Latest Short Film Reviews

During a recent trip to the Highlands, a moment stood out for me during a gondola trip up and down Aonach Mòr.  For late December, the weather was very good, allowing for a spectacular view of the Nevis Range, nearby Fort William and scenic Highland beauty during the descent to basecamp.  As I passed another carriage, I noticed that the individual seated inside was oblivious to the dramatic landscape on display around them.  The reason why is not probably going to be a surprise.  They were too engrossed on their phone.  Later, at a church service, the parish priest lamented about the account of a 12 year-old boy who was denied his phone for three hours during the filming of a TV documentary.  The result?  The boy wrecked his house.  

Such anecdotes may well induce raised eye-brows or groans from sceptical readers, but such warning signs of alienation, disconnection and isolation are at the heart of writer-director Vir Srinivas' Gradient Descent.  However, this descent is not a physical one down from a mountain but a psychological drop from desperation to desensitization and Srinivas' dramatic conflict is not just simply the mobile phone dilemma but a greater danger: AI.

Jackson (James Allen Barnes) is down-and-out; unemployed, homeless and left to beg on the city streets.  Yet, salvation arrives in the form of a well-dressed stranger (Peter Mendes) who offers Jackson an easy-fix job.  Before long, Jackson is suited and booted, attending first-rate AI training, moving back in with partner Maya (Anjie Parker) and working away in a world of waiting and watching as he and his colleagues silently categorise on-going surveillance footage.  However, what begins as a dream soon descends into nightmarish territory as Jackson helplessly becomes the onlooker to increasing acts of dehumanizing brutality and, in the process, finds his own compassionate awareness disturbingly slipping away...

Srinivas opens Gradient Descent with Jackson barely noticeable, dwindled by the sheer size of the buildings and noise of the city around him.  He is truly down and out and even the viewer only notices him once the camera moves closer.  Expectedly, he is ignored by passers-by despite pleas for help.  Unexpectedly, he is approached by a slick-looking businessman who Jackson locks onto from a distance.  It's a decidedly Hitchcockian sequence from Srinivas cutting between Jackson and his subjective view of the stranger approaching and we're left nervingly unsure of what's unfolding.  Will Jackson attack the man, in a final act of desperation for survival?  Does he already know him?  Instead, a Squid Game-esque scenario plays out, with the stranger charming our vagrant protagonist into a shadowy enterprise that feels too good to be true.

Unfortunately, it is.  There's a trade off for the fixer's golden ticket.  In scenes which echo the likes of A Clockwork Orange and The Parallax View, Jackson is soon exposed to escalating unsettling content, the worst of which is actually kept from the viewer.  Soon enough, Jackson begins to disconnect, spurning intimacy from his love and ignoring the cries of his baby as we see him consumed by his new-found obsession; the mechanics of artificial intelligence.  "I won't let them get away with it", he says.  

But it's too late.  The seeds of disassociation have been planted and by the film's shocking end Jackson has become another lost soul in a sea of silent surveillance.  It's an arresting final sequence from Srinvas' which makes up for the film's clunkier elements (the villains are unconvincing and their central scene together plays on for too long) and which ends the piece on a powerfully conflicting note of both horror and hope.

The Group is a short piece that follows a young woman, Jackie Gibson-Berg (Elle E), as she drives her father, Terrence (Magnus Einarsson), to his regular Parkinson’s support group meeting, where she is faced with a harsh reality. Written and directed by Neil Crittenden and shot on location at the Cloisters in Letchworth, Hertfordshire, the piece explores the inner turmoil the daughter faces as she musters the courage not to bottle up her emotions and reach out to her father.

One of the most impressive feats of the film is how compelling and emotionally resonant the experience is despite its tight runtime. It's evident from the opening frame that the daughter is hiding something and is unable to express her feelings to her father due to the actress's use of an understated posture. The use of visual storytelling and the “show, don't tell” approach is a compelling tool that works profoundly here, anchoring the performances to impressive heights. Implementing striking stock footage is another astounding formal decision that conveys the daughter's childlike innocence before cutting to the present day. The piece is accompanied by a haunting and melancholic musical score that complements the meditative tone throughout its entirety. However, the most unique narrative device is the use of quotes presented on the screen between scene changes to convey the character’s inner torment.

