There will be a few moments in life when everything is turned upside down – the end of a meaningful relationship, a change of career, or the loss of a loved one. In those instances, it can feel as though a force both brutal and unstoppable – like it’s nature itself – is shifting your destiny forever. Like the wind on a particular day, it arrives without warning – a single current that pushes one door closed and nudges another open – and suddenly the coordinates of everything you thought you knew have shifted. That’s exactly the wind of Jour de Vent (Windy Day), and it’s been following me ever since I watched it.

Distributed by Miyu and clocking in at a dense yet delicate seven minutes, this short unfolds as a collective daydream shaped by six directors – Martin Chailloux, Ai Kim Crespin, Elise Golfouse, Chloé Lab, Hugo Taillez, and Camille Truding – who set out to make something both impossibly intimate and generously universal. They wanted a film that could hold a fragment of each of their own lives, resulting in a story that breathes family, love, death, and work – the whole trembling inventory of a human existence. Animated in a hybrid 2D-3D style, Windy Day feels less like a traditional animation and more like a graphic novel caught in a gentle gale.

Jour de vent was created at the French Animation School École des Nouvelles Images as part of the graduating class of 2024

The result is a slice of life that barely has time to land before it lifts again. An ordinary street, an ordinary day – and then that exact kind of wind we were talking about. Enough to unsettle a scarf, scatter a handful of papers, send a single object tumbling after a stranger, and with it, a cascade of unstoppable questions. What’s important to you? What would you lose, and what might you gain, if the wind simply decided for you? Windy Day doesn’t so much answer these questions as leave them suspended in the air, as tangible as the dust motes in a shaft of afternoon light. It is reminder that time is our most quietly spent currency – we rarely feel its weight until a gust pulls it from our hands.

Visually, the film is an exquisite ache. The linework holds the kind of imperfection that feels deliberate and tender, while the palette shifts with the emotional weather of each scene – muted ochres and cooled blues, the hue of a memory you didn’t know you’d kept. The directors’ complementary skills are stitched into every frame; you can sense the way each of them found their place in the telling, the way personal grief, joy, and longing are poured into the thin space between one drawing and the next.

Jour de vent played festivals worldwide, including the 2025 edition of SIGGRAPH.

I recognized that tension immediately. I’ve known that sudden gust – the instant when a single event, a letter, a diagnosis, a voice on the phone, scatters your certainties across the ground. I remember standing in the wreckage of my own plans and having to quietly ask what I was actually living for. Windy Day takes that solitary reckoning and makes it communal. It holds your gaze and says: this is what it means to be alive at the mercy of forces you never chose – terrifying, and yet it’s the only story we have.

The wind doesn’t care about your plans. It simply moves, then passes, and life – rearranged, freighted with new absences or unexpected gifts – goes on. The film knows this. It doesn’t beg for your attention and just unfolds, like a page turning in the breeze, a page that waits for you to see yourself inside it.

So stand still for a moment. Let the gust find you. Let it ask you the only question that ever mattered. And then keep walking, because that’s what the living do.

Imagine you’re in a financially tough situation, and you scroll through the apps to find your estranged father – whom you’ve always known as a deadbeat – actively seeking a sugarbaby. This is what happens to Dinky, who convinces her sister Flossy they should pay him a visit and figure out what’s going on. With Finding Daddy, writer/director Emily Wilson crafts a delightfully funny sibling story, where the protagonists’ mission perfectly blends absurdity with emotional depth.

“I wanted Finding Daddy to feel lived in, where no detail is too small”

The exposition of Finding Daddy is so sharply written, with a raw, unapologetic honesty, that it almost feels like a stream of consciousness. So it’s not surprising to learn that “a depressing, dark internal monologue” Wilson had one day by a pool inspired those opening lines – a starting point from which she built the rest of the narrative. The director pays specific attention to the universe in which the film unfolds: a “familiar world where I could air out very real frustrations while still having fun with the language, gnarly world-building, and cinematic style,” she explained.

Visually, the world she brings to the screen with DP Kelsey Talton is incredibly detailed. From the color palette and framing to the production design by T Marsh (who also worked as production designer on Neal Mulani’s short Rat!), everything feels palpable and enhances the overall tone of the film. “I wanted Finding Daddy to feel lived in,” Wilson reveals and there is something very organic about the way they paint the mess and chaos in the film, which complements both the comedy and its deeper layers.

Cricket Arrison (L) & Lauren Servideo stars as sisters, Dinky & Flossy, in Finding Daddy

When describing the tone, the director admits she “wanted to make a film that struck a balance between bleak realism and heightened triumph.” To get there, she strikes a balance that allows the film to succeed on both fronts. Constantly juggling its sad and absurd undertones, the story is cleverly constructed, with the pacing refined in the edit to ensure the broader commentary on adulting and the state of the world never turns into farce.

To some extent, the film is also empowering, as we want these two sisters to succeed and get their lives together. Both Cricket Arrison and Lauren Servideo are perfect as the two sisters. The life they inject in their characters makes the story all the more compelling, giving subtle backstory and hitting all the nuances of the screenplay.  

Ahead of its online debut, Finding Daddy toured the festival circuit. Wilson is currently developing a feature dark comedy with “an erotic thriller underbelly”, as well as the feature version of Finding Daddy.

In a piece I wrote last year, I noted that AI filmmaking has developed a slightly obnoxious tendency toward navel-gazing—an impulse to engage philosophically with the means of its own creation. Paul Trillo’s The Most Perfect Perfect Person, created in collaboration with the American music star Poppy, leans directly into that instinct—it’s a film that is very much about AI, made with AI, and conscious of both. What distinguishes it is not that it avoids the trap, but that it transcends it, finding rare alignment between subject, method, and meaning that makes the self-reflexivity feel earned.

Set in a near-present that feels only mildly exaggerated, the film follows Poppy as she relinquishes her public-facing self to an AI duplicate trained on her entire creative output. The clone feeds her responses in real time—during interviews with the press, interactions with her fans, and even on phone calls with friends—until the distinction between author and artifact collapses. It’s a familiar enough premise on paper, but Trillo locates it in the particularly fertile arena of pop music, where identity has always been both product and battleground, and the excitement of creative innovation is balanced by the specter of commodification.

Poppy, with her management team, being pitched her chatbot duplicate

The stakes are articulated most clearly in Trillo’s own framing of the project. “AI threatens to take away more than just jobs; it threatens to take away an artist’s voice. We risk a real homogeneity of culture. Bots making content for bots. Originality is at stake.” It’s a strikingly critical stance from a filmmaker who has, in recent years, become one of AI filmmaking’s most visible proponents. For a sizable portion of the audience—particularly those wary of AI’s encroachment into creative fields—these quotes may seem rich.

But, Trillo is, arguably, sui generis among AI influencers in his traditional production chops and the strength of his filmography: five Short of the Week selections since 2010, over a dozen Vimeo Staff Picks, and a deserved reputation as one of the great technical innovators of his generation. His use of AI tends to be deeply conceptual and hybrid in execution, emphasizing its incorporation into professional workflows—something he’s actively helping to build via his role at the AI studio, Asteria. In this short, AI is neither gimmick nor replacement—it’s a tool, deployed with intention, in service of a cohesive vision. Trillo’s stated fears land not as rejection, but as something closer to self-interrogation.

