Masoud and his family left Iran a year ago, but that milestone is only making him more angsty. Tired of waiting around, he’s determined to start actually building a new life in the UK. For his directorial debut, Cameraman, Arsalan Motavali crafts a story built from his parents’ real experience in the late ’90s. The authenticity at the core of the project is what gives it such a universal dimension, with Motavali delivering a very tender and engaging slice-of-life drama, nuanced in its storytelling and emotionally compelling throughout.

“It was important for me to make a film that focused on the human, everyday impact of immigration”

“The idea for this film stems from a true story that happened to my parents when they first immigrated from Iran to the UK”, Motavali shared with us, before explaining that incorporating his family’s home video from Iran into Cameraman felt essential. Bridging the past and the present of his characters, they connect what they left behind with their hopes and dreams for the future, while also increasing the authentic feel of the short. “The tape brought the specificity of Iranian culture I desired and revealed something universal: the delicate balancing act of following one’s dreams and facing one’s reality”, he added. Although the footage was not originally included in the script, it was in post-production that Motavali and his team found an organic way of including it, with the goal of capturing the depth of nostalgia – “both the tenderness of it and the brutality of it.” The fact that the protagonist Masoud is himself a cameraman only works to enhance this aspect of the narrative. 

The concept of time passing is present throughout the film, from reflections on the past to looking towards the future. For Masoud, the anniversary of his family’s arrival in the UK triggers these feelings. It is this moment that Motavali captures with impressive sincerity: the quietly undramatic realization that while you may be eager to begin a new life, building one can be painfully slow without a community or support system around you. “It was important for me to make a film that focused on the human, everyday impact of immigration”, the writer/director confessed. Adding that he “wanted to focus on the day-to-day experience”.

Sia Alipour stars as Masoud in Cameraman

Before landing online, Cameraman enjoyed a successful festival run with notable selections at the BFI London Film Festival and the Izmir International Short Film Festival. Motavali is currently working on several new short projects. One explores themes of code-switching and gentrification, with the other is an adaptation of a short story. He is also in the early development stage on a number of feature film ideas.

As children, we experience the world from a uniquely different perspective – not only because of our physical size, but because our understanding of the world has yet to be shaped by past experiences. As adults, it can be difficult to recapture that viewpoint. Thankfully, films like See Me, from filmmakers Patty Stenger and Yvonne Kroese, offer a vivid reminder of what it feels like to navigate the world through a child’s eyes.

The story of a young child starved of attention at an adult party, See Me is brought to life through a distinctive collage animation approach that Stenger describes as “rough, not slick.” On the surface, everything initially appears playful and harmless, but by restricting viewers to the child’s perspective, the film transforms ordinary situations into moments of anxiety and uncertainty. A crowd of adult legs becomes an intimidating forest filled with potential dangers, while even a seemingly friendly dog can suddenly become a source of distress. Through these imaginative visual transformations, See Me captures how childhood can be a constant negotiation between wonder and fear.

What makes the film particularly effective though is the way it links these moments of imagination to a deeper emotional need. Our young protagonist is not searching for adventure here, but just for a little attention. When she finally receives her mother’s focus, the moment is brief and fleeting before she is returned to the floor, back at her knee-high vantage point. The film’s closing image closely mirrors its opening, suggesting a cycle destined to repeat itself. As a result, See Me can be read in multiple ways: as a charming recreation of childhood perception, or as a subtle reflection on the importance of making children feel seen and heard. Much like its protagonist, the film asks for our attention – and rewards it with a perspective we may have forgotten.

Soccer, Football, Futbol, Calcio, サッカー, كرة القدم – whatever you call it from your corner of the world, it is the great sport that unites. Here is a collection that honors the connection within short film and game, just in time for the World Cup.

Made up of several previous Short of the Week selections, alongside a handful of films never before featured on our pages – including award winners, animated docs, and even the occasional appearance from Timothée Chalamet – this collection offers everything you could want from a starting XI. So if World Cup 2026 isn’t providing enough soccer to satisfy your appetite, these shorts should more than fill the gaps between games.

Click on the image to see the complete collection on Shortverse

1. KOP by Thomas Pons – Anyone who has taken a young child to a soccer match will recognise what an eye-opening experience it can be for impressionable minds. With KOP, Pons approaches the colorful language of terrace chants from a humorous angle, following an imposing father who attempts to use his influence to make the songs a little more family-friendly.
2. Amarela by André Hayato Saito – Securing a place on the most recent Oscar® shortlist, this Cannes-premiering short was one of our favorites of award-season. Céline in our Voter’s Guide: “While football fans will appreciate the references to icons such as Zidane and Ronaldo (R9), the true centre of the film is Melissa Uehara, whose commanding central performance carries the emotional weight of the narrative with remarkable strength and nuance.” – Warning: this online release is for North American audiences only.
3. Christine Sinclair: Kind of a Big Deal by Eoin Duffy – With women’s football still receiving only a fraction of the attention afforded to the men’s game, Short of the Week regular Duffy attempts to level the playing field with this kinetic, attention-grabbing profile of Christine Sinclair, the all-time leading goalscorer in international football.
4. Backyard Legends by Mark Molloy – Starring Timotheé Chalamet and fondly evoking both his Marty Supreme hustler character and the blockbuster soccer short films its rival, Nike, pioneered in the 90s and 00s, Adidas enlisted Mark Molloy and SMUGGLER for its 2026 World Cup promo and scored a golazo with this 5min film.
5. Das Spiel (The Game) by Roman Hodel – “With eight cameras present at the match and access to the communications between officials, Hodel provides an unprecedented look at the decision-makers as they navigate the game’s fast-paced action. At just 17 minutes, The Game condenses the referee’s experience into a series of highlights rather than the full 90 minutes.” – Read the Full Review
6. Sunday by Charlie Watts – A short, quite heartfelt ode to the grand British tradition of grassroots Sunday League football in the wake of its suspension due to COVID-19 lockdowns, this piece poetically crystallizes the value of the everyday traditions and connections we sometimes don’t remember to cherish until they are lost.
7. We Are Ayenda by Amber Fares – Winner of the Grand Prix in Entertainment at Cannes Lions, this 27 min documentary, supported by Whatsapp, “follows the profound relationship that develops between Farkhunda Muhtaj, the former captain of Afghanistan’s women’s national football team and humanitarian activist, and the members of the women’s youth team. Despite never having met in person, Muhtaj leads the young women to safety via WhatsApp texts and voice messages, which are woven throughout the documentary to retell their story.”
8. The Lonely Goalkeeper by Dress Code – “As star strikers, such as Harry Kane, earn the plaudits for their goalscoring antics, spare a thought for those out there trying to stop them, those protectors of the net, the last line of defence – the goalkeeper.” – Read the Full Review
   
