Beyond murky social criticism, The Big Thing stands out for its beauty. You just don’t find production values this high in short films. It won more awards than you can shake a stick at, if you happen to have a heavenly stick, but even among award-winners, this is one good-looking film.

The story as old as time itself: Boy meets girl; boy doesn’t lose girl; boy causes the end of the universe. In this case, the boy is an unassuming Antichrist, the girl is a Parisian hooker, and the whole thing is under the control of an angel and the devil. The Archangel Michael (a wanker we are informed) and Lucifer the Angel of Light get together for this unrecorded bit of history in 1889, and share a pint and some good times as they bring about the end of the world as we seem not to have known it. It is not clear if the End of Days is the result of a higher plan or just a bit of ennui, but that’s just details. It seems rather important to Michael and Lucifer, two old friends with a job to do, and they are such affable chaps (wanker not withstanding) that it becomes important to the viewer; well, as important as anything is likely to be in this bubbly picture. Andrew Simms and Robin Wilcock are superb as the supernatural creatures on a mission, both greatly aided by witty and occasionally laugh-out-loud dialog. Running a scant 9 minutes, there’s no filler here.

The Big Thing was meant to be many things, including a calling card for writer/director Carl Laudan, and while it got his name on most everyone’s lips in the indie film world, it may be a few more years before he hits the Hollywood A-list. He appeared as a finalist on the ill-fated, film-making, reality TV show, On The Lot before directing a less allegorical feature. Ah well, it is a start, and The Big Thing requires no follow-up.

Lutz is a dreamer and malcontent in a controlled world where life is dictated by the number of social points you have. Intelligent enough to enter the prestigious Institute for Neuro-Informatics but lacking both the determination to succeed within the system and the sense that there is anything better, Lutz seeks to escape. With the help of Jannik, an ex-con and ex-dreamer who has suffered in the virtual prisons where each individual’s Hell is personalized, Lutz hatches a plan to give him what he’s always wanted, though even he realizes that the most likely outcome is a lifetime of agony.

As I watch this film again, what strikes me is not the FX. Those effects are excellent, be they flying robots, future cityscapes, or fifty foot mothers, but they don’t steal the focus. It is the story that grips me. This is a story of hope and fear and redemption. The quality of those effects allow Axel (writer/producer/director) and Henning (writer/producer) Ricke to tell that tale without my mind, and hopefully yours, slipping out of their world. I am there with Lutz, feeling his doubt, his hope, and his need for something else. Stars David Winter and Reinhardt Firchow bring such loss, energy, and humanity to their characters, but then the Ricke brothers make that easy, giving them such rich personalities to work with.

If my description makes D-I-M sound dour, let me assure you it is anything but that. Fast paced, with twisted humor running throughout, it is even more enjoyable than it is thoughtful. Cinematic cyberpunk has been a disappointment.  For every Blade Runner or The Matrix there have been twenty mindless, poorly shot rip-offs. D-I-M gives fans of the sub-genre something to cheer about again.

The Ricke brothers are just getting started.  Henning took the director’s chair for their follow-up, Rosfeld, a marvelously sly science fiction comedy that hit the festival circuit in 2009. It is not available online, so you’ll have to keep an eye out for it at your local festival.

(embed courtesy of eerieTube.com)

The plot is as complex as you would expect (or desire) from a beer-based zombie film. A drunken brew master has embarrassed the brewery for the last time, being exiled to the lonely late-night shift. He hasn’t let this setback interrupt his drinking, and while looking into a vat of… OK, let’s not over think this. We all know that beer turns guys into zombies, right? That’s the plot. Done.

Co-writer/director Rob van der Velden approached internet fame with his winning entry into Quentin Tarantino’s fake trailer competition (Dutch edition), Nailed by Nikita. Fitting with the tone of the faux trailers in Tarantino and Rodriguez’s Grindhouse, Nailed by Nikita introduces the touching tale of an abused, often naked woman, with a nail gun. God how I love nail guns. Van der Velden upped his game, with help from de Voogd, for Zombeer, surpassing the production values of most genre features, as well as almost everything which airs on the SyFy Channel. The last is pertinent because Zombeer screened on that channel, and was also nominated for their Shocking Shorts Award.

I suppose you could find some political commentary here, or a statement about alcoholism, but my mind never wandered into the land of deep meanings while watching drunken zombies take a bite out of tourists. Sure, it’s hard to become emotionally involved as the film never picks a character to focus on. And yes, it could be a more complete story and less of what feels like an intro to a larger work. But it is already delivering zombies and beer. To ask for more would be ungrateful.

