tracks Esther in a state of distress and discomfort, utilising extreme close-ups. Lisa Rydberg’s musical score is evocative and emotionally resonant, and anchors the lack of context through Esther’s characterisation. The filmmakers also strip away the score from specific scenes and rely entirely on the actors’ performances, which is a risky formal decision that pays off beautifully. Its tight pace at times is a detriment and a positive to the experience, as the lack of context for Esther makes it demanding to resonate with her struggles. An extended runtime could have perhaps fleshed out her characterisation more profoundly and enhanced its staying power after the credits roll. That being said, the “show, don't tell” approach is commendable and a remarkable way to convey her inner turmoil.

The central performance from Medea Strid in her raw portrayal of Esther is phenomenal. Her screen presence is essential as the narrative relies entirely on her character and performance to convey her longing to be with her child. While the supporting players are given less material to chew on, their performances are serviceable to the plot, and their chemistry is magnetic with Strid’s leading screen presence. The unpredictability of the narrative is astounding at times and entirely conveyed profoundly through Esther’s choices as she uses her body and physical need for desire to numb the pain of isolation. Writer/director Lovisa Sirén clearly set out to express the emotional devastation of a young mother grappling with the life-changing decision she has made after being forced to leave her child, and they succeeded with flying colours in that regard.

While the experience is tightly paced and never overstays its welcome, the conclusion to the narrative amounts to fairly minor, with a lack of resolution for Esther’s character growth. On the other hand, the complexity of Esther’s motivations is remarkable and evocative, leaving the viewer with much to ponder on regarding the female perspective when separated from their child.

Without Kelly is a stunning piece of filmmaking that sheds a harsh light on a woman’s longing for connection after being forced away from her child. Resting entirely on a masterful lead performance from Medea Strid and Lovisa Sirén’s formalism, the simplistic narrative approach may detract from the experience at times; however, this is a heart-stirring exploration of motherhood.

WITHOUT KELLY will screen at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival in Short Film Program 3 — premiering on January 24 at 9:15pm MST.

Rooted within Japanese culture, Monkey Drum is a beautifully shot (cinematography by Tian Pei) folk-horror short film about the most horrific kind of tragedy. The young, award-winning director Jeremy Lu, amongst a small team of Asian filmmakers, poured their experiences and identities into this project (Lu's NYU thesis film) to create an authentic masterpiece. Crowdfunded through donations and the filmmakers' own pockets, these artists were inspired by the Japanese way of treating friends, neighbours, and, significantly, strangers, centring the story around the Japanese term “お邪魔します”, literally meaning “I am disturbing”, a phrase used in Japan when entering someone’s home, thus disturbing their peace.

Minato is an elderly, broken man. He is a hermit who has lived alone for many years and is content with a simple life of solitude, one that is fulfilled purely by the fact that he is still breathing. Isseki is a devoted young father of Jun. The two of them have mysteriously found themselves lost and helpless and persuade Minato to take them under his wing, feeding and sheltering them, even gifting Jun with a fun new toy – a hit-hit drum (でんでん太鼓).

Isseki and Jun’s entry is immediately unsettling to Minato’s space. The sound design enhances this powerfully, focusing on their bellowing knocks on the door, the gross sounds of their slurping and chewing, and most notably, Jun’s constant rattling of the monkey drum, which eerily plays through the night, causing Minato significant unease. There is a clear generational detachment between Jun and Minato. This divide is cleverly highlighted through Jun’s inability to understand cues of politeness within traditional Japanese culture, immediately brought to attention in Jun’s refusal to introduce himself and further demonstrated in his reluctance to stop playing the drum despite irritating both his father and Minato.

Similar to Mother!, directed by Darren Aronofsky, Monkey Drum excellently creates a tone of unease from the outset through the scenario of an unwelcome intrusion. As is customary in American culture, Jennifer Lawrence’s character is vocal about her discomfort from the immediate disruption of an unwelcome guest residing in their home. However, whilst Minato’s unease is clear to viewers, it is only following the fallout of a sudden tragedy which has come to haunt Minato’s space that he is ever direct about his desire for Isseki to leave his home.

Monkey Drum masterfully depicts a shocking accidental tragedy. As the film is only 16 minutes long, there is little space for buildup or foreshadowing. Despite this, the film minimally brews tensions, drawing attention to spaces and objects which viewers can sense carry a heavy weight before the incident occurs. The actual tragedy itself is conveyed chillingly. Through bone-cutting sound effects, its use of silence and selective camera choices in what is shown and when, the gradual realisation towards what has happened is experienced in real time through the eyes of Isseki and Minato. Here, viewers are forced to endure the most horrific moments following such a tragic event, engaging in an authentic journey of the most mortifying grief.

As the film comes to its climax, the tragedy becomes a mere background character adding to the brewing tension between Isseki and Minato, his unwelcome presence and the turmoil he has brought into Minato’s home spiralling into a dramatic culmination. The performances here, and indeed throughout, from Tadashi Mitsui (Minato) and Taiju Nakane (Isseki) are harrowingly powerful. Viewers are utterly convinced by their disturbance, particularly Isseki’s grief.

So many aspects of Monkey Drum are notable in their excellence and importance. One final dedication must be made to the love that permeates this film, despite its belonging to the horror genre, and heavy leaning on psychological discomfort, a heartfelt dedication of Isseki to his son Jun resonates throughout. After all, what is grief if not love preserving?