9. Joy in People by Oscar Hudson – ”Covertly filmed amid the very real crowds of the 2016 European Football Championships and released just as the 2018 World Cup has come to an end, though football supporters feature heavily in Hudson’s film, it tackles much bigger themes – from happiness to nationality.” – Read the Full Review
10. The Switch by Ringan Ledwidge – ”Every moment is an opportunity to push the pace and condense a concept, which has been explored in full-length films on multiple occasions, down to its most basic beats.” – Read the Full Review
11. TMB: Panyee FC by Matt Devine – “Can these kids, playing on a makeshift floating platform that has nails sticking out of it, really compete when it comes time for the big tournament held on the mainland?” – Read the Full Review

With an admitted obsession with “the leisure class and ennui”, Tij D’oyen’s award-winning short Lollygag takes viewers on a sun-drenched exploration of voyeurism, following a young protagonist whose fascination with the boy next door gradually develops into something more complex. At just ten minutes in length, and infused with equal measures of sex, death, and chocolate, there’s no sense of listlessness about the experience of watching Lollygag. Instead, D’oyen crafts an intoxicating film that blends curiosity, infatuation and social observation through confident and highly assured filmmaking, making it a perfect summer watch regardless of the weather outside your own window.

Voyeurism is, of course, hardly new territory for cinema. The act of deriving fascination from observing the private lives of others has long provided filmmakers with the perfect framework through which to explore desire and control. Yet while elements of sex and sexuality inevitably run through Lollygag, the protagonist’s fixation is one not (entirely) driven by attraction. As she openly admits, “at this point, I already knew that I wasn’t attracted to boys.” Instead, her obsession appears rooted in something much closer to D’oyen’s own stated interests – in the leisure class. The boy next door is no object of romantic desire, but a representation of a lifestyle she envies and so her attention is directed not towards the individual himself, but towards what he represents: privilege, freedom and sexual discovery – an idyllic summer existence.

Isaac Powell stars as ‘The Boy Next Door’ in Lollygag

It’s that distinction that gives Lollygag its novel appeal. When the protagonist asks, “don’t you wish you have a summer lover with a pool?”, the emphasis in that statement feels more on the pool and less on the lover. D’oyen’s message here seems to be one that suggests that being envious isn’t actually aimed directly at an individual themselves, but at the sense of contentment we envision their lifestyle provides. So while Lollygag could easily have drifted into the territory of the erotic thriller, it instead becomes something far more intriguing – a portrait of desire that extends beyond the physical and into the realms of projection and longing. Just be careful what you wish for. As D’oyen suggests, when you step into this kind of “fantasy land,” it may not be everything you imagined. Beneath the surface of the idealised life you’re longing for, you might instead discover something “gross, decaying and rotting.”

Named one of Filmmaker Magazine’s 25 New Faces of Independent Film in 2022 – a particularly strong year for Short of the Week alumni, which also included Gabriela Ortega (Huella), Alec Moeller (Empath), Artemis Shaw (Real Talk), and Jorge Sistos (La Oscuridad) – D’oyen originally trained as an actor before moving into directing, citing the “frustration of trying to break out as an actor” as a key motivation behind that transition. Since making the move behind the camera, D’oyen has continued to build momentum despite the inevitable challenges of an independent filmmaking career. His follow-up short, Nepotism, Baby!, screened at both Tribeca and Palm Springs, while a feature adaptation of Lollygag is reportedly in the works.

Early adolescence is already a period defined by uncertainty and change, emotions that can become intensified for young transgender people navigating questions of identity and belonging. In El nombre del hijo (The Name of the Son), writer/director Martina Matzkin thrusts viewers directly into this emotional turmoil, following 13-year-old trans boy Lucho as he spends a holiday with his father and younger sister. Rather than constructing the narrative around dramatic confrontation, Matzkin focuses on the quieter tensions that emerge as each member of the family attempts to adjust to changes they don’t fully understand yet.

Speaking in an interview with Teddy Award interviewer Jan Felix, Matzkin explained that conversations with the families of trans children inspired her interest in exploring these relationships, particularly the difficulties some parents experience in adapting to new realities while still holding onto memories of the past. That emotional complexity runs throughout the film. The Name of the Son is remarkably restrained, allowing silences, gestures, and moments of hesitation to communicate more than overt dialogue ever could. The result is a film that feels deeply empathetic toward all of its characters without simplifying the emotional challenges they face.

Despite the strong central performance from Tristán Miranda in the lead role, it’s ultimately the portrayal of the father that makes the short so affecting (and relatable – for me at least, as a father myself). He may not always understand perfectly, but he is trying – to listen, to be present, and most importantly, to love his son. That quiet effort becomes the emotional centre of Matzkin’s film. At a time when discussions surrounding trans identity are so often dominated by hostility, misinformation, and political rhetoric, works like The Name of the Son feel increasingly important. Rather than responding with fear or outrage, Matzkin offers a film grounded in empathy, patience, and human connection, reminding audiences that understanding often begins not with certainty, but with a simple willingness to care – and sometimes, with the simple act of a hug.

As someone in a long-term relationship who isn’t married, I’m always intrigued by the reactions that occur whenever I refer to my significant other as “my partner” – a situation referenced at the start of Nick Beardslee’s latest short, Queer Blue Sky. Discussing their impending separation, Beth and Chris decide they “don’t always have to do everything in such a straight way,” choosing instead to break up in what they describe as a “queer way.” It’s a premise that immediately sounds absurd, but one which Beardslee uses to launch a sharply observed comedy filled with uncomfortable humour and pointed social commentary.

“Do you really want to be one of those couples that just falls in love and gets married and spends the rest of their life together and that’s it?”

From there, Queer Blue Sky follows the pair as they awkwardly attempt to redefine both themselves and their “relationship” through a series of increasingly uncomfortable situations. Whether it’s painfully stilted dates (“I don’t really feel like I need to f*ck”) or deeply awkward sexual encounters (“I’m supposed to peg you”), the comedy comes less from punchlines and more from watching two people desperately trying to adhere to a label they obviously don’t really understand. While it’s often painfully cringeworthy to watch, Queer Blue Sky lands its impact through its exploration of the performative expectations surrounding modern relationships – and modern ideas of identity. Beneath the humour lies a very recognisable anxiety about wanting to appear emotionally evolved, progressive, or simply different.