Since Zombeer could stand in for the definition of “guy” film (definitions with words in them are way too feminine), don’t watch it alone. The Super bowl is nearly upon us, another stereotypically masculine bit of entertainment. Set out a few twelve packs, and make sure you have at least a case of Dutch brews chilling. Order up a few pizzas, and before the big game, start off the afternoon with Zombeer. Nothing could be more fitting.

That’s Magic! is a fifteen minute musical, not a music video.  It is a touch surreal, but not incoherent.  The story is slight, but that is generally the case with feature musicals, so is not a detriment here.  A janitor takes his son to meet “The Magician” in order to feel a bit of magic, but the performer is a sad cynical man whose depression manifests as soon as the curtain closes.  He has no magic to show, and no belief in it.  Left alone in his misery, The Magician dwells on the futility of existence, but a mysterious muse emerges from the shadows to guide him to true magic.

The power of music, and thus, the musical, is to summon up emotions without lengthy narrative or the need to deal with the distractions of life.  Yes, life is complicated, but the basic truths of life usually aren’t.  It’s in the paths to those truths where twists and turns exist.  That’s Magic isn’t interested in twists.  Its point is clear, pure, and in your face and summons up the likes of The Wizard of Oz, where there is no mistaking what is being said.

Of course such crystalline certainty only works when the music can sweep us along and here That’s Magic! excels.  For the modern show-tune enthusiast, this is as good as it gets.  Nickolas Kirk and Billy Wilkerson’s songs are rich and unforgettable.  Let’s hope you don’t mind a tune bouncing about in your head for days, because the only way the title song will vanish from your mind is when it is replaced by another, Second’s Glance.  The performance quality matches that of the songs.  The singing styles are more reminiscent of Moulin Rouge! than Seven Brides for Seven Brothers—this is a modern musical after all.

Director Brandon McCormick has created a must see fable: fabulous in its look, intoxicating in its sound, and a treat for whatever senses are left over.  The first time I watched That’s Magic! I enjoyed it.  The second, I was brought in deeper.  The third, I was captivated.  After twenty viewings, I like it even more.  It will grow on you.  Seek it out, and let it.

Mimicking the ‘50s-era style that made us all want to duck and cover, The Three R’s introduces us to four happy co-eds (and a disgruntled little sister, obviously in even more need of a man to complete her than her sibling).  They are on their way to a beach party where they can socialize, drink, and meet a man.  But a moment of carelessness leads to one dead hobo.  As average youthful citizens, they panic, but with a shout, our omniscient narrator puts an end to that.

“Hey, calm down, this isn’t the end of the world, and you can still make it to your beach party in time.” Yes, all they need is to remember the three R’s:

1. Rationalize!!
2. Resourceful!!
3. Remain (calm)!!

Faux info videos and their close cousins, “found footage” videos are everywhere on the Net.  They are cheap to make since they don’t require a modern professional look, so every Tom, Dick, and Harry has given it a shot.  Most are painfully bad as the makers have lacked the one W: Writing (talent).  Nathan Voltz, along with co-writers Chris Hobbi and Joseph McCain (who also appear in front of the camera as Rick and Andy, two of the clueless murderers) don’t have that problem.  The script is tight, consistently funny and biting from time to time.  The gags come quick, and are never throwaway.

The Three R’s is supposed to look old and damaged.  The YouTube version adds grain and artifacts that are go way beyond what is effective, but for a film like this, it doesn’t take away too much of the fun. Watch it with a few friends, and keep in mind, communism has no place here.

So for those of us who crave the charm of these homages to yesteryear, the place to go is not your DVD rental store, but the web site of director Andrew M. Young for The Great Detective. In a time where all boys look like they are about to yell “paper mister,” woman are called “doll” and “sweetheart” by criminals and heroes alike, and plucky reporters do anything for a story, The Great Detective preserves the good people of Chicagotown behind his black mask and under his fedora.

Effie Soul, who brings the good news in uncertain times by way of a classic typewriter, has information on the whereabouts of the arch villain Pokerface. Luckily it is no trouble finding The Great Detective: just walk into the wrong part of time and he’ll show up to save you. With his jetpack strapped on, and a few secret weapons hidden in his trenchcoat from his faithful sidekick, The Great Detective sets out to clean up the city, and more importantly, provide hope in dark times.

Robert Trahan is dashing as the lead, with a touch of generic tough guy. The rest of the cast fit their parts: maniacal, trustworthy, and cute, in turn. The action is compact, which takes away nothing since we do get our needed shot of the hero streaking through the air.

A production of North Caroline School of the Arts, The Great Detective has no deep themes or important message. It is just good fun; dare I say it: old-fashioned good fun.