Both central performances from Elle E, in her portrayal of the daughter and Magnus Einarsson, in her portrayal of her father, are incredibly compelling and understated in their delivery. While the performers are not given much material to work with, they elevate the script by conveying profound nuance and restraint in their performances that deeply resonates. Their chemistry is raw and haunting as their love for one another is profoundly evident in their dialogue exchanges, showcasing a lovely father-daughter dynamic. Despite its limited runtime, the film manages to convey its themes and message eloquently by displaying a helping hand of empathy towards families or individuals dealing with Parkinson’s. It's a deeply haunting piece of filmmaking that may connect profoundly with many viewers.

Sam Beckley’s cinematography primarily consists of fixed camerawork and tracking the actors slowly in moments of discomfort. It's an incredibly visceral way to shoot the performers and creates a sense of anxiety as the daughter wrestles with her inner harsh reality. The use of surrealism is another potent choice that depicts the daughter's anxiety taking hold of her and essentially forcing her to speak out. While the film is relentlessly paced, the editing at times can become jarring as it awkwardly cuts to black during pivotal moments, and this may take viewers out of the experience. That being said, the powerful and emotionally gut-wrenching performances from Elle E and Magnus Einarsson vastly outweigh those flaws.

The Group is a striking piece of filmmaking that uniquely depicts a father-daughter relationship and the fear of coming to terms of how having Parkinson’s can affect you and the people around you. While the material is restricted due to budget constraints, it still manages to convey a raw depiction of having the courage to speak out to another before it's too late. Led by two phenomenal performances from Elle E and Magnus Einarsson, this is an emotionally resonant body of work that is bound to stick with you.

A mother is forced to stay inside with her son, who is under house arrest, while she interminably turns things over in her mind and tries to get to the truth of who he is.

Rina (Hasfari) is having a hard time of things. She just wants to get out of the house for a little while and maybe run to the shops for a few messages and such, but she can’t. Somebody’s slashed her tyres, meaning that the car isn’t going anywhere, and her next door neighbour is being really difficult towards her, forgetting his commandments and turning his back on her in her time of need. So, Rina turns right back around and goes back inside, faced with the oppressive, stifling air of the house which hasn’t seen an open window or fully drawn-back curtains for quite some time.

At home with her, is Dean (Yarom), Rina’s son who is under house arrest and awaiting trial the next day. It has been a long, hard slog being at home with Dean all this time, trying to keep him hidden from view and away from prying eyes, as well as the odd flying projectile, and also having to feed him, clean up after him, and deal with his overt noises and ablutions. Rina is really at the end of her rope, and everything is truly getting her down, so when she decides she wants to hear the story from Dean about his activities and his arrest, she isn’t in the mood for anything but the truth.

You see, Dean was arrested on the charge of soliciting and sodomy, for relations he had as a teacher with a pupil. Everybody in the community has heard the news and already found him guilty, and so have been making their feelings felt vocally and violently any chance they get. After a clash with a home-invader, Rina finally faces up to how she feels about the shame her son has brought her.

Set up as a pressure-cooker chamber piece, Love Has Nothing To Do With It spends the fifteen minutes it has trying to make the audience as uncomfortable as possible in the home of Rina and Dean. The dark, oppressive interior of the house, which is also mirrored in the mind and face of Rina, is captured clearly by cinematographer, Zohar Mutayn, while the sound design bundles sound upon sound from ticking clocks to crashing crockery, to help keep an unnerved feeling front and centre of the film. Hanna Azoulay Hasfari does a solid job of portraying Rina’s unease, and genuinely looks tired at everything she is having to deal with as the story progresses, while Yossi Yarom is surprisingly indignant as Dean, forced to account for what he has done to people who will never understand.

There is a strong sense of direction and scope from writer/director, Yotam Knispel, who brings everything together to fulfil his vision for what Love Has Nothing to Do With It should be. He creates the tension in the house really well, and sets up a scenario that engulfs the viewer entirely when telling his story, using sound and lighting to their fullest to help. Underneath though, there’s a lot missing from the film that is never aired properly, leaving us guessing at most of what is happening behind the scenes. The way that Dean defends himself, and the words that he uses, sow doubt as to his innocence against the charges, while we are left guessing who is at fault, as everybody seems to be to blame in some way. If there is an analogy or a metaphor at work for bigger, more political themes, it is never expressed outright, and if one isn’t there, then everything seems muddled and complicated for no reason, and that in itself would be an opportunity lost.