That tension is ultimately what lingers long after the film ends. As Beardslee explains, “I’m fascinated by the fetishization of queerness I sometimes see among straight people,” adding that he wanted to push this “desire to be different to an absurd degree.” By focusing on a couple who “cling to labels so intensely they start to lose their meaning,” Queer Blue Sky becomes about far more than one failing relationship. Instead, the film quietly critiques the way identity itself can become romanticised, reducing the very real lives of people into something fashionable. What makes this short particularly effective, however, is that it never loses its sense of humour while exploring these ideas. We laugh at Beth and Chris throughout, but the discomfort the film creates feels entirely intentional. To steal a line from the short itself, I totally “appreciate the honesty”.

Mornings from my early childhood still come back to me occasionally: sunlight coming through the mosquito-netted kitchen window, my grandma sitting at the small table with a cigarette burning down between her fingers, and her special deck of cards spread out as she read what our futures had in store. It was our little ritual, existing in that magical hour before everyone else got up and ordinary life resumed. As a child, I never realised how precious those moments were, or how much I would one day long for that familiar smell of coffee mixed with cigarette smoke. Watching And Granny Would Dance, I found myself back in that kitchen again. And if you too were lucky enough to spend your childhood listening to aunts, grandmothers and family friends sharing stories, gossip and laughter, Maryam Mohajer’s tender short will likely awaken memories of your own.

Based on Mohajer’s childhood memories of growing up in Iran, And Granny Would Dance is another gem from the BAFTA-winning animator, whose 2019 short Grandad Was a Romantic charmed audiences with its warmth, humour and emotional honesty. Those same qualities are present here too, though this feels like a more ambitious work, both in its storytelling and design. Built from hand-drawn sketches, the 2D animation possesses the hazy quality of a memory recalled decades later – specific enough to feel authentic, but universal enough to become our own. It is a deceptively simple piece of filmmaking, the sort that wears its craft lightly while making something very difficult look easy.

“One of the things that is hardly represented about Iranian culture is the humour”

The film follows six-year-old Marmar, who spends much of her time doing what children have done for generations: sitting quietly in the corner while the grown-ups talk. As her grandmother and a group of her friends gather around the kitchen table for an illicit game of cards, Marmar listens to their stories, slowly piecing together an understanding of the incredible women around her. At the same time, she is trying to solve a mystery of her own. Her granny, once known for dancing at every opportunity, hasn’t danced since the death of her husband. Through a child’s curious eyes, Mohajer weaves together a touching story about love, loss and the friendships that help us weather both.

What makes And Granny Would Dance so affecting is not just the story it tells, but its portrayal of a side of Iranian culture that is rarely seen on screen. As Mohajer told S/W, “During wars, revolution and hard times, our humour has always been kept alive and maybe even has helped us survive. The humour from women especially hasn’t had much attention from most filmmakers, whereas it’s the core of every conversation or gathering between any group of Iranian women. It is audacious, playful, reassuring and in some ways liberating.”

“Put a group of Iranian women – or any group of women – in a room, and help them to feel safe and relaxed, and something happens instantly. It can be magical.” – director, Maryam Mohajer

That spirit runs through every frame of the film. While it touches on grief and the lasting impact of loss, Mohajer never allows the story to become weighed down by sorrow. Instead, she celebrates the wit, resilience, and camaraderie of these women, revealing how laughter can become both a form of resistance and a source of comfort. In doing so, And Granny Would Dance offers a portrait of Iranian life that feels refreshingly intimate, vibrant, and deeply human.

At the same time, the director is also pushing back against the narrow ways Iranians are often portrayed on screen. As Mohajer explained, “I want to help my audience see Iranians not as terrorists or victims but as people who’d fall in love – just like everyone else – who’d mourn the loss of a loved one – just like everyone else – who’d crack a cheeky joke when amongst friends – just like everyone else.”

And while And Granny Would Dance is very much rooted in Iranian life and traditions, its emotional pull is wonderfully universal. Anyone who remembers hovering at the edge of grown-up conversations, fascinated by stories they only half understood, will likely find themselves somewhere within Marmar’s world. That may well explain the film’s success on the festival circuit. Following its world premiere at Palm Springs International ShortFest in 2024, it picked up the festival’s Audience Award for Best Animated Short and has since continued its impressive run, winning honours at Aesthetica, Manchester Animation Festival and the London International Animation Festival, among others.

Maryam began making And Granny Would Dance with observational drawings before scanning them in and then working on them digitally.

Visually, Mohajer’s animation is not interested in showing off. It lacks the polished hyper-fluidity often associated with contemporary animation. But that’s also where much of its magic lies for me. Her hand-crafted visual world feels lived in: the patterns, textures and clutter of domestic life arranged with the care of someone reconstructing a treasured place from childhood. The film’s greatest trick is that by the end, these spaces feel strangely familiar, even if you’ve never set foot in Iran.

What And Granny Would Dance conveys so beautifully is that our fondest memories are rarely dramatic. Instead they are usually rooted in friendships that survive decades, the humour that persists through hardship, the stories told and retold until they become part of a shared history. Mohajer treats these moments with tenderness, finding drama not in grand events but in the bonds that sustain everyday life. The result is a loving tribute to the people who keep families, memories and entire communities alive.

Secrets have a way of consuming people when left unspoken, but revealing them also requires trust – especially when that confession could fundamentally alter how others see you. This conundrum is central to Three Centimetres, filmmaker Lara Zeidan’s tightly wound drama about four Lebanese girls sharing a ferris wheel ride. What begins as a carefree outing gradually transforms into something far more unstable when Manal decides to reveal a secret about her sexuality. In a society where homophobia remains deeply entrenched, this confession not only threatens the dynamic of their friendship group, but also Manal’s individual sense of belonging.

Made while studying at the London Film School, Three Centimetres unfolds entirely in a single take, with the camera confined to the ferris wheel carriage alongside the characters. On paper, that setup risks feeling gimmicky, but instead Zeidan confidently transforms that restriction into one of the film’s greatest strengths. The cramped space where her story unfolds creates an atmosphere where emotions have nowhere to escape, forcing every glance or moment of silence to carry extra weight. As the wheel continues to turn – or at times doesn’t – Zeidan’s short begins to feel almost claustrophobic, despite the seemingly endless vistas surrounding the central quartet. As viewers, we’re now trapped in this situation, feeling immersed in its immediacy, with the one-take structure offering no escape from the mounting tension through the relief of a simple cut.