And yet—there’s always an “and yet”—fan films and the Internet are so gruesomely intertwined that to reject one is to reject the other, at least with regard to video. Only porn stands prouder as the flag-bearer of streaming distribution. It hurts all the more because of those very occasional gems that force fools like me back into the muck searching for another Troops or Pink Five.  As this site claims to represent the best in online shorts, we need to dip into the slime, and what do you know? I found a jewel, pre-shined and all.

The Hunt for Gollum needs to be watched twice, because a first viewing will be interrupted by your own exclamations of “This can’t be a fan film” and “There’s no way this was done for under £3,000.”  It is an amazing piece of work: sweeping vistas, ancient forests, goblins hordes, and all put together by unpaid fans.

The story, with an adjustment or two, comes from an appendix to the Lord of the Rings that I can’t recall reading. Gandalf fears that Gollum may be captured by the dark forces of Mordor and reveal the location of the One Ring, and sends the ranger Strider to find the warped creature and keep him away from their enemies. Does that mean nothing to you?  Do you need to be told who Gandalf and Strider and Gollum are?  Or who Peter Jackson is?  If so, this film isn’t for you. It makes no attempt to appeal to a wider audience. It doesn’t need to. Only Lord of the Rings fanatics, that is, fans of the humongous epic cinematic trilogy, need apply.

While it doesn’t stand on its own, as a previously unfilmed chapter in Peter Jackson’s vision, it works incredibly well.  Director Chris Bouchard has Jackson’s style down pat, and uses enough wide shots of mountains and marches though wildernesses, all set to music just this side of Wagner, to lead anyone to believe that The Hunt for Gollum is really a secret proof of concept piece that Jackson shot to prove to New Line that he could pull off the larger project.

Adrian Webster makes a convincing Aragorn, though the poor man is stepping into the slick, testosterone oozing shoes of Viggo Mortensen. “Convincing” is the best that could have been managed.  Patrick O’Connor is a level up as Gandalf, and for my money fits the literary wizard better than Ian McKellen, and I am fond of McKellen’s work.

Is The Hunt for Gollum non-stop entertainment and excitement?  No; it is laced with self-importance and drags for much of its length. But that’s exactly the same thing I’ve said of Jackson’s mega-film. If you found its tone on the money and were comfortable with its leisurely pace, than you will be happy with every moment of this work.

The Hunt for Gollum is that rarest of fan films. It matches its progenitor without feeling unnecessary or embarrassing. It brings action, depth of character, and effects worthy of its parent. If you’ve left Middle Earth behind, there’s nothing here to bring you back, but if you are twitching for the big screen adaptation of The Hobbit, here is your fix.

Director Michael Lucas plays with that fear in Turn, a witty ten minute surrealistic journey.  Ambitious Christine is going nowhere fast on the crowded roadways, so takes a short cut through a narrow alley, trying to get to work for an important presentation.  But harried Leo has already tried that alley, and after two hours of attempting to make the turn out of it that would put him on the main road, has given up.  With no sidewalks, and an unending stream of roaring cars zipping by only inches from the alley’s exit, what are two people to do?

Metaphors run rampant: modern life as a frustrating and meaningless road that can often take us to places it’d be better not to go; the truly important things encompassed in a simple alley; an artistic portrait superimposed on a diagram represents the joys in life sometimes being able to burst through the clutter.  You can find themes and sub-themes and the cousin of your sister’s best friend’s themes; plenty to keep this picture coming back to your consciousness.  But this is no heavy message piece.  It is quick, and funny.  You can take it on the simplest level and be well entertained.

While only two characters speak, and all but a few seconds take place in a thin valley between nondescript buildings, Turn seems like an expansive film due to the deft camera work of Shing Fung Cheung.  The only claustrophobia is in the minds of the Christine and Leo.

Short films cannot bring us deeply developed complex characters; there isn’t time.  The format, like that of the short story, is best at illuminating a single idea, event, or joke.  But within the limitations of time, Turn does a remarkable job of making Christine and Leo real. I know people like them and in some ways, I am like them.  That made their story richer, and their foibles funnier.

Turn was shot as part of the Australian Film Television and Radio School (AFTRS) program, which has produced far more than its share of entertaining short films.  A year after Turn,  AFTRS put Peter Templeman, who is flawless as Leo, in the director’s chair for The Saviour, which became an Academy Award nominee.

Sparks is the comic story of a relatively average family in the midst of an uncomfortable situation.  Daniel and Meredith are kind, devoted parents, slipping into a mundane life. Dana and Joshua are self-absorbed late teens, rampaging into rebellion and fun. Nothing surprising there, except perhaps just how reasonable and calm mom and dad are. The problem, as the parents explain to their children: “Kids, your mother and I want to have sex…with you.”