While Knispel’s motivations and themes are right there on the surface, there is no accounting for what is actually trying to be said underneath it all. Naturally, the complicated nature of human relationships precludes the idea that things could be wrapped up neatly in a nice little package, but in the end we’re no wiser or further forward than we were at the start. The idea of a ‘mother’s love’ winning out over all is truly tested throughout the film, but we are never party to any realisations that are made over that time, only that it is difficult for everyone involved. But then again, maybe that is the whole point after all.

A short dance film directed by Daniel Gurton and starring Kwame Asafo-Adjei and Catrina Nisbett.

Two people. A lot of dancing. A lot of drama. This 9-minute-long film takes place in a large room and it begins with two individuals sitting on a chair at opposite sides of the table, facing each other. They are British Ghanaians, a man (Asafo-Adjei) and his daughter (Nisbett). Both are unnamed. There is silence and stillness and then, suddenly, the two of them proceed to perform swift hand movements that appear to be directed towards each other. From there, these movements and a variety of others continue both on and of the table, creating tension and telling a story.

What stands out the most is the dancing, which consists of the rapid and violent movements that seem to serve as a form of communication in this short. Asafo-Adjei is also the choreogapher and his work is rather interesting as it results in a show made out of well-executed and precise movements that himself and Nisbett perform impressively. The dancing involves the two performers executing the movements simultaneously, giving the impression that they are having an argument.

Dancing does dominate the vast majority of this film, however, there are various sections where it abrutly ends and the two characters either remain still, or they speak few words. The speech parts could more accurately be described as short monologues and they seem to be about parental disapproval, reminiscing the past and religion. Speech ia actually present throughout, with the protagonists uttering sharp sounds (almost shouting) as they dance, adding significance to their actions.

Gurton's methodical directing is another plus, with the camera moving with the characters, capturing their movements and creating quite a spectacle. And Henry Gill's moody cinematography further enhances the viewing experience, developing an atmosphere that feels downbeat.

Asafo-Adjei and Nisbett are superb. Their performances are a show with impressively choreographed movements and dramatic face expressions.

The story that is told is a father-and-daughter story and it is evidently not a happy one. It seems to be about an abusive father and the suffering he has caused to his child. As the story progresses, it also acknowledges self-reflection, self-esteem, self-expression and religion.

Viewers will most likely be impressed by the well-executed choreography and be moved by the themes. A surreal, energetic and dramatic experience.

Jon Cvack’s With Arms Raised is a thrilling short film set around a fateful car ride. A taxi driver navigates a man in the midst of a breakdown, in a gripping tale powered by the twin crises of mental health and gun violence in America.

Jonathan Wallace’s driver picks up his passenger (Andrew Garrett) for a journey that quickly becomes uncomfortable. Spotting that the passenger’s demeanour is off, the driver tries to keep things casual. They find some common ground over their shared Chicago heritage, but as the passenger begins to focus on his disdain for the homeless, the driver senses his motivations may be sinister.

A viewer’s first watch of With Arms Raised is one that will mesmerise, as the unpredictable and erratic musings of the passenger weave both the driver and the audience on a string. Director and writer Cvack manages to brilliantly recreate dialogue of a disturbed person. Garrett’s passenger is a man whose intentions are unclear until the very final moments, and through his interactions with the driver audiences will be left with conflicting feelings around the character. His demeanour is one that presents as threatening and vengeful, yet Garrett allows just enough sensitivity through to suggest that he yearns for some sort of connection to grasp to. Mental health rarely presents in simple ways, and both the character’s construction and Garrett’s performance are an excellent representation of this.

Praise is also deserved of Jonathan Wallace, a cab driver just trying to get through his shift who suddenly finds himself in an uncomfortable situation. His instincts immediately tell him that something is wrong in his backseat, but efforts to maintain cordiality leads to him agreeing with some of the passenger’s simmering attacks. As these grow more vicious, he is torn between resistance and tolerance, unsure as to whether it is worth pushing back against someone who is clearly not all there. Similar to Garrett, he captures the essence and purpose of the character, who represents societal uncertainty of how to deal with mentally ill people.