“The short is a one-take film shot on a Ferris Wheel in Beirut during sunset.” – Zeidan detailing the production of Three Centimetres

What ultimately makes the film so effective, though, is the authenticity of the performances and the natural rhythm of the conversations between the four friends. Zeidan explained, when we asked her about the one-take approach, that extensive preparation was essential to the short’s success, as she couldn’t physically remain with the actors and camera during the shoot itself. All that hard work certainly pays off. The cast feel truly believable as lifelong friends, and the subtle differences in how each character responds to Manal’s revelation become the film’s emotional core.

For a nine-minute student short, Three Centimetres achieves something impressively layered, functioning both as a snapshot of contemporary Lebanese society and as a universally recognisable story exploring themes of what Zeidan describes as “personal freedom and social expectations”. Winning awards at Berlinale and Encounters in 2018, alongside the Iris Prize, Zeidan admits she was surprised by the reception to her “tiny student film”. She adds that sharing it with audiences helped her realise how work like this can “spark important conversations and add visibility to the intimate stories of young Arab women.”

The first scene of Maggie Brill’s All At Once opens with a well-known trope – and that is very much meant as a compliment given how familiar the situation will feel for most people. Florence (Allegra Leguizamo) paces around her bedroom, trying to find the right words to say to another girl. The way she contemplates the possible phrasings makes us feel like it has to be a message for her high-school crush, Supriya (Ashley Ganger)… or maybe Florence is just nervous about her joint valedictorian speech, especially given that she is a budding writer herself. When Supriya arrives at her doorstep the next day, she immediately begins complaining about her boyfriend – something that clearly unsettles Florence, even if she gives little away. Yet we keep wondering: is there something more than friendship between Florence and Supriya? This uncertainty lingers throughout the entire film – a question Florence has to come to terms with herself after the two of them share a walk through Central Park.

“The film we wished we had seen when we were younger”

The title All At Once is a perfect hint to the film’s core, but what makes this story particularly beautiful is how it depicts its protagonist’s sexual awakening through a kind of explosive quietness. Brill trusts the emotions laid out on screen enough to treat them with restraint, neither heightening nor downplaying the gravity of how just one day can change your entire life as a teenager. The film explores the vastness of an adolescent girl’s inner world with the subtlety necessary to take those emotions seriously, balancing this weight with a sense of levity and charm.

Brill, who shares co-writing credits with Radhika Mehta, told us that she and her team wanted to “make the film we wished we had seen when we were younger.“ While All At Once deals with queer sexual awakening and the inherent tension that can accompany it, the filmmaker explained that she wanted to avoid focusing her short on “the conflict around coming out or the drama of secret relationships”. Instead, she chose to center the film around “these softer, quieter moments of internal struggle and self-discovery – how feelings of sudden attraction, excitement, and fear all tangle together.“ In that regard, she succeeds beautifully.

Ashley Ganger (L) and Allegra Leguizamo star as co-valedictorians in All at Once

One of the main reasons why the unfolding story feels so realistic and natural is Brill’s calm filmmaking style and the short’s sensitive portrayal of everything left unsaid between its two protagonists. While we, as an audience, can sense the larger picture of everything that’s happening without the characters spelling it out, it helps that the actors expertly portray the closeness blossoming between these two young women. Leguizamo – who S/W fans might recognize from Flash Warning, Lockdown, Quaker & Scotty’s Vag – gives an especially nuanced performance, while DoP Sarah Greenbaum (Let, Tragedy Babes) – alongside Steadicam operator Sabrina Marki – captures the melancholic atmosphere of those last few days of the school year.

All at Once was inspired by Brill’s own experiences “growing up in New York City and falling in love for the first time during the summer between high school and college.” With the director revealing that six years after their “closeted relationship”, she reunited with her “first love and now dear friend”, Mehta, who also serves as an executive producer, to make this film. Already a bittersweet viewing experience without that context, knowing how much of it is influenced by Brill’s past, that she is still friends with Mehta and that they made All at Once together is almost enough to break your heart (in a good way).

“All at Once is for the 17-year-old versions of us and any other young queer people who have navigated first love in isolation and craved to see their reality reflected on screen.“ – writer/director Brill

To be completely honest, at first, I wasn’t entirely sure whether I was the right person to write about All At Once, as a heterosexual cis-man in his 30s. Then again, one of the biggest strengths of a great film is that they speak to a universal truth through their specificity. Even though I’ve never been in the shoes of a teenage girl discovering romantic feelings for another girl in her class, I know what it’s like to have a crush on someone who may never return those feelings. It’s the kind of uncertainty that can make someone cynically declare that they don’t even believe in love – as Florence does on her walk with Supriya – until they finally experience that rush of endorphins themselves. Florence, at least, gets to discover something fundamental about herself in the process – her own kind of happy ending? Or possibly the beginning of something more?

I personally have a soft spot for minimalist, dialogue-driven two-handers, and All At Once is the kind of walking-and-talking New York romantic dramedy that reminds me of similar American independent films, which I’m especially fond of. Brill herself acknowledged this influence when she described the visual style of her short as “inspired by films like Before Sunrise and Past Lives“, adding that it was always her intention to have “these dialogue-heavy scenes play out in long, uninterrupted takes.” Judging from All At Once, Brill certainly has the potential to follow in the footsteps of the most prominent voices of this cinematic tradition.

In fact, the short also serves as a proof of concept for a feature-length version, with Brill explaining that she specifically chose to “focus on the beginning of Florence and Supriya’s love story to explore Florence’s journey of self-discovery”. Adding that she felt it captured one of “those rare moments in life where someone we meet brings us closer to our true selves.” I, for one, can’t wait to follow the rest of Brill’s filmmaking journey. Next up, the director is developing a new short film – a horror coming-of-age story titled LEECH – which is currently seeking funding ahead of a planned summer production.

Typically, we seek to inspire trends, but this is one that we’re reactive to. Typically these collections also aspire to be evergreen, but today’s is very tied to this moment, which is a clear coming-out-party for a particular class of creator.

Curry Barker is a sensation. Obsession, the horror feature he made for under $1M, has gone toe-to-toe with a Star Wars film at the US box office. Released by Focus Features, it is a massive hit, and Barker has reportedly been offered “8 figures” site unseen for his next pitch. It is the biggest surprise in the US theatrical ecosystem since Iron Lung, a self-distributed indie horror film by the artist Markiplier, caught Hollywood unaware by grossing $50M+ at the start of 2026. Yet both films will be overshadowed this weekend by Backrooms, a horror film directed by 20-year-old Kane Parsons for A24, which is tracking #1 at the box office with an estimated $40M – $50M in just its opening weekend. What could be the connecting thread for these three breakout hits…?