The jokes sit comfortably in the “I can’t believe they just said that” arena, but as I noticed when I saw Sparks with an audience, they don’t produce stunned silence, but uproarious laughter. Partly that’s because this isn’t a series of gags, but character driven moments. Daniel and Meredith are sweet, intelligent people—a bit geeky—that are impossible not to like. How they deal with their dilemma drives everything. Dana and Joshua on the other hand are stereotypes: objects, because that is what they need to be. After all, it isn’t there inner selves that are eliciting a response.

Sparks is a film that generates lunch time discussions that will go on for days. Feelings do not bow to intentions, careful planning, or rationality. How do you deal with emotions you never saw coming? The theme of Sparks is not the rights or wrongs of incest, but how to keep that spark that makes life worth living. However, most viewers are likely to dwell on its taboo elements, and why not? I can’t recall a film that has suggested a healthier manner of coping with the wild tides of sexual desire.

Don’t watch Sparks alone, even though that’s the norm with videos tossed on YouTube. Five people with their mouths hanging open are so much more fun than one. Gather your friends and family (well, maybe not the family) around your flickering computer screen, and enjoy.

YouTube has Sparks in 2 parts. Watch the first, then find part 2 in the player thumbnail view.

In The Fifth, that’s the question that dominates the conversation as three of four friends welcome a new “fifth” to their weekly poker game.  Brian is excited to be there.  He’s heard about the game and is looking forward of an evening of men playing cards.  Jerry’s a bit grumpy, but that’s just his way.  Finally Ken shows up, and yes, he’s brought work with him: the corpse of a hooker.  As is calmly explained to Brian, Ken is a serial killer.  No, this isn’t horror.  It’s dark, dark comedy.  The problem isn’t that Ken’s a murderer who carries out unwholesome acts on his victims’ lifeless bodies, but that he just can’t separate work from poker.

Writer/director Ryan A. Levin doesn’t hold back.  There’s plenty of blood spray (which really can slow down a game) and twisted dialog (it’s hard to decide if you want to cut off a victim’s face and wear it), which will leave all but the most sensitive viewer breathless from laughter.  For those sensitive viewers: the language will have them running for cover before the first mention of the bowl made from dried human skin.  It’s the dichotomy of Ken’s blood-letting and violence with the matter-of-fact acceptance from his friends that makes the jokes hit.

The Fifth is a small film (one set and limited movement) but looks clean, crisp, and professional.  Tight direction is enhanced by actors who know how to play up a line.  Sam Lloyd is the standout as the nebbish psychopath, making the dilemma of having one’s prostitute-victim escape through a hole in a fence equivalent to the office copier breaking down.  The rest of the cast support him as smiling or horrified straight men producing almost as many laughs.

The film has a strong Scrubs connection.  Levin was a production assistant on the TV series as well as part time script writer, Sam Lloyd (madman Ken) a regular cast member, and Robert Beckwith and George Miserlis (two of the more accepting card players) have made guest appearances.

The Fifth first came to my attention as a submission to the ’07 Dragon*Con Independent Short Film Festival (I am the festival’s director in case that bit of trivia slipped through the cracks).  It won for best Dark Comedy and went on to pick up the Audience Award at the Dead By Dawn fest and took the Golden Prize as Best Short Film at the Fantasia Film Festival.

Check Please captures the true cynical depth of the holiday without concern for the date. After all, dysfunction is for everyone at anytime. Poor Julie seems unaware of that as she takes part in the painful ritual of meeting the boyfriend’s parents. But things seem not to be painful at all. Doug is being affectionate and humorous, in that too-broad-for-reality way most grown children adopt around their folks. His parents are his equal in fake pleasantness. With superb food, it’s hard to see how it could go better. Then the check comes.

The situation is a familiar one, which is exactly what I want in a five minute comedy where there is no time to create new worlds. We’ve all been there, both in that first family meeting, and in the argument over who pays the check. Check Please finds the absurdity in the situation, and amplifies it fifty fold, giving it that dark edge that lifts it above the quick-joke-routine fray. Monty Python became masters of this brand of humor closing in on forty years ago with sketches like “The Dirty Fork.” This too is sketch comedy, just quite a few notches up from your standard SNL gag.

Director and co-writer Larry Ziegelman learned his craft in advertising, where his commercials have won numerous awards. The move from one-minute advertising productions to five-minute short films is a sidestep, with all the skills from one transferring naturally to the other. Check Please isn’t a “directorially” tricky piece. There’s one table, five actors, and not much movement. But Zieglman makes it look good, and uses the camera to give just enough variety to what is essential a static event. It’s made a splash on the festival circuit and won the state of Illinois’s film contest.