Trillo visualizes an LLM’s inner workings—Poppys spawning and collapsing in succession.

The deployment of AI not only as a subject, but as a method, helps provide the film with an interesting charge. Trillo’s AI usage oscillates between the overt—glitchy morphs, proliferating selves—and the invisible, where the tech functions more like traditional VFX. The result is a formal instability that mirrors the film’s thematic concerns: you’re never quite sure what you’re looking at, or how it was made, and that uncertainty becomes the point.

The team leans into this ambiguity in its marketing, calling the film “based on true events,” with Poppy playing a version of herself and her AI counterpart’s dialogue generated by a Poppy chatbot that the artist trained for a previous performance art piece. There’s something conceptually intriguing in this—an ontological slipperiness that gestures toward something unsettlingly real. And yet, the film stops short of fully inhabiting that liminality. Its corporate antagonists are too arch, its visual design too stylized, Poppy’s performance too detached, to sustain the illusion. Rather than playing with Documentary styles, The Most Perfect Perfect Person lands closer to a sleek episode of Black Mirror, which, to be clear, is not a knock.

Poppys tested and discarded in the span of a thought

Perhaps though, that slickness and clarity of tone allow the film’s ideas to resonate more cleanly. Trillo is less interested in convincing us that this is happening than in showing how easily it could. Notably, the project began production in 2024, before premiering at LA’s celebrated Flux Screening Series, yet its central conceit—AI replicas of artists, trained on their likeness and deployed at scale—has already begun to materialize. What might have read as speculative even a year ago now feels like a near-term inevitability.

Which ultimately circles back to the film’s central anxiety. The danger isn’t that AI will replace artists outright, but that it will erode the friction that makes their voices distinct. In outsourcing expression—whether to algorithms, platforms, or audience expectation—we risk arriving at a culture of perfect fluency and zero authorship. Bots making content for bots, as Trillo puts it.

The Most Perfect Perfect Person doesn’t resolve that tension, but it renders it with uncommon precision—and in doing so, makes the loss of voice feel not speculative, but already underway.

Filmmakers have adopted a wide range of approaches – from cute animation to hard-hitting documentary – to engage with environmental concerns in their work. For Hannah Schierbeek, however, the intention behind her short film, A Black Hole Near Kent County, was to create what she describes as an “environmental mystery.” Drawing on her own experiences of pollution in Midwestern America, Schierbeek’s film functions both as a deeply personal tribute to her grandmother, who died from a rare form of blood cancer and as a haunting exploration of the effects of industrialisation.

A Black Hole Near Kent Country begins in striking fashion – a landscape literally ablaze – before transitioning into a more contemplative rhythm as we follow its protagonist, Julie, navigating her hometown in search of answers to an unexplained illness. As both writer and director, Schierbeek asks for a degree of patience from her audience, revealing the narrative details gradually, until they build to an emotionally-charged and unforgettable conclusion.

Mariea Luisa Macavei stars as a journalist in A Black Hole Near Kent County

It is within the film’s editing and carefully calibrated pacing that its impact most fully emerges. The deliberate unfolding of the narrative not only allows viewers to become immersed in the stark, wintry landscapes and Julie’s interior world, but also creates space for reflection. While the setting and situation here are highly specific, the film’s central themes – pollution, isolation, and justice – resonate more broadly. With Schierbeek ensuring that her viewers are given both the time and the space to consider their own relationship to these concerns.

The impact of A Black Hole Near Kent County is further heightened by the observational quality of its cinematography, which lends the film a grounded, almost tactile authenticity. Schierbeek notes that the decision to shoot on 16mm – her first time working with the format – was motivated by a desire to “capture the texture and depth of colour” characteristic of Midwestern winters. At the same time, the choice imposed a certain discipline to the production, helping to keep it within budget.

Schierbeek reveals they used the framing “in a way that made our world feel isolating and even a bit frightening at times.”

“Most of our scenes were limited to one to three shots, and we shot very few takes in order to bring costs down,” Schierbeek explains. She adds that the film was shot using predominantly natural light, with camera movement deliberately restricted through the consistent use of a tripod. This approach not only reinforces the film’s observational tone, but also frames the environment in a way that renders it isolating and, at times, subtly unsettling.

Following a festival run that included screenings at Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival and Ouray International Film Festival, we are pleased to host the online premiere of A Black Hole Near Kent County on Short of the Week.

Since completing the film, Schierbeek has continued to build momentum: her follow-up directorial work, Radiant Frost, is currently on the festival circuit, having already screened at Sundance Film Festival in 2026. Her work as a producer has also drawn attention, with Don Josephus Raphael Eblahan’s Vox Humana (a favourite of mine) appearing at both Clermont-Ferrand and Sundance in 2025.

Financial insecurity, nationalist sentiment, and concerns surrounding immigration are among the factors most frequently cited in explanations for shifting political allegiances toward far-right parties. Across much of the world, the rise of right-wing populism has become increasingly difficult to ignore – a development that continues to generate widespread unease and cause rifts in families. In the United Kingdom, with local elections approaching, Oscar-winning filmmaker and multiple S/W alum Aneil Karia once again turns his attention to this political climate through the release of a new short film, Vote Gavin Lyle.

At first glance, the film’s presentation – it’s title and thumbnail especially – so closely resembles that of a contemporary campaign video that it could easily be mistaken for a genuine piece of campaign material – the film even has a guerrilla marketing campaign on the streets of London which which promotes Gavin Lyle as an actual candidate. This ambiguity appears central to Karia’s approach. Framed in a mockumentary style, the film introduces its titular figure – portrayed by Jack Lowden – as he articulates concerns about national change, particularly in relation to immigration, while washing a Land Rover outside a large country home. The effect is a carefully calibrated blurring of fiction and reality, one which will hopefully provoke its viewers to interrogate the visual codes of contemporary political messaging.

Jack Lowden as titular aspiring politician Gavin Lyle.

Although Vote Gavin Lyle introduces a more overtly comedic register than some of Karia’s earlier work, for those familiar with director’s previous shorts, this isn’t a total departure from his previous shorts. Shot by Stuart Bentley, who also collaborated with Karia on his debut feature, Surge, and the Academy Award-winning The Long Goodbye, the film carries a visual precision that feels distinct to the director. While Vote Gavin Lyle may not deliver the same visceral impact as some of his previous films, like that Oscar-winner it engages directly with pressing political questions. Starting with those comedic tones, Karia’s film takes a shift in its conclusion with a surreal dance sequence set to Day-O (The Banana Boat Song), a traditional Jamaican folk song, which helps to further amplify the film’s engagement with questions of identity, culture, and national narrative.