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Ok, the title of this post and image above spoiled it, but the question is slightly nuanced. The notion that Horror is the genre of the moment for original stories and fresh talents is not news to anyone paying attention. Blumhouse has launched successful horror franchises on the cheap for years, and we’re roughly a decade out from the crystallization of “elevated horror” as a concept, which has been a transformative pillar of revenue for the mini-major studios like A24 and Neon known for supporting auteurist cinema.

This trend is also not as reductive as stating that these filmmakers come from the short form either. Contemporary horror is littered with directors who broke out via shorts, whether that be as far back as Sam Raimi, younger veterans like Blumhouse’s ace, James Wan, the vanguard of elevated horror like Robert Eggers and Ari Aster, or even newer talents, like Parker Finn of Smile.

Instead, the shared bond is that these filmmakers largely sidestepped the development process of film schools and elite festivals to build a following on YouTube. They shared their creative journey in real time, transparently, and in mutual development with their audiences.

Now that the trend has been distilled, everyone wants to find their example. Dylan Clark has been tabbed to adapt his online hit, Portrait of God, for Universal, and offered the Blair Witch Project reboot. Neon just released Hokum by S/W alum Damien McCarthy, who can be seen as an early precedent for this trend, and has now signed a deal with Sam Evenson to adapt his YouTube hit Mora.

To get you up to speed, we’ve put together this small collection that gathers a representative piece from creators who, like Curry Barker, have now broken out, or like Clark who are on the cusp. We supplement them with older examples in McCarthy and David F. Sandberg, who represent the prototype of this trend, and put forward three S/W alums that, while not prominent YouTubers themselves, have seen their work perform very well online and possess some of the same sensibilities that I think have made this current crop pop—Caleb J Phillips, Eros V, and Nuhash Humayun. 

Going through the collection, it’s hard to find linkages in subject or style, which then directs one’s curiosity deeper onto their single commonality. Beyond trend-chasing, what does the YouTube of it all mean? Is it just a talent-surfacing mechanism? Does the algorithm and the resulting views and comments replace festival programmers and tastemakers like Short of the Week? A different angle of inquiry ponders whether the work of these artists is meaningfully shaped by the audience—that the process of quickly creating for public consumption and receiving instant, data-rich feedback is a perfect iterative lab for refining one’s technique and discovering what really works. A cynical take is that the existence of the audience itself is all that matters and going after these filmmakers is risk mitigation in the same way that working with established IP or casting a big name is. I think that’s reductive; Hollywood has tried and failed to crack the influencer nut over the past decade, but folks like Barker and Markiplier do possess a parasocial aspect to the audience bond that, for fans, is deeper than simply “liking” their work.

I find these all to be interesting, and the truth is likely that they all play a factor in this current moment. However, the most convincing argument to me might be Occam’s Razor—horror is a youth genre, and all the kids are spending all their time on YouTube. Is it as simple as that?

School uniforms are often seen as a way of creating equality and unity among students, whether that’s by reducing visible socioeconomic differences or encouraging discipline and togetherness. But uniforms can also be about control, shaping how people are expected to present themselves in public. In Our Uniform, Oscar-nominated filmmaker Yegane Moghaddam explores this tension through the experiences of young women in Iran, where the mandatory inclusion of the hijab within school dress codes carries political, cultural, and deeply personal weight. Avoiding a heavy-handed or overtly political approach, instead Moghaddam crafts a thoughtful reflection on conformity, identity, and institutional pressure.

Running at just under seven minutes, Our Uniform is impressively layered in both style and meaning. Created through a “very playful & experimental process of combining fabric, 2D animation and childhood memories”, the film turns that material (Moghaddam’s own clothing) into part of the storytelling, where the uniforms become both physical objects and symbolic burdens. The project was originally intended to be an animated documentary featuring interviews with Iranian schoolgirls, but after authorities prevented Moghaddam from using the students’ voices, the film evolved into a more personal reflection on the subject. However, this absence of direct testimony ultimately feels fitting, reflecting the wider restrictions placed on Iranian women – restrictions that Our Uniform quietly but powerfully seeks to expose.

While I’d still be interested to see what that original version of the film might have looked like, what makes Our Uniform so compelling is the way it refuses to reduce its subject into something simplistic. The film makes it clear that it is not criticising the hijab or the women who choose to wear it, but instead focuses on the systems of control surrounding it. Because of that, Moghaddam avoids the kind of reductive conversations that often dominate Western discussions about Iranian women and identity politics. The result is a film that feels politically thoughtful without ever becoming preachy, gaining a lightness and accessibility through that inventive visual style. Its success – including awards at Annecy and Fantoche – feels completely deserved, and with a sequel reportedly in development, it’ll be exciting to see how Moghaddam builds on these already impressive foundations.

Ten years ago, a 10‑minute miracle from a tiny Santiago studio, Punkrobot, made history. Against the goliaths of American animation, Gabriel Osorio’s short Historia de un Oso (Bear Story) became the first Chilean film – and the first Latin American animated work – to win an Academy Award. On the surface, it is a gentle, sad tale of a lonely bear who performs for coins. He winds a music box and out comes a miniature diorama: a happy family torn apart when militant figures storm their home, capturing the father for a brutal circus. But Chilean and Latin American audiences knew the fairy‑tale framing was a cover, because they had lived it in their own flesh – this story was a straight allegory for the forced exiles and disappearances under Augusto Pinochet’s military dictatorship.

“To all the people who have suffered in exile. Let us hope this never happens again”

“My grandfather was exiled in 1973,” Osorio told Americas Quarterly. “When he came back, the family was torn apart… This was healing for my family, but also for a lot of people in Chile.” Osorio grew up in a wounded family – but unlike many others, he didn’t stay silent. His short was Chile’s way of cracking open a national taboo. It took four years to make on a government‑funded budget of just $40,000. At the 2016 Oscars, when Osorio held the gold statuette, he whispered a dedication to his grandfather and “to all the people who have suffered in exile. Let us hope this never happens again.”