Austin and Ingalls created their epic for Channel101, a weird hybrid of film festival, non-broadcast TV network, and drunk guys throwing popcorn at a screen. Each month, through their website and at a live screening in LA, ten films are shown and then subjected to the uncertain opinions of the audience. The five that receive the most votes become (or continue to be) prime time series, and the filmmakers have to come up with another segment quick. The Wright Stuff survived four weeks of this high pressure format. I’d have been happy if it had lasted ten times that number.

Filmed in black and white with only minimal concern for what looks real (yet with some surprisingly good effects), The Wright Stuff turns the clock back a hundred years. It’s vaudeville shtick on video and you couldn’t ask for better. The jokes are broad, the innuendo outlandish yet somehow innocent, and the stories are just coherent enough to support the gags, and there are a lot to support. It’s rapid fire. Almost every one hit my funny bone, but if a few don’t work for you, no problem as there will be twenty more in the next minute.

The writer/directors take on the lead roles of the overbearing white bread Wilbur and his milquetoast brother Orville. They lend the proper touch of absurdity to their characterizations, playing always to the audience. The rest of the cast keeps the wacky tone going, particularly Ethan Phillips (Neelix on Star Trek: Voyager) as an unstable President Teddy Roosevelt.

There’s no grand point being made. Austin and Ingalls have no agenda beyond making their audience laugh, and in that they succeed. This is pure entertainment.

Not only is free time a vague myth, but my blood pressure is breaking gauges and giving me the look of an over-ripe tomato. This isn’t the time to search across the Net for something new for Short of the Week. No, what I need is some comfort food, a film I know well, and that watching once again will give me a few minutes of relaxation. I need a movie that will make me laugh and won’t take up a lot of time. Oh, and I need ’60s-sounding surf music. I’m not sure why I need the last one, but let’s just go with the flow.

I first saw Teenage Bikini Vampire as a festival submission four years ago and I couldn’t help but giggle. It’s just one of those films. I’ve since seen it ten or twelve times, including on the semi-big-screens of otherwise dour film festivals where it always brings the audience to life.

Sadie is an average teenage girl, with the normal teen issues of growing up and finding herself, except she’s a vampire. Being sunlight-challenged is not doing anything good for her social life. She just wants to dance, go to the beach, and maybe spend some time with the cute surfer dude, but a suntan is not in the cards. Her younger siblings can play with severed limbs happily, but what’s a high school girl to do? It’s up to her loving, murdering parents to find an answer.

The film is structured around one conceptual joke (a good joke, but still just one), and that’s all it would be without the deft hand of writer/director Devi Snively who adds in a dream sequence from a different era and a tune that you’ll be singing next time you find yourself in a convertible on a sunny day. She turns what could have been an internet joke-video into something quite enduring, almost sweet, in an Addams Family kind of way.

The budget is low, and it shows, but it doesn’t harm the joke, which actually plays better with a stagey atmosphere. It’s easy to think of Teenage Bikini Vampire as a skit in the repertoire of a travelling comedy troop, and I could imagine a lengthened version being put on by garage theaters all over the country.

Teenage Bikini Vampire may be the finest low-budget vampire beach movie of all time. As soon as I find another, I’ll let you know. Until then, this one will do nicely.

The pinnacle of postmodern feature cinema (among well-known films) is 1999’s Being John Malkovich. Its plot twists seven ways and is always happy to take a side road to nowhere before continuing on its merry way. During its convoluted trip, it sweeps along the title character, played by the real Malkovich in over-the-top form, and completes the picture with the likes of best friend Charlie Sheen, played by the real Sheen making fun of his own image. But the world of short film has its own postmodern peak: I Am Stamos, and it’s no copy of Malkovich.

You know lead actor and producer Robert Peters. Trust me, you do. You’ve seen him in a dozen movies and television shows. You’ve never heard his name, but you’ll know his face. Upon seeing it again, you won’t be able to drudge up where you saw it the first time, but you did…sometime. He’s a character actor who plays sidekicks, clerks, and salesmen. In I Am Stamos, he is Andy Shrub, a character actor that plays sidekicks, clerks, and salesmen. Let the self-referencing begin!

Andy’s sick of being stuck in wacky roles. He wants to be the lead. But, as it’s clearly and non-too-gently explained to him, leads don’t look like him; they look like George Clooney or Rob Lowe, or John Stamos. Depressed at his birthday party, he makes a wish. He wishes to look like Stamos. Well, it doesn’t come true in the conventional way. Andy still looks like Andy to the naked eye, but to the camera he is John Stamos, and the dollar possibilities spring immediately to mind. It isn’t long before the real Stamos is out for blood.