In contrast to more direct forms of political critique, Karia’s approach resists targeting specific parties or public figures. Instead, the film examines the broader emotional and psychological elements that underpin contemporary political messaging. With the filmmaker noting that “voters feel so disenfranchised and patronised by the political establishment”, he points to this as one of the reasons for the rise of more extreme right-wing politics. However, Karia didn’t think it would be useful to point his focus on particular individuals or parties and expose how “nasty and awful” they are, so instead he seeks to expose the vulnerabilities and contradictions within those who position themselves as authoritative voices in such movements.

“The people purporting to be our saviours are also shit scared and vulnerable”

While he does not cite any specific real-world inspiration for his titular character, viewers in the UK – and likely beyond (as one YouTube commenter suggested, even voters aligned with Australia’s One Nation party might recognise parallels) – will inevitably draw their own comparisons. “What was interesting to me with this film is that the people purporting to be our saviours are also shit scared and vulnerable and, like, fucking deeply confused,” Karia reveals when discussing the film’s origins. He adds that his “real problem” lies with those in positions of power – their disingenuous nature and their “exploitation of real problems to forward their own careers,” a critique that resonates well beyond a single national context.

Model and actress Deba Hekmat (L) stars opposite Lowden in Vote Gavin Lyle

Karia’s work here underscores the capacity of short film to engage with complex and immediate political issues. At a moment when debates around nationalism, identity, and representation continue to intensify, Vote Gavin Lyle operates less as a didactic or “preachy” statement and more as a reflective intervention – one that encourages critical engagement with the images and ideas that increasingly shape political opinion.

While one YouTube commenter suggests file-sharing platforms like WeTransfer shouldn’t be ‘commissioning political propaganda’, we’re happy to not only see the director return to short film (2025 saw him direct his second feature, Hamlet) but continue to produce work that engages directly with contemporary issues while demonstrating the enduring potential of short film. A position the director himself clearly endorses:

“There’s this unfortunate idea that the short film is something you do when you’re coming up, and then leave them behind and go into long form,” Karia states. “I just think they’re an amazing format to be more instinctive, more immediate.”

When Bowen unexpectedly encounters their estranged father in the city late one night, they decide to meet and attempt to reconnect, while also trying to take care of a poisonous fish bite. With Yú Cì (Fish Bones), writer/director Kevin Xian Ming Yu pens a delicate and sensitive narrative about identity and community, employing an undeniably authentic approach to give the film a surprisingly effective poignancy and make it incredibly compelling.

“I made this film to start empathetic conversations across generations within Chinese immigrant communities about queer, trans and nonbinary identities”

“This film is inspired by the complicated ways in which my genderqueer and trans identity interacts with my Chinese immigrant family and community in Queens,” Yu confessed. Powerful slices of life are often based on a director’s own experience, and Fish Bones feels grounded, unafraid of its undramatic narrative structure. It therefore comes as no surprise when Yu shared that inspiration behind the film, adding, “when I was first exploring my gender identity, my uncle, who fishes frequently in Queens, experienced a strange poisonous fish bite that turned his hand purple”, an incident incorporated into the film in an almost metaphorical way.

Not especially dialogue-heavy, the film instead relies on what remains unspoken. The camera has a lot of empathy and tenderness for its two protagonists, subverting expectations with its compassion. It depicts, with honesty, the fraught relationship between Bowen and their dad – one that is largely rooted in misunderstandings. “I made this film to start empathetic conversations across generations within Chinese immigrant communities about queer, trans and nonbinary identities,” Yu explained. As the film progresses, we watch the pair reconnect, their reserve and shyness ultimately leading to moments of vulnerability, which in turn makes the ending all the more resounding. 

“Through the filmmaking process, we grew closer and had conversations that created more understanding around my genderqueerness” – Yu discussing casting their father in the film

Yu shot Fish Bones where they grew up, drawing on locations from their own community and working with mainly natural light. This approach removes unnecessary distraction, allowing the film’s quiet yet heavy emotional arc to take center stage while maintaining a very naturalistic look. All the performances in the short are impressive, even the mother! Yu actually cast their own parents in the film, and while they are not professional actors, their performances feel nuanced and genuine. The chemistry between Jiawei Huang, who plays Bowen, and Feng Yu (their dad) is particularly affecting, carrying much of the film’s emotional complexity.

Fish Bones had its World Premiere at the 2025 edition of SXSW Film & TV and went on to be selected at multiple other festivals including the Palm Springs ShortFest, Nashville, NewFest and Provincetown – where it earned a Special Jury Mention. Their new short i saw you in the flood is already on the festival circuit, having premiered at the 2026 edition of SXSW Film & TV.

Star Wars is the culture’s great extended universe. In a time where personal algorithms have contributed to the nichification of interests and signalled the death of the “monoculture”, Star Wars has persevered as a popular juggernaut across film, books, comics, TV, and games.

We think that this is important – both as something that preserves film’s traditional role as mass shared entertainment, but also the existence of story platform robust and popular enough to sustain diverse storytelling approaches – from blockbuster movies to the selections here today.

We at Short of the Week have always had time for “fan films” and wrote at length about the phenomenon over a decade ago. These unofficial, uncommercial works are a pure labor of love from their creators, but they also perform critical work, exploring and maintaining these massive story projects. Star Wars is ground zero for the form, and George Lucas’ tacit approval of them laid the example for copyright owners ever after.

Thus, on this May 4th, dubbed, in a brilliant piece of marketing, as “Star Wars Day” (say May the 4th…out loud if you don’t get it), we’re pleased to look back at some of the best Star Wars fan films ever made. Our short survey goes back to 1978 with what many consider the originator of the form, through the digital revolution of the early web, to much more recent films.

Star Wars itself is at an interesting inflection point – the property’s steward of several years has departed, and its first theatrical film to come out of its television pivot hits screens this month to an uncertain reception. Fandom has, for good and ill, highly influenced the direction of its beloved properties, and fan films are a high-profile manifestation of this popular will. Furthermore, their creation is rapidly accelerating due to AI video generation. How will fan works influence this transition moment for Star Wars, and what will the profusion of visually impressive fan works do for interest in its official offerings? It’s a fascinating time for observers of a galaxy far far away…

Click on image to view the collection on Shortverse

A new academic study making the rounds—from researchers at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and covered everywhere from The Hollywood Reporter and Animation Magazine, to Medical Xpress, has found that viewing artistically curated short films can causally boost creative thinking.

This is, of course, incredibly validating to us at Short of the Week, especially when we dug in deeper and learned the study sourced its artistic short films from our site!

We wanted to know more, so we reached out to the study’s co-author, Madeleine Gross. What inspired the study and their use of our curation? Turns out, they needed to answer a deceptively tricky question: what actually counts as art in an experiment about creativity? Their solution was both practical and—if we may—flattering:

Still from Au Revoir Jerome, one of the films included in the study: Full Playlist

In the study, participants were split into groups and shown either a playlist of curated short films (yes, Gross provided their list for us to share!) or a control group of amateur “blooper reel” videos. The latter produced slightly more immediate joy—no surprise there—but the former led to significantly higher scores in tests measuring open-ended, flexible, and original thinking.