For a nation that had spent decades dodging the conversation, the bear’s silent walk through a wrecked home finally opened old wounds. Animation is, by nature, a metaphor machine: it can deny reality while describing it perfectly. Osorio said, “For a long time in Chile, no one wanted to talk about the exiles. There was a little taboo about that.” The bear’s silence mirrored the silence of a generation too afraid to speak, and the Oscar win made the country listen – paving the way for other pieces like Bestia (Beast), another Oscar-nominated short confronting the dictatorship.

Gabriel Osorio (L) celebrates with producer Pato Escala Pierart after their Oscar win in 2016

What makes Bear Story so special is how it sits within a broader, often overlooked history: the use of comics and illustration as resistance in Latin American dictatorships. Chile isn’t alone. In Argentina, the bloodshed of the 1976–1983 military junta runs through the pages of comic history. Take El Eternauta, written by Héctor Germán Oesterheld and drawn by Francisco Solano López. This sci‑fi epic – about a toxic snowfall and an alien invasion of Buenos Aires – was always a fable of standing together against an overwhelming, totalitarian force. When the dictatorship took hold, Oesterheld leaned harder into the allegory, filling his story with political overtones of survival through solidarity. The regime made Oesterheld and his whole family “disappear,” making them part of the 30,000 souls lost to Argentina’s “Dirty War.”

El Eternauta remains one of Argentina’s harshest indictments of tyranny, later adapted into a Netflix series. Alongside Quino’s Mafalda, and a wider constellation of works including Los escondites del sol, Viento Sur, Padre, Cantar con Sentido, and Cadê Heleny? – they form a fragmented archive of memory across the continent. The political diaries of a continent where the hand‑drawn line was often the only witness to atrocity.

A decade later, Bear Story looks less like an isolated triumph and more like the start of a movement. As Alvaro Ceppi, co‑founder of Zumbastico Studios, noted, Chile “went almost into cultural shutdown for so many years during the dictatorship, the return of democracy in the ‘90s brought back an urgency of creation.” Bear Story proved that urgency was real for animators all over Latin America, and the anniversary of its Academy Award win is more than just an Oscar milestone: it’s a reminder that the wounds of dictatorship are far from healed, but with every story that inspires others not to remain silent, we move one step closer.

Spread across multiple continents and time zones, the team at Short of the Week has always been central to what we do. Made up of individuals with a wide range of backgrounds and skill sets, we are united by a shared passion for short film and a commitment to championing emerging filmmakers from around the world.

If you share that enthusiasm and are interested in joining us as an intern, this is an opportunity to work alongside some of the leading programmers in online short film while gaining firsthand insight into curation, editorial planning, and social media/YouTube management.

Many of our previous interns have gone on to become long-term contributors and permanent members of the team.

We are currently looking for new interns to join us. If you are self-motivated, proactive, and excited by the idea of helping discover the next generation of filmmakers while expanding the reach of Short of the Week, we’d love to hear from you.

Areas of expertise we’re looking for:

• Film Screening
• Social Media
• YouTube

Skills & Qualities

• Self-motivated and proactive – you will largely manage your own schedule.
• Strong communication skills – we are a fully distributed team and rely on clear, timely communication.

Details

• Part-time commitment (approximately 10–15 hours per week)
• Volunteer position, with opportunities to become a regular contributor
• Minimum commitment of three months (flexible start and end dates)
• Fully remote – we welcome applicants from anywhere in the world

How to Apply

Applications can be submitted through the form below. Please include any examples of work that may be relevant to the role. Helpful materials might include:

• Links to articles you’ve written
• Film-related social media work
• Curated film lists or programming samples

Please do not send film scripts or links to films you have directed or shot.

Almost every paid contributor at Short of the Week began through this process, so if working with us has ever been an ambition of yours, this is the best place to start.

APPLY NOW

I am, sadly, not as up to speed on the art scene as I was as a younger man, and the name “Ibrahim Mahama” was foreign to me upon my initial watching of Dear Home of Scars. Suffice to say, I am now a big fan of the artist, who is currently the toast of the art world. In 2025, Mahama became the first African to top ArtReview’s Power 100 list, while also receiving “Artist of the Year” from Art Basel. These honors represent a rapid rise to the pinnacle of the field since his breakout exhibition at the 2015 Venice Biennale.

This 20min short doc catches the now-almost 40-year-old artist just before these honors, as Mahama returned to his hometown of Tamale in Northern Ghana to work on a large-scale installation at the community center/art studio he has founded. If the goal of an artist profile doc is simply to introduce you to a neat person, a character you like, and work that you admire, then mission accomplished! Marina Meijer, a Dutch documentarian working for the interesting arts and science non-profit Ammodo, has produced a piece that thoughtfully introduces an exciting artist and gives space for an appreciation of his work.

“By treating the train as both narrator and character, the film creates a poetic perspective on colonial history, memory, and identity.” – Director Marina Meijer

Longtime readers know that I have slightly more expansive requirements for a profile doc, however. My framework for evaluation possesses three pillars: the hook, the subject’s performance on-camera, and the ‘filmmaking’.

Mahama’s institutional validation satisfies the hook, and Meijer’s filmmaking is more than simply ‘good’. Of particular note, the use of Super 8 photography throughout the piece is very smart – more than a trendy mixing of formats, it meaningfully helps induce the audience into the historicity of the Mahama’s artistic frame.

Still, in retrospect, my main attraction to Dear Home of Scars is, unsurprisingly, Mahama. Even though the imagery of abandoned railcars and colonial infrastructure of his installation is undeniably imposing, it is he who provides the film’s emotional power, via the unusual combination of authority and openness he projects on camera.

I suppose it’s likely a requirement nowadays that a globally famous artist be charismatic and a skilled communicator, but this describes Mahama. He cuts a commanding figure – a celebrated artist, a builder of institutions, someone capable of mobilizing labor, ideas, and civic imagination on a massive scale. The film repeatedly frames him as an organizer and catalyst, not merely an individual creator, and he speaks with the cadence of someone constantly translating between scales – between history and personal memory, between abstract political ideas and tactile material reality. The film gains force because Mahama is such an adept guide through these ideas. He doesn’t merely explain the project to the audience; he inducts us into his way of seeing.

“A sensory and poetic portrait of Ibrahim Mahama’s world at Red Clay, where history, labour, and transformation coexist in a continuous dialogue rather than a linear story” – Director Marina Meijer

But if the film were only about his eloquence or leadership, it would risk becoming hagiography, and this is a credit to Meijer, for her instincts, and to Mahama for his acquiescence to this level of access. What elevates Dear Home of Scars is the vulnerability that leaks through the margins. There’s a subtle but persistent sense that Mahama feels the burden of becoming a symbolic figure for both the Ghanaian art scene and the communities surrounding these projects. The film observes him not just as an artist with vision, but as someone trying to live up to the moral implications of his own success, producing a film that fascinatingly recognizes that charisma can emerge from vulnerability as much as authority.