Cvack’s direction also shines – confining the viewer in the cab close to the characters to create a claustrophobic effect. Much of the film is spent in unbalanced close ups of the passenger, as he rants and seethes over his perceived injustices. This becomes contrasted by calmer portrayals of the driver, who stays level despite the growing threat behind him. The contrasts here are obvious, but an interesting directorial choice is that the passenger is visible (if restricted) in many of the shots with the driver. It seems to say that those who are unafflicted can still see those struggling, even if we try to look away. Treating these people like they don’t exist will only lead to tragedy, especially ones who cannot see outside their own fractured minds.

With Arms Raised is a fantastic and memorable short, and whilst its ending may seem a little predictable, its snapshot of the mental health crisis in the US is one that is authentic and considered.

A short supernatural horror film written and directed by Jack Turner and starring Tommy Carmichael, Naomi Richards and Steve Huggins.

An injured woman (Richards) dials 999, telling the dispatcher that her son, Samuel (Carmichael) attacked her and she knocked him unconscious in self-defence. However, it is soon revealed that is not the case, as Samuel is actually lying on the kitchen floor, dead, with multiple stab wounds. His mother killed him. Then, Samuel wakes up in the forest, in a state of shock, having presumably died and entered the afterlife. After walking around for a while, he encounters a middle-aged man (Huggins), who claims to be his father, Lucius, who passed away a long time ago. Following an emotional reunion, Lucius tells his son that he must make a choice: stay with his father or return to the world of the living and confront his mum.

A tense and dark story that begins as a thriller about domestic violence before entering the supernatural. One rather evident feature is the eerie and ominous music by Lennie Stanford that creates a feeling of tension throughout the film. The plot is quite intriguing and keeps holding the viewer's attention over eleven dramatic minutes, with murder, reunion in life after death and revenge dominating the narrative.

Although sometimes the acting is not very convincing, generally, it is decent. Carmichael plays a youngster who has fallen victim to his mother's murderous intentions and finds solace and happiness by being with his father. However, he appears to be a person who cannot leave the past behind. Huggins' character comes across as a loving father, who might also have a hidden dark side. Richards portrays a woman who pretty much serves as the story's villain, a disturbed woman who seems to be homicidal.

Murder is what primarily drives the plot, particularly filicide and mariticide. The film explores mother-and-son and father-and-son relationships and provides its version of the afterlife and also acknowledges domestic violence, self-reflection, reminiscing the past and choices. Furthermore, it appears to be stated that revenge leads to bad consequences.

This short can be appreciated for the themes that it explores and it can also be viewed for the interesting plot. Overall, this is a film that is gripping from start to finish.

Africa is Home is a short film that envisions Africa as a united continent where people of all races can live together in peace and love. The filmmakers wished to convey a compelling narrative that sparks conversation regarding how many people of different races consider Africa their only home, even if their ancestors came from elsewhere in the world. Even with the film's restricted runtime, director Wiclive Mazo warrants enough social commentary to justify deeper discussions after the credits roll.

The musical score and use of needle drops serve as one of the most intriguing aspects of the film, presenting one of its biggest strengths whilst proving detrimental at times. While the score accompanies the opening credits incredibly well with its pulse-pounding and majestic themes, it can be oddly overbearing in dialogue-heavy scenes and feels out of place during discussions of race. It is, however, consistently creative and definitely one of the most memorable aspects formally. The piece almost feels like a music video at times, with the amount of music present and how it jarringly shifts tonally into another piece of licensed music. Wiclive Mazo’s direction is competent enough; however, the use of blocking often feels awkward and unnatural, and camerawork relies heavily on fixed shots, rarely doing anything memorable. That being said, the drone photography and the sprawling shots of Africa outside of the central characters’ dialogue are admittedly impressive to witness.

The opening credits, accompanied by beautiful photography and powerful conversations about generational hatred, are provocative and visually arresting. The tone of the piece feels entirely uplifting, with its heart clearly in the right place about educating others on race and accepting our differences. It brings up intriguing discussions regarding acceptance in your community and acknowledging the pitfalls of the past, and what we can do to make a change to the way others are unable to love one another. Unfortunately, due to the limited runtime and lack of a wide range of perspectives, the piece is sadly restrained in what it actually has to say, and an extended runtime could have fleshed out and deepened discussions to allow more discourse to be had beyond the film. This is mainly due to the piece primarily focusing on only three individuals. While the dialogue is engaging and thought-provoking, the conversations at times feel stilted due to how unnatural their line delivery is, and it takes you out of the raw experience.