In only eighteen minutes, I Am Stamos says everything there is to say about Hollywood’s obsession with beautiful people, and branches out to jab at our entire society’s blindness when it comes to the more attractive member of either gender as well as their opposites. Not that it sets up a “good plain folks verses evil pretty folks” dichotomy—anything but. It just presents it all as quite silly. It also manages to lampoon film and television production in general. That sounds a bit heavy, but it isn’t. Theme comes after jokes, and there are a lot of them. I’ve seen I Am Stamos twice on festival screens and the audience was howling the whole time.

You won’t find a more skillfully made short. I can’t find any information on its production costs, but unless a lot of people worked for free (and brought their equipment and expand-o-matic sets with them), its budget could eat that of many indie-indie features. How often do you find funny and appropriate original music in a short? It’s no surprise that Peters has no problem getting to the heart of Andy Shrub and a pleasure to see all the fine comedic support he gets from Clint Howard, E.E. Bell (another character actor you’ll know when you see him) as well as by Stamos himself, who will make you forget that whole Full House atrocity.

There’s only one John Stamos…and his name is Andy Shrub.

To make a person think, to make him consider new ideas, new options, or just the value of old ones, the rug needs to be pulled out. The viewer needs to be left stranded—confused—with no clear standards and a mish mash of reality. The viewer needs to be disturbed.

The filmmaking team of director Dawn Boyd and writer/producer Michael Aronson know disturbing and Daddy Why? is a masterpiece of psychological dysfunction. In five minutes, it calmly, slowly, and lovingly rips apart the notion that the world is a reasonable place and we know our place in it. So, how does what is essentially a dialog on death manage to be so twisted? Easy: with a small girl and a bunny.

The setting is the backwoods of nowhere on a chilly autumn day. A young father (Kevin Fraser) is walking with his daughter Camilla (Emily Power) who happily carries her pet rabbit. Camilla has questions, and they have nothing to do with school or clothing or dinner or toys or TV. No, Camilla has questions about death. Daddy isn’t the quickest skater on the pond, but he does his best and while he lacks enthusiasm, he obviously cares for his daughter. Somehow, that just makes it so much worse.

Daddy Why? took several years to make because the part of Camilla is not one that parents crave for their daughters. If handled incorrectly, it is the stuff not of dreams, but of prolonged therapy sessions. Well, the wait paid off as Power is cute and believable (and apparently neuroses free).

There’s not a lot of camera tricks and no narrative knots or cheats. This is a simple picture. It is also a creepy one. A very, very creepy one. Complexity would only be distracting. Will it cause you to think? I can’t say, but it won’t leave you comfortable, and that is enough.

John Coven, who spends his days as a storyboard artist on big budget Hollywood productions (3:10 to Yuma, X-Men, The Usual Suspects), is a master of focus. No one has his skill in distilling a standard genre storyline. I stumbled upon Repossessed (Foster on Film review), his follow-up to Out There, several years ago, and have watched it more than any other live-action short. It is the standard ghost story, the one that is re-told in feature after feature, condensed without loss to eight minutes. It was an amazing feat, one aided by his stars, JoBeth Williams (Poltergeist) and Juliet Landau (Buffy the Vampire Slayer).

Out There is Coven’s take on the alien abduction picture. Its scope is small, with little more than two actors facing each other across a room, but it covers all the bases. Jeff Fahey (veteran of every other B-movie you’ve ever seen) stars as a disturbed man who may be a victim of alien abduction. Dr. Gerard (Harry Shearer, best known as the voices of Flanders, Skinner, Smithers, Burns, and many others on The Simpsons) is a psychologist who specializes in such cases. Gerard’s tool is hypnotherapy, which in this case might reveal things best left hidden.

Yes, you’ve seen this tale before if you have any interest in science fiction. I’ve watched similar films as part of anthology television series as well as having seen numerous ninety-plus minute features covering the same ground. What Coven does, besides adding a nice dose of style, is cut out the fat, giving us a lean seven and a half minute short which is thoroughly enjoyable. It doesn’t hurt that it would be a pleasure to listen to Shearer read the phone book; the man just has one of those voices.

Out There isn’t going to stun you or make you rethink your life, but it will allow you to cross off any alien abduction movies from your Netflix list.