Dear Home of Scars premiered in New York in 2024, linked to an exhibition of Mahama’s art by his gallery representative, White Cube, before visiting film festivals like the Athens International Film and Video Festival and winning a prize at the International Festival of Films on Art. It has been online via the Ammodo Docs YouTube channel, where it has performed well for a year and a half, before being brought to our attention. We are now pleased to recommend it to you as an official part of our online collection.

The story of a son trying to honor the dying wishes of his late father, by following the Islamic burial rituals. In How To Bury Your Father, writer/director Ammar Keshodia explores a facet of the immigrant experience, through a narrative centered around loss and traditions. With a tender lens, Keshodia invites us into the intimacy of his protagonist as they deal with their grief and a deep sense of responsibility.

“I’m haunted by the question of whether I’ll be able to do right by them when the time comes”

When it comes to funeral traditions, cultural differences can make it especially complicated for immigrants to follow every rule. Any child wants to do right by their parents, but for first-generation immigrants, it can sometimes be difficult to feel connected to the process, let alone know how to navigate every step. Yet it is an important moment that, for obvious reasons, we all want to respect.

Keshodia confessed, “Growing up in Canada for most of my life, I feel disconnected from my parents’ culture, and I’m haunted by the question of whether I’ll be able to do right by them when the time comes.” While the protagonist cannot find the white sheet required in Islamic burial traditions, he tries to stay as close as possible to that tradition with what he has available where he is. The way Keshodia captures his isolation in this moment is incredibly compelling and layered, touching on how children imitate their parents until, eventually, they no longer are imitating anymore.

Jai Mohit stars in How to Bury Your Father.

Keshodia surprised us when he cites his love for horror films as one of the origins of the project. He explained that it was the genre’s use of imagery and metaphor to depict anxiety that inspired him, in addition to how Babk Anvari’s Under the Shadow and Joko Anwar’s Satan’s Slaves borrow imagery from Islam. He also subverts expectations by surprising the audience with the ambition of the final scene. The writing is undeniably impressive, taking us on such a poignant emotional journey with very little dialogue.

Shot on 16mm by DP Julian Lomaga, the images perfectly enhance the depth of the screenplay, immersing us in an atmosphere that makes every emotion at play feel even more powerful. The score, composed by Arie Verheul van de Ven (No Crying at the Dinner Table), is also a very important element of the film. The fact that they keep on using the same melody throughout and play with the sound design to keep us on our toes makes the film all the more engaging. 

Keshodia is currently working on two new projects, Where Water Was, a short film going into production over the Summer of 2026, set in a near future where water has become so scarce that swimming is not a thing anymore – a “meditation on the things we lose as time marches on” – as well as a sci-fi feature (his first) in development currently titled Coming of Rage.

Based on the short story of the same name by Russian novelist Fyodor Sologub, Un Petit Homme (A Tiny Man) from filmmakers Aude David and Mikaël Gaudin thrusts viewers into the uneasy power dynamics of a marriage, as a husband takes increasingly drastic action to confront his feelings of inferiority. Rendered through striking charcoal animation, this 10-minute short avoids easy comedic clichés, instead unfolding as a darkly allegorical meditation on gender roles, masculinity, and control.

A Tiny Man begins in a subdued and atmospheric fashion. Birds drift across the sky as the opening titles appear among their movements. The first glimpse we get of one of the film’s central figures – the wife – is of her feet and legs: sturdy and assured as they step toward the viewer. When her face is finally revealed, it is framed from below, the low angle emphasising her imposing physical presence.

The introduction of her husband is equally precise and revealing. He first appears through shadow, his smaller silhouette trailing behind hers, head lowered. Nothing is spoken and there is no direct interaction between the pair, yet the film immediately establishes both the nature of their relationship and the themes underpinning the narrative. If ‘short man syndrome’ truly exists, then David and Gaudin perfectly translate it to the screen through their exquisite black-and-white animation.

The husband in A Tiny Man is preoccupied with how others see him and his relationship

As the narrative unfolds, we watch the husband attempt to control the literal proportions of his wife, only for his efforts to unravel and the perceived distance between them to grow ever larger. While the film operates in an abstract and surreal world, it also manages to remain rooted to real-life, through recognisable emotional anxieties. Although Sologub’s original story is more than a century old, David and Gaudin adapt it in a manner that feels simultaneously classical – through its handcrafted visual style – and timeless through its absence of fixed historical detail.

For a film so preoccupied with proportion and scale, A Tiny Man serves as a reminder of the remarkable impact a ten-minute short can achieve. Without David and Gaudin’s adaptation, I likely would never have encountered Sologub’s original tale, and that in itself speaks to one of the enduring strengths of short film: its ability to revive, reinterpret, and reintroduce stories across generations and mediums.

There is a distinct kind of magic that occurs when an animator decides to translate the heaviest, most complicated corners of the human mind into frame-by-frame reality. For director Yohann Abdelnour, Crow Man is a project that was born nearly 10-years ago – a deliberate, painstaking letter written 24 frames per second in Photoshop to his younger self. It is a cinematic vessel designed to hold the dual monsters of grief and anger that inevitably swallow us when we lose someone precious. In Abdelnour’s own words, animation provided “the power to do stuff I cannot do in real life,” and the result is a devastatingly beautiful, visceral depiction of our desperate, frenzied struggle against the inevitable.

Visually, Crow Man moves with a raw, urgent energy, but it is the film’s detailed and unnerving sound design that completely submerges the viewer. Every audio decision carries weight: the sharp crunch of footsteps on the floor, the frantic splashes of lake water, the violent thumps of a struggle, and the girl’s cries of sheer desperation. Abdelnour plays brilliantly with contrast, filling our ears with the chaos of a fight before dropping us into sudden, absolute silence – the deafening truth of emptiness. And then, of course, there are the crows. Like Death itself, they are presented as strange, incomprehensible creatures, mislabeled as evil simply because we fear what they represent.

The young girl’s grandfather helps her come to terms with what comes next.