The piece employs a powerful social commentary focused on community and the importance of empowerment, envisioning Africa as a place where people's voices are amplified worldwide. It conveys themes of love and peace, with a narrative centred on Africa’s determination to foster these. It may abruptly conclude and offer minor perspectives due to the lack of people present in the discussions; however, the piece still manages to employ enough intriguing points to the audience.

Africa is Home is a thought-provoking piece of filmmaking with an uplifting social commentary that depicts Africa as a loving and hopeful place to unite black communities, and educate others on topics such as race, community and history. It may suffer from being unable to offer a wide variety of perspectives due to its sparse runtime; however, this still manages to connect on a deeper level due to how much material is covered within the minimal duration.

STUDS is a distinctly British comedy short that balances sardonic wit with some genuinely sweet drama. Barney Walsh and Sarah Seggari star as Harry and Mia, a young pair who have been chosen for the government’s breeding program (or ‘state sponsored shagging’ as described by Mia) in the midst of a population crisis. The two must spend a weekend getaway together, or else they face execution. Matters are complicated when it’s revealed that Harry and Mia share a history together, potentially jeopardizing the program and their safety. The short is fun, witty, and creative, with Carys Eleri standing out with effortless comedic instincts. STUDS may fall short for audiences expecting a more substantial exploration on the nature of relationships, but as a pure comedy, it’s a worthwhile and likable film.

In a great British comedic tradition, STUDS never takes itself and its drama too seriously, and in doing so it maintains a breezy and easy-going tone. Walsh and Seggari make for a compelling couple; it’s not hard to believe that their characters have had an awkward past, and they play off each other confidently. Much of the same can be said about Eleri, who perfectly embodies her character with disarming overconfidence. Julie is important in delivering the short’s premise to the characters and the audience, and thankfully her performance is charming enough that it doesn’t feel like dry exposition. The comedy is varied throughout STUDS, ranging from clever wordplay to clever visual gags that rewards the attention of viewers. From a clinical government issue edition of the Kama Sutra that resembles an NHS pamphlet to alcohol being labelled as ‘PRE-COITAL STIMULANT’, there’s plenty of cheeky humour dotted within the film. While tensions do begin to rise when Harry and Mia discuss their break-up and the frustrations with their lack of shared interests, STUDS never tips into melodrama, and the darkly comedic tone remains intact. It’s an impressive tight-rope to walk, and it’s thanks to the performances from all three members of the cast, as well as the deliberate direction from Edward Russell, that the short can deliver good jokes with fairly well rounded characters.

It’s impressive that Harry and Mia feel as defined as they do considering the short’s less than 15 minute run time. Walsh and Seggari’s characters feel lived in and grounded, each with their own distinct body language and attitudes. It’s no wonder the two of them say they have nothing in common when they appear so diametrically opposed to each other. Julie additionally comes across as a fully formed character, despite a much more limited screen time. The attention to detail given to each character in the writing makes the drama feel much more tangible - STUDS must have some stakes for the audience to invest in, even if the short is largely comedic. It’s possible that some viewers will want more out of the drama, to see the relationship between Harry and Mia further developed and given some weight, which is entirely reasonable. More time to iterate on the premise would undoubtedly have been interesting, and it’s noticeable that the film rushes through its ending in a less than satisfying conclusion. Still, the comedy almost entirely lands, and every single performance here is purposeful, believable, and charming.

STUDS is a difficult film not to like. While it’s often silly, there’s a certain amount of restraint in the filmmaking - it would have been easy to stretch the premise thin and veer too close to farce. It would be fair to compare STUDS to Lanthimos’ The Lobster, which similarly uses dark comedy in a dating context. In both films, the characters take the situations they’re in seriously, never lampshading or winking to the audience. In doing so, we’re encouraged to take the characters seriously, laugh when we’re clearly invited to, and to possibly think more about the absurd reality of dating and relationships.

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.