The conclusion to be drawn is probably not a surprise to any of you who have found your attention trapped in the algorithmic vice grip of Big Tech—TikTok may lift your short-term mood, but short films might actually expand your mind.

The playlist itself is not very long—five animated works that are, roughly, 7 minutes apiece, from contemporary artists like Lizzy Hobbs and Zohar Dvir. But, within that constraint, the team selected formally inventive, emotionally nuanced works that resist easy categorization and reward attention. That friction, the study suggests, is the point. When a film asks more of you due to the need for interpretation, ambiguity, and emotional attunement, it seems to exercise the same mental muscles that underpin creative thought.

Still from Mercury’s Retrograde by Zohar Dvir. Full Playlist

Does that sound familiar? I hope so; that’s kind of the thesis of the Short of the Week project—that short films aren’t just a format but a space for risk and invention, benefiting storytelling and visual culture at large. What this study offers is empirical backing for something that, I think, our fellow programmers, filmmakers, and audiences have long felt intuitively.

So yes, we’re proud to have been part of the research. But more than that, we’re excited by what it implies. Not just that short films matter, but that engaging with them might leave you—subtly, cumulatively—thinking differently.

Cheers to Madeleine Gross, her co-lead Jonathan Schooler, and the rest of their team. They’ve teased us that a new study (which also sources films from our curation) is in the works. In the meantime, consider this your friendly nudge to stop rewarding slop and elevate the inputs of your free time. Do it for the culture, do it for your brain!

Watch The Creativity Fuel Playlist on Shortverse

Where the Black Sand Burns is a beautiful short film. I use that adjective in a literal sense – shot amid the natural splendor of the volcanic Canary Islands, featuring unusually striking cinematography, and anchored by a luminous central couple, director Lore Loyens’ tale of young love practically assaults you with its beauty. And while that phrasing might condition you to expect a turn – beauty as a substitute for substance – there’s no such caveat here. Loyens’ film may trace a familiar narrative shape, but its sensitivity to emotional nuance emerges as an equal achievement to its more obvious visual appeal.

The film opens with the promise of something apocalyptic, as a volcano stirs to life on the edge of a small village. This event is not unusual to the community, nurtured in the shadow of the peak, but Mateo, who is rooted to the island, watches as Alejandra, his partner, begins to interpret the looming eruption as a final straw – an ultimatum to leave. What follows is less a narrative driven by the mechanics of disaster than one attuned to emotional drift, to the quiet, destabilizing realization that love and one’s direction in life don’t always align. The volcano, despite its narrative weight, recedes from the foreground as the film unfolds. You find yourself almost wishing for its presence to press in more insistently, but its absence is also its function, as it becomes atmosphere, a low, constant pressure shaping everything without needing to dominate it.

“It can feel healing to dissolve into something larger than yourself”

This tension between the monumental and the intimate, the external and the internal, is where Loyens’ film finds its footing. As she describes it, she was drawn to “how a place can mirror an emotional state… how it can feel healing to dissolve into something larger than yourself, yet also deeply unsettling to feel small within an overwhelming, all-powerful nature.” The volcanic landscape, thus, isn’t just a backdrop, but a kind of emotional register for the film. The push and pull between Mateo and Alejandra – between staying and leaving, attachment and autonomy – echoes the instability of the terrain itself.

What’s striking is how immersive that dynamic becomes. Loyens resists over-explanation, instead constructing what she calls a “sensory experience of young love – something overwhelming, physical, and unpredictable.” The result is a film that pulls you into its rhythms rather than spelling them out, allowing interior and exterior realities to blur. Emotions aren’t articulated so much as absorbed, felt through gesture, proximity, and the charged stillness between characters.

The landscape of the volcanic island provides the film’s “emotional register.”

A large part of that immediacy comes from the film’s production approach. Shot on location with a cast composed largely of non-actors discovered on the island, Where the Black Sand Burns carries an unforced authenticity that keeps it grounded even as its imagery tends toward the rapturous. Loyens and her team worked with “a small, flexible crew, allowing [them] to respond to the unpredictability of nature and fully integrate it into the film’s language,” and you can feel that openness in the direction of the performances, and a seeming willingness to follow moments rather than stage them.

This receptivity might be what most impresses me, and is a vital complement to the film’s themes and romantic visual sensibility. Loyens composes her images with a boldness and polish that is likely to result in her becoming a commercial directing star in her native Belgium – sun-drenched skin, sweeping vistas, bodies in silhouette against elemental forces, all feature prominently. But, throughout, she remains intuitively responsive to her performers, attuned to the fragile, often contradictory emotions that animate them. It’s a difficult balance to strike, and one she navigates with impressive precociousness.

It’s also not a one-off. With her follow-up, Between Day and Dawn, already making its way through the festival circuit, Loyens appears to be building a body of work that pairs visual ambition with emotional permeability – films that don’t just depict feeling, but allow you to sit inside it. Where the Black Sand Burns is an assured, evocative statement of intent for an exciting new artist. Consider me a fan.

High school students often have so many bottled-up, confusing feelings that they rarely express, let alone have the proper forum in which to do so. In Quaker, with a charming approach rooted in kindness and honesty, writer/director Giovanna Molina crafts a narrative that recreates the raw intimacy of the last Quaker meeting for seniors on the verge of graduation.

“I started to reflect upon this period of my life and the particularity of a Quaker education”

Before going any further, it is worth briefly explaining what a Quaker school is for those unfamiliar. While Quakerism originated as a branch of Christianity, where values such as community, equality, peace, and integrity are central, Quaker schools often have students and faculty members who do not necessarily identify as Quakers, but align with the education system and its values.

A common practice within these schools is the Quaker Meeting, during which everyone sits in silence for an hour, and at any given moment someone can stand and share anything that’s on their mind to the rest of the community, as they sit and listen. “Speaking your mind, or speaking ‘truth to power,’ was encouraged”, Molina explained. 

“We shot in Brooklyn, in the actual Quaker meeting house I grew up attending, and some of my former classmates, teachers, and neighbors appear in the film” – Molina on the production of Quaker.

Molina actually attended one of these schools herself, and sat through many of these meetings. After graduation, she realized how powerful those moments actually were on multiple levels. “At the time, I took for granted how unique our Wednesday meetings were, but with many years of distance from high school, I started to reflect upon this period of my life and the particularity of a Quaker education”, she confessed.

Having a time dedicated to self-reflection on a weekly basis, and a safe space to express oneself feels particularly unique – especially at that age – and often leads to insightful and poignant moments. “With this film, I aimed to document the power of meeting within the context of a coming-of-age narrative and share it with those unfamiliar with Quaker practices”, Molina added.

Written with Louisa Grenham, who went to the same school, the screenplay’s authenticity is undeniable. Every single line is filled with an angst and disarming honesty that anyone will be able to relate to. While the situation is specific, the feelings expressed are universal for anyone on the precipice of adulthood and beyond. The dialogue, camera movements, and pacing work together to create a sense of intimacy that invites the viewer to sit down and take part in the meeting.