Melissa Skirboll’s short $13 is a bite-sized emotional gut punch – a seemingly innocuous character piece at first that takes a shocking turn, taking viewers on an unexpected journey within its short narrative.

2 women take a stroll alongside the Hudson River in New York City. The older of the pair (Skirboll) reminisces about frustrations with her former boss Bernie. The younger of the pair (Meghan Martin) can relate – having her own frustrations with her lot. But as the story develops, we realise that the location is of utmost relevance – the presence of One World Trade Centre suddenly looming large. The younger woman realises that the story she is being told is not a typical one, and the trauma of 9/11 is felt by both parties.

The twist at the heart of $13 will be most people’s lasting memory. And while the sudden revelation of the story’s true nature will shock, it is impressive that Melissa Skirboll makes it work. Delivered with a less capable hand, it may have come across as trite or inauthentic. However, Skriboll is careful not to over-egg the introduction of a historic tragedy in her short film’s narrative. Landing with an initial, earth-quaking shock, the moment is given chance to breath and dissolve into the film in a manner that feels genuine. This is accomplished through the musical cues, the use of silence and the impressive performances of Skirbol herself and Meghan Martin.

The film is shot beautifully, making full use of the New York skyline at sunset. The setting is obviously plot-relevant, but the ambience created is also critical for the story’s success. Taking place at sunset feels like no coincidence, as Skirboll’s character yearns to come to terms with a pivotal moment in her life even 25 years on. The contrast with the unforgettable images of 9/11, which took place in the daytime, to the film’s evening glow gives a quiet appreciation of time passed.

There are some moments where the dialogue becomes a little clunky. It feels a little forced at first for the character of Bernie to be introduced, and there are a few other instances of exposition that grate. But once the film finds its momentum, the writing is impeccable. Once Skirboll’s character recounts the people she knew who worked in the towers, audiences will be silently gripped and moved. The women’s bond also convinces, and the chemistry between Skirboll and Martin flourishes with defined dialogue that successfully creates the idea of an age-gap friendship.

$13 accomplishes so much with just a conversation. It is destined to move audiences, not just thanks to its shocking twist, but because of fantastic dialogue and performances that make for an engrossing rollercoaster of a film.

A man undertakes a debilitating experiment which causes him to scratch at his body while it oozes, bleeds, and decomposes over the days he spends in the facility.

Will (Nagvajara) has awoken in a basement room where he knows little about what’s going on around him. He is under surveillance in every room of the bare apartment he’s using as a makeshift laboratory, with CCTV cameras in the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen watching his every move. There is an enigmatic note left in the bathroom cabinet by a guy named ‘Rog’ (Potvin), encouraging Will in whatever course he has embarked upon, while several small vials of an unknown serum are lined up in a sequentially numbered row beside it.

Will is taking notes in a journal as he progresses through this seeming medical trial, apparently aware that he has some mission to accomplish, and that he is doing it for the love of a long-lost partner who died prematurely. He keeps waking up at later points each day, knocked out from the previous day’s injection, and always with something new happening to his body, nothing that is ever any good. His body starts to itch and ache; he’s getting scratches and lesions on his skin; parts of him are starting to flake and peel away; and his insides are just screaming to get out. It sounds like the medicine is working.

Over the course of a week, we follow Will as he falls apart due to the experiment he is participating in. The story pieces together each day as we check back in to see how he is doing. Spoiler alert: He’s not doing very well. In a very Cronenberg fashion, Will slowly descends deeper and deeper into body horror territory, as The Itch he feels inside him begins to overtake his multiple senses. There’s plenty of bodily fluids being expelled, and dirty liquids flowing into filthy drains, as Will’s condition progresses towards its conclusion, with nothing much being given away until the end about what kind of motivation could exist in order for someone to do this to themselves willingly.

In this way, The Itch, owes a lot to recent body horror sensation, The Substance (2024), as Will’s psyche is fractured in two, and the memory blackouts become more frequent and intense. Still, he pushes forward on his trajectory, somehow feeling that the outcome will be beneficial, if not for him then for someone else, or society as a whole. This also causes echoes of The Fly (1986), as Will’s addiction can’t be sated and each step forward brings about another severe debilitation in his condition. In the end, what Will becomes is nothing of his former self, with only this new ideal filling his every impulse.

Told in short, sharp bursts, The Itch tells its tale in under fifteen minutes, with an extra expository sequence hemmed in during the credits to help us get a better understanding of what has transpired. There’s plenty of jump cuts and clashing imagery, along with the requisite gory outpourings, from writer, director, editor, and producer, Gordon Phillips, with a soundtrack of scratchy strings played alongside to keep everything off-kilter. The cinematography from Marcelo Quinones saturates the screen with white light, while also pulling us into the deep, dark places that Will needs to go to as he fights for his survival. These technical aspects are all very well accomplished, and they meld together in a sub-dungeon, holy trauma kind of way to really boost the effectiveness of the feeling that the audience is exposed to.

If there’s something to gripe about, it’s that we’re not party to Will’s backstory until very near the end, or even beyond that. This keeps us from connecting truly with his character, not knowing him to be sympathetic or otherwise, as we watch him endure his suffering. This categorises the body horror as slightly voyeuristic and fetishized, as we don’t feel any need for what he’s going through. This can make The Itch seem like an homage to the previously mentioned films, without really allowing it to strike out on its own. While The Itch takes succour from those that have gone before, it is hard to see the true originality needed for it to stand out from a fairly oversized pack, despite the fact that it is extremely well made.