Latest Short Film Reviews

Lasagna Run is a supremely inventive absurdist comedy, written and directed by James Livitski. Within the space of less than four minutes, it depicts a simple journey with erratic, stylistically punchy visual flair. We follow a woman with anxiety who realises that she needs to retrieve her homemade lasagna from the oven and deliver it to her neighbour’s house as soon as possible. This short but arduous journey of her’s is conveyed in heightened, expressionistic terms as she traverses gruelling natural landscapes and extreme weather conditions.

The film is a technical triumph and creatively ambitious; yet it’s also definitively a work of entertainment, accessible to the casual viewer (a useful asset for a film wishing to bring attention to the subjective experience of anxiety, as this one does so successfully).

Director Livitski and director of photography / editor Matt Popowich clearly have an instinctive visual attitude and a sturdy knowledge of cinema. Within just the opening shot – a virtuosic zoom through reflection – they demonstrate stunning visual confidence. Then, when our protagonist runs to the kitchen, there are obvious yet well-implemented notes of Scorsese (specifically the rush in the second half of Goodfellas, the use of handheld through a domestic setting). But it’s the piece’s middle portion – its montage of landscapes, composed in a wide, flat, Wes Andersonian style – that is nothing less than masterful. Our filmmakers make it look easy, but the degree of preparation and visual specificity that must go into a sequence such as this cannot be overstated.

For this to work well, they needed to select the right medium focal length so as to compress the image enough to bring a painterly arrangement, but not so long a lens that would obscure any subjects or create a disconnect of depth between foreground and background. They then expertly utilise deep focus to create that Wed Andersonian flatness and compositional intricacy. And from an editorial standpoint, these are also effectively ‘match cuts’, wherein each shot should consistently mimic the position of the camera in relation to the subject. This is all incredibly high-level stuff cinematically speaking, and a genuine testament to the skill of the filmmakers.

There’s also an expert use of sound design and music to both heighten the suspense (through the use of rapid drumbeats) and immerse us in the quickly changing environments. It should be noted that the sound was designed and the music composed by one individual, Ethan Myers – an impressive accomplishment. Additionally, praise should go to the colour grading which is some of the best I’ve seen in a short film recently; the palette consists of gentle tones, yet somehow still vibrant and pleasing to the eye, with a subtle touch of film grain to form an organic look.

It’s a pretty unique thing to see a short film, concerned primarily with anxiety, that adopts a comedic tone to explore its issue. Not only that, but to maintain the feelings of panic and disorientation – whilst also building a cinematic world which is so aesthetically pleasing and gleeful – is not something easily achieved.

Short, Australian movie Mothmama, from filmmaker Jessica DiCosta, feels as invasive as it is poignant, showcasing the dramatic impact of social media on childhood.

Riley (Gabriella Hirschson) and her mother Sarah (Audley Anderson) appear to have a loving and tender relationship. We see their intimate bond through hairbrushing, playing hangman in the bathroom mirror, and doing dance routines together to post on social media. Riley, however, experiences numerous panic attacks where she feels like she’s being watched from outside her home, and Sarah’s motherly attention is exposed as a clout tactic.

At times, reminding me of a film like It Follows or The Strangers, Mothmama is certainly leaning more towards the thriller side of dark drama. Presenting social media like a home invader (which it totally is!), DiCosta smartly taps into the creepier side of being a younger Creator. The fluid camerawork and slow zooms on Riley feel voyeuristic, and the depressing climate of the school playground is tantamount to dystopia.

Whilst the strangers observing Riley from outside her home feel threatening, it is the tragic reality of the parenting she receives that is most significant. No father figure in sight, and the mother’s seemingly dutiful routines feel warped by the necessity to “show her best life”. Yes, she brushes Riley’s hair, but is that so her videos look good? Yes, she comforts Riley during a panic attack but then posts a video about how to deal with kids and anxiety. It feels traitorous and insipid. The neglectful behaviour is revealed further when Riley asks for some cheese and is directed by Sarah to a mouldy bag at the bottom of the fridge.

Like moths to a flame, our attention towards our devices has never been so intense. The frankly shameful reality of this for children is powerfully rendered onscreen with Mothmama. A shocking and unnerving glimpse at the slippery slope for parents who fail to take their eyes off their screens for long enough to see the harm being done to their offspring.

Mothmama was an official selection at the 2026 Venice Film Festival and is currently available to stream via Festival Scope.