S/W alum Allegra Leguizamo (L) stars in front of the camera in Quaker

The writing here is clever though, with the perfect balance of vulnerability and humor. With DP Vittoria Campaner, the film is shot in a very naturalistic way; the framing and the choice to use black and white allow us to focus on what is being said, and how it is received. Editor Danielle Criqui shapes the material to orchestrate a perfect rhythm, effectively conveying the lived experience of attending the meeting.   

At first glance, some might mistake Quaker for a documentary, while others might have spotted S/W alum Allegra Leguizamo (Flash Warning) in the cast. The ensemble Molina and her team built carries a very compelling energy throughout the film, giving it an immersive dimension. Most of us will likely never have attended a Quaker meeting, yet this film makes that experience feel familiar and just like the director, it has us yearning for a space where you are able to speak your truth in such a supportive arena.

Quaker had its World Premiere at the 2025 edition of the Berlinale in the Generation section. Ahead of its online premiere today, it hit the 2025 festival circuit and was awarded Best Narrative Short at Bend. Molina is currently working on her feature debut Kismet, which is already in production.

Billy and Riley’s date is going well – so well, in fact, that she invites him back to her place. She can barely hide her excitement at connecting with a fellow Indigenous person, but could this positive reaction be hiding something darker? Writer-director ishkwaazhe Shane McSauby blends romcom, dark comedy, and genre in The Beguiling, crafting an effective thriller based on real-life occurrences.

“The idea of taking on a Native identity that isn’t yours is so ridiculous that dark comedy felt perfect”

“Non-Native people knowingly claiming Native identity has really exploded lately”, McSauby explains, adding that he has heard accounts of “people stealing real Native people’s stories of historical trauma and using them as their own to secure jobs, funding, or social capital.” While this makes for a good premise for a film, it also reflects the discourse around identity and generational trauma and how they’ve been “commodified”. Discussing the tone he built in The Beguiling, McSauby explains: “The idea of taking on a Native identity that isn’t yours is so ridiculous that dark comedy felt perfect. But stealing people’s real stories of trauma is also sinister, so a mix of horror felt like the right fit.”

Tokenization and identity are complex, nuanced issues that for some can be easier to avoid. With The Beguiling, McSauby keeps the conversation active, avoiding any pretension. Through an entertaining lens, he subtly addresses the topic and lets his audience sit with – and grasp – the full depth of his narrative. By cleverly combining comedy and genre, the filmmaker serves both his narrative and how he intends to convey it. Juggling the two perfectly, the film constantly keeps us on our toes, uncertain what will happen next, and questioning the actual presence of a threat.

Benairen Kane stars as Billy in The Beguiling

Shot by S/W alum Shaandiin Tome (Long Line of Ladies), the cinematography echoes the subtle tonal balance McSauby created. In conjunction with the sound design and the pacing crafted by editor Matt Laud, The Beguiling places us firmly in Billy’s shoes, taking us on the emotional roller coaster of his encounter with Riley – frequently shifting between the sense of a date going great and the creeping sensation this could all be a nightmare.

Benairen Kane, as Billy – the male protagonist, is the perfect good guy in this story. He makes his character instantly likeable and easy to root for. He injects so much genuine kindness in his performance, creating a strong emotional connection between his character and the audience, while his growing disbelief is just as compelling. Opposite him, Kim Savarino delivers an equally perfect performance, conveying just the right amount of crazy so that it never comes across as farcical, but so the comedy and the genre still land so convincingly.

The Beguiling had its World Premiere at the 2024 edition of TIFF and went on to be selected at SXSW and the Palm Springs ShortFest. It also won the 7th Student Short Film Showcase, presented by The Gotham and Focus Features, who released the film on YouTube.  

It’s easy to become preoccupied with people we don’t truly know – the stranger we pass each day, the fellow gym-goer who shares our routine, the kind assistant at a local shop – but often these obsessions are best left at a distance. It’s precisely this kind of infatuation that underpins Max Distance, Marissa Goldman’s off-kilter SXSW comedy, which follows a daydreaming computer programmer, Erica, who spends an inordinate amount of time in unnecessary Zoom meetings fantasising about her neighbour, Nat.

It’s in these two interwoven spaces that Goldman’s film finds much of its relatability. If modern life has trained us in anything, it’s the ability to half-attend endless meetings while simultaneously fixating on people we barely know. As someone prone to daydreaming, I find this particularly familiar – the ease with which attention drifts, whether in virtual calls or everyday encounters, toward something more compelling elsewhere. It is, however, in its humorous portrayal of infatuation that Max Distance resonates most strongly. Erica emerges as a protagonist who is immediately recognisable and broadly sympathetic, even when her behaviour becomes questionable.

Anna Seregina stars as Erica in Max Distance

“It felt like a good way to express some feelings of isolation and the separate lanes we are all put in in the Internet era”, Goldman explains as she discusses how Max Distance begun from the simple act of looking through windows to expand into something bigger. With the film’s title referring to both the emotional and social distance created by contemporary digital life and to the terminology used by dating apps to define one’s potential “discovery pool.” In this sense, Goldman’s short participates in a growing body of work examining the quiet distortions and disconnections produced by an increasingly internet-mediated existence.

However, for Goldman – who serves as both writer and director on Max Distance – the film is not only an opportunity to contribute to discussions on modern life, but also a step forward in her own development as a filmmaker, and a chance to create something she “felt proud of.” Considering the direction she saw her work taking, Goldman chose to “play with visual comedy” in Max Distance, bringing together the various skills she has developed throughout her career into a single, attention-grabbing piece.

S/W regular David Brown stars as neighbour, Nat, in Max Distance

Acknowledging that she often approaches projects in a “form-first” manner, it is unsurprising that the film’s visual language plays a central role. “I do a lot of storyboarding and moodboarding,” the filmmaker explains. As an After Effects animator, she also completed all of the VFX work herself, while crediting cinematographer Victor Inglés and colourist Gabe Sanchez for helping the film’s colours “pop.” With much of the film already fully formed in her mind before it reaches the screen, Max Distance functions not only as an impressive calling card for Goldman, but also as an illuminating glimpse into a distinctive creative sensibility – one that appears to have a very bright future ahead.

Inspired by our recent feature of MANTIS STREAM! LIKE & SUBSCRIBE – which screened at SXSW in 2026 – we’re turning our curatorial eye to the festival’s long-running Midnight Shorts block, a programme that promises to “indulge your cravings for horror, gore, and dark comedy.” In this collection we’re gathering some of the weirdest and most unforgettable films from the past decade of these ever-popular screenings at the festival.

This program has consistently served as fertile ground for Short of the Week’s own curation, and regular visitors to our site will likely recognise several of the titles included here. That said, we’ve also selected a few films that never made it onto our platform, in an effort to keep the selection fresh and unpredictable. At its core, this playlist is driven by a desire to capture the singular, often disorienting “WTF?” experience synonymous with these screenings.