Genesis Antipode, produced, written, and directed by American J.R. Robinson in New Zealand, takes the post apocalyptic story to its character-driven basics. There’s a man and a woman, and the rest of the world is dead. Too bad she despises him. Told in two timelines, the human race is no more when the film begins. Jeffrey and Rebecca stay close to each other, outside of the city for fear of what may lie there. They had met before the fall of civilization, on a blind date. He was her intellectual superior, but in every other way, he lagged behind. Rebecca, an attractive, social woman, was repulsed by his inability to grasp even basic cultural norms. However Jeffrey, a dweebish scientist, thought things had gone swimmingly. He learns otherwise, and then everyone else dies.

This is one of the most compelling visions of a destroyed world you’ll find on film. It’s not exciting, but with believable acting and a far too believable situation, it sticks in your brain.

Genesis Antipode is both depressing and relaxing. Is there hope in its suggested future? That’s up to you to decide. It presents two people in the most awkward of situations and lets the audience imagine what they would do in their place.

After Ringu, which is credited with kicking things off, Takashi Shimizu’s Ju-On movies are the most important and popular J-Horror works. They add hopelessness and desolation to the mix. In each of the seven films (Ju-On: The Curse 1 & 2, Ju-On: The Grudge 1, 2, & 3, and the American remakes, The Grudge 1 & 2), all directed by Shimizu, innocent, everyday people confront a curse, formed from the rage inherent in an act of extreme cruelty and betrayal, and there is nothing they can do but die. There’s no answer.

In general, I enjoy films where we follow protagonists that accomplish relevant goals, but those aren’t scary movies; the Ju-Ons are.  I screened the original The Curse films for an audience of about a hundred and fifty and spent the next day listening to how I had brought them nightmares and how they didn’t feel comfortable being alone. Now that’s horror. The latter films lost some of that edge, but that’s par for the course with any series.

Before Ju-On, there was Katasumi (In a Corner) and its sibling, 444-444-4444.  Shimizu’s career was just starting in 1998. He was signed on to create two segments for an anthology movie, Gakkô no kaidan G (School Ghost Stories G), but as the producers weren’t convinced of his skills, each had to be under five minutes.  He used this time effectively, laying the foundation for his features.  Though lacking the flair of the longer pictures, the two vignettes successful convey the same feeling of doom.

The more complex Katasumi presents two school girls, wearily completing the chore of feeding their class’s pet rabbit. When one cuts her finger, the other leaves to get a bandage. It’s never good to be left alone in a horror film, even a very short one, and that’s true here. When the absent girl returns, she finds the cages ripped open and her friend missing.  Unfortunately for her, she learns the one thing worse than being alone is abruptly discovering you’re not alone.  In 444-444-4444, a teenager finds a ringing cell phone and answers it. All he hears on the other end is the mewing of a cat. When he demands to know who is playing a trick on him, he gets his answer from an uncomfortably close source.

Katasumi and 444-444-4444 aren’t terrifying on their own, but are vital pieces in the unsolvable Ju-On puzzle.

Puppet is his finest creation. Like all his work, it is hand drawn, touches on real human feelings, is filled with suffering, and is exceptionally funny. I’ve seen it on a big screen with an audience and by the end, all you could hear was laughter.

A man happily makes a hand puppet, which of course, has its own happy face. But the puppet isn’t docile and its smile doesn’t form from kindly acts. It quickly sews a clone, and together, they control the man, taking him on a journey that can only bring him pain. The jokes remind me of the physical comedy bits in Bug Bunny shorts (and that’s the highest compliment I can pay any humorous film), though darker. This isn’t Looney Tunes, but Truly Disturbed Tunes. There’s also a good deal of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Puppet, though comparatively, Mickey’s adventures were a slightly rainy picnic.

The theme here is obsession, though multiple forms of masochism fit nicely. I wouldn’t claim Puppet is a statement against obsession since it’s unlikely Smith has any interest in being cured of his own artistic compulsions. Puppet just shows you what it feels like.

Holiday Romance is a 1998 British comedy that’s not going to leave you dwelling on the nature of life, but will leave you with a smile.  A small time burglar (Oz Milburne) thinks it’s his lucky day when he sees a woman (Eva Pope) drop her keys on the train platform.  She’ll be off on vacation and he’ll have all the time in the world to pilfer her home.  He’d have thought differently if he’d noticed her dropping them previously, planting them for someone to pickup.  At the house, he finds everything he could have desired, plus a little more in the form of a not-so-ferocious dog.

The film has the dry, witty humor I’ve come to expect from Britcoms, along with the mindset.  The kindly robber, who is ready to break into your home or pick your pocket, but would never harm you no matter what, is a British character through and through.  The joke wouldn’t work if the film was set in the U.S., where we assume our crooks carry guns and would blow you away right after killing their own grandmothers.  But Holiday Romance assumes lovable criminals are everywhere, so it all makes sense.