The loss of a loved one feels deeply unfair, whether it arrives as a sudden shock or at the end of a long illness. It has the power to freeze a person in time, anchoring them to a single moment for years, following them wherever they go until it is their turn to cross over too. Watching this short brought back vivid memories of my own sleepless nights, staring blankly at a lamp on the ceiling and wondering: How does it feel when you’re dead? Where is the person I lost now?

The film’s young protagonist cannot bear the uncertainty of those questions, so she acts. Heavily armed with guns and determination, she fights Death with everything she has. In less than ten minutes, Abdelnour utilizes fierce camerawork, fluid animation, and gruesome detail to illustrate an agonizing truth: you cannot outrun, outsmart, or outfight the end.

Despite it violent moments the lasting impact of Crow Man is one of love.

Yet what elevates Crow Man from tragedy into a masterpiece of spiritual empathy is its final pivot. We are conditioned to view Death as cruel, but Abdelnour reveals it to be something entirely different: compassionate. The final soft embrace from her grandfather, alongside the gentle, knowing eyes of this terrifying “monster,” reminds us that Death is not an ending, but simply another step on the staircase.

Is it the last one? Like many of life’s grandest lessons, we can only truly know by experiencing it ourselves. Despite its outward violence, Crow Man is ultimately a profound film about love, and the terrifying, beautiful lengths we are willing to go to for the ones who hold our hearts.

Following recent changes to the eligibility rules for the British Independent Film Awards, Short of the Week has been officially recognised as one of just nine online platforms qualifying filmmakers for the BIFA Best British Short Film award.

The announcement marks a significant moment for S/W, with few major awards bodies currently recognising online platforms as an official pathway to awards consideration. This inclusion signals a growing acknowledgement of the role curated digital platforms, like S/W, play in championing emerging filmmaking talent alongside the traditional festival circuit.

“We’re genuinely thrilled to be included on BIFA’s qualifying list,” said Rob Munday, Managing Editor of Short of the Week. “We hope this recognition is the first of many that mark a broader industry shift, with other major awards bodies – including BAFTA and the Academy Awards – embracing online platforms, alongside festivals, as credible sources for short film and talent discovery.”

The new qualification status will not apply to every film featured on Short of the Week. However, British-produced short films completed after 1 May 2025 and selected for the platform will be eligible to apply for the 2026 Best British Short Film award when submissions open in June. Full rules and eligibility criteria can be found here

Over the past two decades, a number of filmmakers featured on Short of the Week have gone on to receive BIFA recognition, including Chris Shepherd, Simon Ellis, Nina Gantz, Charlie Shackleton and more. With our platform now serving as an official qualifying route, the next BIFA-winning short may already have premiered on our site.

Relationships are difficult. While some appear to function effortlessly, most require sustained compromise and patience to survive. In Steak Dinner, writer-director Nathan Mark Ginter explores these tensions through the arrival of a strange creature in the life of a couple, using genre as a lens through which to examine how avoiding conflict can quietly damage relationships.

Described by Ginter as “an anti-rom-com-creature-feature,” the film blends tones and genres in a way that feels both conceptually inventive and emotionally recognisable, managing that rare feat of being formally distinctive and thematically grounded. Although its premise could easily have drifted into something alienating or overly surreal, the film instead maintains a surprising emotional realism beneath its absurd surface.

The short was created as part of the Anora x Kodak short film contest, which invited filmmakers to create love stories shot on film within a tight production window of roughly thirty days. For Ginter, the project “provided the chance to write, shoot, edit, and showcase a project quickly, without second-guessing any instincts.” While the circumstances surrounding a film’s production should not necessarily shape one’s response to the final work, with the knowledge of this quick turnaround the confidence and originality on display here certainly speak strongly to Ginter’s instincts as a filmmaker.

“A fully cable-driven puppet, operated through holes cut in the tables on set” – Ginter explaining how they brought Henrietta, the short’s creature, to life.

“From blank page to finished film, Steak Dinner was completed in six weeks and shot on 16mm with all in-camera effects,” Ginter explains. While there is much to admire in the production overall, the undeniable centrepiece is the strange creature that unexpectedly enters the couple’s relationship. Described by the filmmaker as an “otherworldly mollusk,” Henrietta was realised through practical effects as a cable-driven puppet. Designed and created by self-described “monster maker” and visual artist Nicholas Winstead, the creature is both unsettling and oddly sympathetic, embodying the film’s balance of discomfort and tenderness.

Following an impressive festival run – which included screenings at Beyond Fest, Fantasia, Fantastic Fest, and Sitges Film Festival – Ginter has already moved onto a new short, Overgrown, which is currently touring the festival circuit, while also developing several feature projects. Steak Dinner is such an inventive and immersive piece that it leaves genuine anticipation for whatever emerges next from Ginter’s filmmaking career.

We can’t wait!

While there are many myths surrounding the male vasectomy procedure, perhaps the most enduring is the idea that undergoing the operation somehow diminishes a man’s virility – and, by extension, his masculinity. It is precisely this notion that writer/director Ben S. Hyland (Quiet Carriage) pushes to absurd extremes in his hilarious short film, The Snip.

“The concept of masculinity was very much tied to the act of procreation”

Hyland establishes the film’s tone immediately, introducing its protagonist, Tony, sitting in a pub utterly transfixed by the testicles of a dog brought in by its owner. It is an unusual opening, but one that quickly reveals itself to be entirely fitting as the narrative unfolds and we come to understand the anxieties and decisions that have brought Tony and his partner to this stage in their lives.

“As a man with children who no longer wanted further offspring, the decision to get a vasectomy had become part of the conversation in my marriage,” Hyland candidly explains when discussing the origins of the film. Through conversations with friends in similar situations, he discovered many shared the same vague yet persistent anxieties surrounding sex and the procedure itself. As he puts it: “The concept of masculinity was very much tied to the act of procreation. So I wanted to explore that both within myself and within the film.”

An animated character called ‘Snippy Steve’ was one of Hyland’s favourite parts of the production.

While The Snip will feel particularly relatable to men of a certain age – myself included – it remains an accessible comedy with broader appeal through its exploration of relationships, family, and masculinity. For Hyland, however, the project also served another purpose: an opportunity to further his career through the festival circuit, where the film picked up multiple awards, while also functioning as a calling card for a potential transition into feature filmmaking.

That said, Hyland did not immediately move into features after completing The Snip. Instead, his next directorial effort was another short, The Man That I Wave At, a darker but similarly relatable comedy that has already enjoyed success on the festival circuit. Nevertheless, a move into feature filmmaking now appears increasingly likely, with a feature adaptation of that short – as well as another project, Clickbait – currently in development.