While there are many standout films that didn’t make the final cut, these are the Midnight Shorts that have proven impossible to shake. Whether they left us unsettled, nauseous, or even – at times – strangely aroused, this collection offers a series of encounters that defy easy explanation and will have you questioning exactly how the filmmakers managed to come up with these ideas in the first place.

The Wildest Short Films from the SXSW Midnight Program

View the Collection on Shortverse

Featuring:

• Eat My Shit by Eduardo Casanova
• Gwilliam by Brian Lonana
• Hi Stranger by Kirsten Lepore
• It’s Not Custard by Kate McCoid
• Make Me a Pizza by Talia Shea Levin
• MANTIS STREAM! LIKE & SUBSCRIBE by Lincoln Robisch & Sarah Maerten
• The Bleacher by Adam Wilder & Nicola Daddona
• The Flute by Nick Roney
• We Forgot About the Zombies by Chris McInroy
• Whiskey Fist by Gillian Horvat

We’ll continue to add to the collection on Shortverse, so if you have suggestions on the most bizarre and unforgettable SXSW Midnight Shorts you feel are missing from this list, then let us know in the comments below or on social media.

Craig proposes, his girlfriend says yes – and from there, chaos ensues. Streamed live online, his demise will include mantis-like behavior, fake paramedics and policemen, and even a director. If it sounds nonsensical, that’s because it is! Writer/director duo Sarah Maerten and Lincoln Robisch, also known as CLUSTERFUCK!, take us on a wild ride with MANTIS STREAM! LIKE & SUBSCRIBE. While the film is simply bananas, it also works as a sharp and witty satire about the world we live in – one where the line between online presence and IRL reality has become blurred.

“We wanted to create a descent from a physical world into digital madness in real time”

The duality between our online personas and our real-life selves – and the extent to which the boundary between the two has shrunk – makes the inspiration behind the film both obvious and universal. “Growing up in the 21st century, we have witnessed the increased monetization of joy and suffering alike, as the internet has rapidly subsumed our culture and creativity”, the directors explain. Throughout their short, they push this idea to the extreme, using genre to craft an insane and horrifying narrative where reality gets consumed by virtuality. “We were inspired by the horror of watching more and more people concern themselves with the presentation of their actions online than with the efficacy of those actions,” the filmmakers add.

To push their concept, the directorial duo places a real life tragedy in direct conflict with virtual life. This contrast creates an absurdity that they keep on deepening as the film progresses. For the male protagonist, the narrative quickly becomes a descent into madness – one that seems impossible to stop. The short gets crazier and crazier as that storyline unravels, but what’s truly scary here is that we can’t help but wonder if in 50 years, MANTIS STREAM! will still feel extreme, or will it have turned into a mundane occurrence. This loss of authenticity and the growing importance of performativity is perfectly compounded in the protagonist’s misfortune.

“A live-action long-take that progressively began to include digital zooms and rotoscoped elements before fully transitioning into a 3D animated scan of our filming location populated with rotoscoped live-action characters” – the duo explain their production approach

“We wanted to create a descent from a physical world into digital madness in real time,” the directors reveal when discussing the visual style of the film. MANTIS STREAM! starts with a visual language rooted in reality, with much of the initial absurdity emerging through the performances. As the story moves forward, however, editor Mark Neil infuses chaos in the pacing, while DP Mitch Holson creates a frantic energy with the framing and the way he moves the camera. Sound designer and composer Joseph Carroll enhances this blend of danger, havoc and absurdity with a soundscape that keeps the audience both alert and confused. Little by little, the film becomes crazier in every possible way, culminating in what the directors describe as a complete “collapse into digital pandemonium” – a process the extend into the end credits of the film, which were created by “datamoshing it all to shit”.

MANTIS STREAM! LIKE & SUBSCRIBE had its online debut after it won the Vimeo Staff Pick Award at the 2026 SXSW Film & TV Festival, where it was selected in the Midnight Competition. Although the duo admit that their next projects are all very much in the pre-production stage, CLUSTERFUCK! is currently working on the development of both a miniseries and a feature. 

Within families, both tangible – heirlooms – and intangible – memories – inheritances are passed down across generations. In Ruth Hunduma’s powerful short film, The Medallion, these two forms of legacy converge as a piece of her mother’s jewellery, handed down to the filmmaker, becomes a catalyst for reflection on life in Ethiopia during a period marked by political violence and massacres.

The film opens in a poetic fashion: a voiceover lyrically describes the land of Ethiopia, accompanied by a montage of evocative imagery. This immersive exposition establishes the tone for a work that is at once deeply personal, historically unflinching and formally experimental. While The Medallion engages with questions of family and identity, it also offers a stark examination of the period of state violence in 1970s Ethiopia known as the Red Terror.

Archival footage is used effectively throughout The Medallion

Prior to watching The Medallion, my own awareness of this historical episode was non-existent. Hunduma has noted that this relative absence of knowledge in the West – alongside limited media attention surrounding the more recent Tigray War – formed a key motivation for the project. As she explained, in this interview on myDylarama: “The Red Terror genocide came and went, and remained relatively unknown in its aftermath, and I had a deep dread that the same would happen.”

As with many filmmakers who focus their work on conflict, Hunduma seeks to expose the human element behind these events. The use of archival footage in The Medallion provides important context, but it is the testimony of her mother, Tsehay, that proves most affecting. Her recollections of the violence she witnessed carry a weight that surpasses visual representation; though delivered with composure, the emotional resonance is unmistakable.

The closing statement of the filmmaker’s mother, Tsehay, leaves a reverberating impact.

Crucially, this sense of pain is not confined to the past but extends into the present, shaped by a perceived lack of global empathy toward ongoing conflicts. Her closing reflection – “If a million Black people die, they won’t mind. But if one white person dies? That’s what everyone wants to talk about” – underscoring this enduring imbalance.

In this respect, The Medallion also highlights the broader significance of the short film form. Beyond serving as a platform for emerging filmmakers, it can play a vital role in preserving and disseminating historical narratives that might otherwise remain largely unheard. Without this film, my own understanding of the Red Terror would likely have remained limited; the same may be true for thousands of the film’s other viewers.

While written records of the period certainly exist, Tsehay’s testimony offers an immediacy and emotional clarity that is difficult to replicate. It stands not only as a powerful act of remembrance, but also as a compelling demonstration of the capacity of short film to bear witness and protect memories. For these reasons, it’s a film we’re proud to share on Short of the Week.

Tati works at a high-end clothing store with a snarky boss, but she needs the job. One day, a childhood friend walks into the boutique and disrupts the fragile balance Tati has built for herself. With Rainbow Girls, writer-director Nana Duffuor crafts a tale of resistance against gentrification and systemic inequality, infusing it with infectious energy through three empowering characters.

“From the first time I heard of the Rainbow Girls, I was fascinated”, Duffuor quickly confessed. As the film establishes early through its title card, the story is indeed based on real events. Duffuor explains that the title refers to “a loose band of Black trans and cisgender women in their late teens and early twenties, who launched a string of robberies targeting San Francisco’s most exclusive luxury brand stores in 2013″.