While it feels like a substantial project, the film has a small cast. With only three main actors, and one of those a dog, it’s the four-legged thespian who steals the show. Well, you know the old saying about never acting with kids or animals. The humans do their jobs admirably, but cute will win out.

Of course you’d expect an Academy Award nominee to look good, and it does. Director J.J. Keith pays the bills directing U.K. commercials and is considered one of the best. His skills transfer over to the world of storytelling (where the climax isn’t a frothy mug of Guinness). He knows how to shoot in confined spaces and you still can’t beat 35mm for a short. He was aided by producer Alex Jovy, who shared the directing chair; the two decided to simplify the credits.

Inside was made as a show-piece for the skills of the cast and writer Eric Gewirtz and writer/director Trever Sands, and it does an excellent job of it. The script reveals Gewirtz’s quirky humor and dramatic flare. The dialog tells a lot in a few words, which is exactly what it should do. Sands has absolute control of the frame, with lighting that almost tells the story on its own and superb angles time and again. He’s at his best when everyone is talking over each other, yet everything is clear. Sisto shines as well, displaying restrained elegance. I’ve never seen him better. Reedy Gibbs is also impressive as the strong-willed Doctor Jane. She has a motherly feel, which is fitting as Gibbs is Sisto’s mother.

As Sands and Gewirtz point out, Inside is “like a lost episode of The Twilight Zone.” However, many of those have not stood up well to the passage of time, while Inside feels both fresh and familiar. Sure, the twist is predictable, but also satisfying. Inside has an eight minute story to tell and does it in eight minutes – six minutes when viewed online with the credits clipped. That’s a pleasure after watching so many eight minute stories told in ninety.

The thirteen-minute short, shot a year earlier, is a prequel to the feature. They’ve been shown together on the festival circuit, though they will go their separate ways once The Darjeeling Limited enters wide release. The connection between the two was initially nebulous, but Anderson quickly realized that if he was using the same lead actor in both projects, he probably ought to be playing the same character.

The story is slight, even for a short, but Anderson has never been concerned with plot. In a richly toned Paris hotel room, a very un-Parisian man (Jason Schwartzman) is hiding from the world. A phone call from a mysterious woman (Natalie Portman) warns him that she will be there in thirty minutes. With a mixture of desire and fear, he prepares for her arrival, cueing the oddest seduction song on his iPod that you’ll find in a movie. When she shows up at the door, it’s clear she’s the one in charge, though in charge of what is never made clear. The rest is all relationship.

For saying little and doing less, Hotel Chevalier is incredibly compelling. Part of it is the mystery. We don’t know who these people are or what their problems have been, though it is clear that both are broken. She’s physically bruised; he’s mentally fried. We’re not told why, and we don’t need to be. With a few lines, extended shots focusing on expressions, bizarre kitsch set around the room, and anomalous music, we are presented with complex people. It just turns out that we don’t know how they are complex.

Mystery and Anderson’s always present quirkiness are not the only draws. Hotel Chevalier is also erotic. Portman, lying on a bed, her leg held high, requiring that her boot be removed for her, is a striking image for a majority of the male population. Much has been made on internet chat sites of Portman’s nudity, particularly after she had stated that she’d never get her kit off on film. Calm down. While the ex-Queen Amidala is technically nude, anyone seeking this out with hopes of Playboy-like frame captures will be disappointed. The titillation is not from naked flesh, but from character interactions laced with passion and pain.

It’s dangerous, or perhaps simply fruitless, to search for a great truth in a Wes Anderson film, yet a simple line gives us one, as well as a great deal of insight into the un-named male (in The Darjeeling Limited he’s called Jack). When the girl states she doesn’t want to lose him as a friend, Jack replies, “I promise I will never be your friend.” That may be the greatest truth of male-female relationships.

Critics and audiences usually credit Anderson’s films as works of genius or self-obsessed boredom. I agree with both assessments, sometimes at the same moment. His vibrant use of color and texture and clever but often repeated camera work can become distracting over two hours, but are fresh in a piece under twenty minutes. Likewise, his tendency toward vague answers, cynicism, and contrived whimsy are tailor-made for the short format. I’ve never enjoyed him more.

Anderson’s said that you need to see Hotel Chevalier to get the proper experience from The Darjeeling Limited, but I don’t think it’s true the other way around. I’m glad to know that there is more to the story of these two eccentric people, but I don’t have any desire to know what it is (well, there’s more to Jack’s story; the girl only appears briefly in the feature). With these two, their tale can’t have a satisfying ending, so why even try? I’m contented with the image of the pair standing on a beautiful hotel balcony. Hotel Chevalier gives us a moment in their lives, and that’s enough.