Jai Stephenson as Tati in Rainbow Girls

Having witnessed first-hand the gentrification driven by the Bay Area tech boom, Duffuor also recalled a friend working in retail who shared that employees were “being trained to deal with groups of young women swarming high-end stores”. From that premise, she created three characters with distinct backstories, allowing Rainbow Girls to bring multiple perspectives to both the heist layer of the narrative and its broader depth.

That heist aspect of the film, along with Duffuor’s decision to begin at the end, gives the structure an engaging quality as we follow Tati’s journey. She is an easy character to root for, and the film quickly invests us in her success – an element of the film the writer/director needs to take great credit for. In general, the way Duffuor has built all her characters makes the film all the more entertaining, as every character (even the supporting ones) feels grounded and shaped by compelling backstories. No-one here is reduced to caricature and through this ensemble Duffuor paints a vivid picture of San Francisco and of Tati’s world.

While the heist provides much of the film’s energy and pleasure, Duffuor also uses the narrative to explore inequalities of wealth and privilege. She infuses her screenplay with perfectly-timed micro-aggressions that gradually push Tati toward transgression. And while watching the Rainbow Girls unapologetically fight against the system is empowering, the film also has a very effective emotional layer. The sense of sisterhood Duffuor depicts, and how communities have to stand together to survive is unexpectedly quite poignant. Her reflection on how San Francisco has changed is handled with subtlety, yet remains undeniable.

Nava Mau as Giulia (the Store Manager) in Rainbow Girls

We’re big fans of Nava Mau (All the Words but One) at S/W, and she is perfect in Rainbow Girls in a somewhat antagonistic role. But it’s the chemistry between Jai Stephenson, Sis Thee Doll and Céline Jackson that makes the film so resonant – from sense the sisterhood to the way their different personalities complete one another. Stephenson is especially compelling in the role of Tati, bringing both vulnerability and resolve to her performance.

Rainbow Girls is having its Online Premiere on S/W today after a successful festival run including selections at BFI Flare and Urbanworld, winning awards at NewFest and New Orleans. A feature adaptation of the short is currently in development. 

Modern life is pretty divorced from nature. For a city-dweller like myself, I can vividly recount – and treasure – my rare encounters with animals that, unlike our urban neighbors, the pigeons and squirrels, “don’t belong”: the badger who surprised me out of a tree in Berkeley, or the hawk who liked to rest on my fire escape in Queens. Driving up the 5 in California, I once even stopped my truck along the highway to get out and meet a zebra amidst a field of cows.

These moments feel like small ruptures in the routine, flashes of something wilder just beneath the surface. But their magic depends on distance. Spend enough time with these “visitors,” and the wonder has a way of fading. We will turn a lone interloper into a celebrity, but scale the encounter up, make it constant, and the mood shifts closer to something like the uneasy coexistence of Nuisance Bear.

Callie Barlow‘s short documentary, Our Neighbors, the Peacocks, is a portrait of what happens when that distance is non-existent. Set in Arcadia, California, the film follows a suburban community where history and tradition have contrived to place hundreds of wild peafowl in an otherwise nondescript neighborhood bordering Los Angeles. The peacocks provide a majestic, fleeting experience for visitors, but for residents, they are a daily fact of life – one that oscillates between enchantment and exasperation.

“Most alarming, was the cacophony of screeching that can only be described as a yee-awh akin to the yell of a thousand dying cats”

Barlow was first drawn to the neighborhood as a tourist, enticed by the legend of the peacocks, and came away captivated, describing a scene as “…so dizzying that I could not get it out of my mind. There were hundreds of wild peafowl taking over a few neighborhood blocks – they grouped together on lawns, in full feather displays, vying for a chance to mate; peahens darted across the street, dodging cars, looking for the best offering of worms and flowers; peacocks flew into trees by the dozens, and leapt roof to roof. Most alarming, was the cacophony of screeching that can only be described as a yee-awh akin to the yell of a thousand dying cats.”

Barlow returned with a camera, and what follows is less a conventional narrative than a carefully structured mosaic of perspectives. Residents speak with a mix of reverence and frustration – some see the peacocks as a daily miracle, a direct line to the natural world; others are kept awake at night, their roofs damaged, their patience worn thin. Every few years, the conflict spills into civic life, with calls for relocation programs clashing against a vocal contingent determined to protect the birds at all costs.

“You can easily get beyond the noise and roof damage and find a deeper appreciation for the natural world, right in your front yard,” Barlow explaining what the people of Arcadia taught her

Barlow comes to the film after more than a decade producing high-profile documentary work, including the pioneering brand storytelling project, The Avant Garde Diaries, and roles at Future of Film, RYOT, and Nat Geo. That experience is evident in Our Neighbors, the Peacocks, her directing debut. Formally, the film operates in a polished, public-television register that we sometimes look askance at – cleanly shot interviews, tidy thematic organization, a steady rhythm of anecdote and observation. But here, that clarity works to its advantage. Without a singular dramatic hook, the film instead builds momentum through accumulation, toggling between human testimony and the hypnotic, often absurd spectacle of the peafowl themselves. The result is a piece that, while not reaching for formal fireworks, remains consistently engaging; its construction across 20-minutes is tight enough that the material never overstays its welcome.

If there is a limitation to the approach, it is a certain repetitiveness in its coverage, as there are only so many variations on “they’re beautiful but loud” that the film can cycle through. Yet even this speaks to the underlying reality it depicts: a stalemate, a loop, a community perpetually negotiating the same question without resolution. In that sense, the film’s structure mirrors its subject.

Barlow’s allegiances are not hard to discern, but Our Neighbors the Peacocks resists the urge to resolve the tension it so clearly lays out. Instead, it leans into a modest but resonant idea articulated by its director that living alongside these animals might require “putting aside your own discomforts to find a deeper meaning in nature.” It’s not a radical thesis, but within the context of a culture that increasingly experiences nature at a remove, it lands with quiet force.

It’s just another late night for Joaquin, a high school janitor. Unable to find someone to look after him, he roams the halls of the school with his son – until he hears a noise coming from the gym. Sam Cutler-Kreutz and David Cutler-Kreutz (A Lien, Flounder) are back on S/W with their latest short Trapped. Masters at crafting genuine and effective tension, the directing duo once again creates a complex situation, rich with nuance and layers that make it all the more compelling and thought provoking.

“In this film we try to unpack the questions surrounding generational privilege”

“We are the children of teachers, and the complex balance between students, faculty and administrators was a constant dinner table conversation throughout our childhood”, the filmmakers shared when asked about the inspiration behind Trapped. While, on the surface, the film presents an obvious portrait of inequality, the writer/directors infuse the screenplay with so much more depth. “In this film we try to unpack the questions surrounding generational privilege, which feel integral to the story of Americans and the idea of the American dream”, they explained. Through their story they depict a cycle of inequality, cleverly exploring how wealth and privilege can affect and perpetrate certain problematic and selfish behaviors.

While the power dynamic between the characters is clearly established, and we are never in doubt that it will shift, the filmmakers nevertheless sustain an effective, mounting tension through a series of powerful confrontations and interactions. Narratively, the film unfolds with compelling twists and turns that increasingly encourage empathy for the protagonist as the night progresses. The title of the film is powerful in more ways than one, effectively trapping both Joaquin and the audience. Drawing on the tools of genre, the filmmakers deliver a drama that also operates with the pacing and intensity of a thriller.

Javier Molina excels as Joaquin in trapped

DP Gabriel Crawford Connelly (Sirena) and editor Caitlin Carr (who also worked as editor on the directors’ previous short, A Lien) contribute significantly to that tension, enhancing the screenplay and effectively translating Joaquin’s state of mind to the screen. The rhythm of the film, along with its framing, takes us on the wild ride that this night will turn out to be for Joaquin – moving through stress, urgency, fear, anger, and ultimately relief. Some shots are truly striking, especially those in the gym filled with all the traps. And before you ask – no, they were not AI-generated (it was 2023, after all); the filmmakers explain that they used a mix of real traps and custom-printed images on thick paper.

In the lead role, Javier Molina’s performance as Joaquin is remarkably sincere, raw, and layered. He makes what remains unspoken more powerful than his dialogue, letting the importance of each interaction sink in and enabling the audience to grasp the multifaceted forms of disrespect at play. He is caught between his pride, his role as a father, and his job; all of these responsibilities factor in every decision he makes. Molina consistently brings this depth to each frame he appears in, with the close-ups proving particularly compelling, which in turn makes the ending all the more satisfying and lends the film a sense of relief.

As a lover of storytelling, it is sometimes valuable to be reminded of the enduring power of a well-told yarn. For director Jonathan Pickett (Chicken Stories), that reminder came when he met (then) 75-year-old cowboy singer Johnny Bencomo – a man with an 18-string guitar named Gracie, a movie-star quality and the story of a highly unusual gig – the inspiration for his short film, Deep in My Heart is a Song.

Given that Pickett’s two previous short films were documentaries, it was a natural inclination for him to consider capturing Bencomo on screen with a similar approach. However, after hearing the singer recount the story of this unique and memorable performance, Pickett instead proposed adapting it into a scripted work, with Bencomo playing himself.

“After we finished reading it together, I looked up and saw tears in his big eyes”

“He’d never acted before,” Pickett notes of his lead actor and co-writer, adding that he had “never [even] been on a film set.” Nevertheless, after receiving the script by mail, Bencomo – by Pickett’s account – “took a leap,” prompting the filmmaker to travel to Tombstone, Arizona, where the singer resides, just a few days later. “After we finished reading it together, I looked up and saw tears in his big eyes. He said, ‘My friend, what a tear-jerker we’ve got on our hands,’” Pickett recalls.

With his recent short films rooted in nonfiction, Pickett admits he was “excited by the challenge of bringing that skillset to scripted filmmaking,” ultimately finding that the differences in process were not as pronounced as one might expect. His guiding principle? “Working to create conditions under which magic might be able to unfold: train your camera on fascinating people, frame them in beautiful places, and work with talented and committed collaborators.”

Lindsay Burdge stars as a daughter trying to give her dying mother one last taste of Country music

There is a timeless quality to Deep in My Heart is a Song, enhanced by the textured aesthetic of shooting on Super 16mm, which lends the film a dreamlike, almost ethereal atmosphere. Yet, despite this slightly fantastical feel, the short remains grounded in its performances and emotional core. Its central trio – Bencomo, Lindsay Burdge (star of S/W favourite Fill Your Heart with French Fries) and Annalee Jefferies – bringing a warmth and sincerity that anchor the film.

It is ultimately this human element that proves most compelling. The film could easily veer into something sombre or even morbid, yet instead it feels life-affirming – marked by generosity and compassion. At its core, it is a film about people, a point Pickett himself underscores when reflecting on his intentions:

“Having a professional creative career seems to have all these formalized definitions and metrics of success, but the true value and fulfillment come from the moments of ineffable connection that the art facilitates. That’s what makes filmmaking worth it to me, and I’m so thankful to Johnny for teaching me that.”

We’re subscribers to the theory that much of what we lionize as “creativity” in storytelling isn’t about inventing wholly new forms, but about the alchemy of combining familiar elements in unexpected ways. Dustie Carter’s pilot short for a proposed indie series, Heck to Death, is a sharp demonstration of that idea—its pleasures coming less from reinvention than from the novelty of what it chooses to fuse. The spark of its premise—the immediate recognition of what’s being mashed together—lands quickly and persuasively, creating an eagerness to see where the team might take it next.

Heck to Death is, at heart, a love letter to the DIY hardcore music scene. Carter, who once played in a small band, recalls “…nights packed into basements where identity, chaos, and community collided.” That connection gives the film an essential grounding and helps infuse the film with a necessary authenticity.

But the film isn’t interested in documenting the scene with anthropological rigor. Authenticity is abundant, but realism isn’t the goal. Instead, Heck to Death maps a familiar YA zero-to-hero arc onto this setting: a protagonist seeking belonging, an attractive love interest to impress, a rival to overcome. Tonally, it lands somewhere between The O.C. and a shonen sports anime, with the rhythms and emotional beats of both.

That may not sound especially radical, but exploring new subcultures via the safety of narrative familiarity works. Newness often emerges through reframing. Swap surfers for street racers and Point Break becomes The Fast and the Furious; here, the well-worn coming-of-age template is refracted through hardcore’s abrasive, communal energy. The result is a productive tension: the universal anxieties of youth—love, identity, status—colliding with a subculture that codes as aggressive, even dangerous. It’s a juxtaposition the film smartly leans into, and one that promises deeper exploration if the project expands.

Unsurprisingly, the film’s greatest strength is its energy. The climactic performance sequence is where Carter’s connection to the scene comes fully alive. A mix of locked-off compositions and kinetic handheld camerawork pop, creating a sense of manic, barely-controlled chaos, while the decision to cast performers who can actually play does wonders for the sense of immersion in the scene.

The film isn’t without its rough edges. Like its fictional band, Heck to Death is a scrappy, low-budget effort. The opening scene suffers from muddled audio, making it difficult to parse, and the protagonist remains somewhat generic. Performances vary, though Carter shows a strong instinct for casting in key roles, particularly the rival and love interest. Still, pilots operate by a slightly different metric than standalone shorts. The question becomes less about perfection and more about potential: do you want to spend more time in this world? Legitimate quibbles aside, the answer for Heck to Death is “hell yeah!”

The film arrives online today after a healthy festival run, highlighted by a prize at Colorado’s SeriesFest. For those tracking the still-emerging space of independent TV pilots, the festival remains its most vital showcase, even as larger players like Tribeca, SXSW, and Sundance have built out their own parallel tracks. Carter will return to SeriesFest next month with a new project, Octarine, but continues to develop Heck to Death. Here’s hoping that a robust reception online for this pilot short film can help create a groundswell of energy and support for that endeavor.