Underpass follows a couple, Leo (Simeon Weedall) and Julianne (Alice Sykes), who meet at underpasses to dance as part of an affair and realise it has to stop. Underpass is a short, dialogue-free film that relies entirely on visual storytelling through physicality and body language within the two central performances.

The film was shot entirely in London in underpasses and cuts between a neon-drenched environment and a bare-bones setting to convey the characters' realities converging. While some viewers may find the complete lack of dialogue discouraging, the film's unique visual style and performances drive the narrative’s themes and tone forward. Although the film sometimes feels overly reliant on style over substance, its striking visuals do much of the heavy lifting, providing enough thematic depth to keep the experience from feeling excessively stylised.

While the film adopts an incredibly brisk runtime, it's suitably paced without feeling rushed or overstaying its welcome. That said, the lack of characterisation and context surrounding the two central characters, Leo and Julianne, detracts from the experience, making it difficult to connect with the narrative on an emotionally resonant level. The filmmakers clearly intended the experience to be singular in both style and aesthetic; however, its reliance on elaborate dance choreography and neon-drenched lighting can ultimately make the narrative structure feel disjointed. Despite these issues, Ella Rose Howlett’s editing is remarkably effective, with rhythmic transitions between scenes that make the experience flow seamlessly.

One of the film's greatest aspects is its camerawork. Jem Karto serves as the film's cinematographer and does a mesmerising job of framing each dance sequence and intimate scene between Leo and Julianne. It's a wonderfully blocked and staged film that relies heavily on wide framing and close-ups to emphasise the intimacy that grows between the two central characters in the underpasses. The film also possesses some incredible dance choreography that keeps the narrative engaging. These sequences are assisted by Harry Brokensha’s musical score. The score is incredibly understated during the more intimate moments, with profoundly moving motifs that complement the tone and chemistry between the two leads. Harry Brokensha's score becomes more operatic during the dance sequences and as the characters move around the environments in a surreal fashion.

Perhaps most impressive in Underpass are the two central performances by Simeon Weedall and Alice Sykes, who portray Leo and Julianne, respectively. Their performances are incredibly magnetic, driven by their impressive chemistry and physicality in their dance choreography and body language. Despite the dialogue-free nature, they both convey a profound sense of empathy and kinetic energy through dance and love for one another.

While the film takes a drastic tonal shift in its final moments and concludes on a somewhat sombre note, the technical elements are profoundly uplifting and may leave viewers wanting more after the credits roll.

Underpass is a kinetic and moving portrayal of two individuals coming together through dance and desire. While it may suffer from a disjointed narrative structure and lack of characterisation, it's a worthwhile sensory experience that boasts two wonderful central performances and excellent dance choreography.

Within the empty rooms of his mind, a man wrestles with memories of happier times, as his wife and younger self push through from the past to light up the dark spaces of the present.

Jonah (Dexter) is having trouble remembering. He’s old and lives alone, and hasn’t very much around him in terms of personal effects to keep him familiar with and full of the past. His walls are mostly bare, there’s no family photographs anywhere, and Jonah lives a typical male life of simplicity and economy, without clutter or memorabilia. What Jonah does have though, is music, and the remembrance of his wife through the tune that they would dance to when they were young and in love.

Putting the record on switches some kind of light on in Jonah, too, and memories keep coming back to him about the time he spent with his wife, Alma (Sargent), in the house that seems so dark and grey to him now. As he moves through the rooms he keeps finding different snippets of their past together, remembering how she was, the conversations they had, and the loving times they had spent. He’s there, too, younger (Athinou) and so sure of himself, not realising what he had when it was all right in front of him. And then it is all gone again.

These memories seem to be a blessing and a curse for Jonah, as they call back to something that he couldn’t hold onto. His life now is so empty, drab, and dreary, compared to what he had then, and it is a real wrench for Jonah to keep going through reminiscences that he’s not sure are always going to be there, with his memory failing and his age catching up to him. Much like Anthony Hopkins in The Father (2020) he’s not always so sure now what is real, what is remembered, and what is a false memory.

Told with real care and attention by director and co-writer, George Carter, Golden Years invites us into Jonah’s ever decreasing world to witness the end of a story. Even in the quick ten minutes we have with him, we know Jonah, and feel with him, and understand him, as he wrestles with the images that hold so much for him. The small, single location of the house never feels restrictive, and in the hands of Carter, each new room holds a different surprise and another piece of the jigsaw, as Jonah desperately tries to fit the pieces of his life back together.

With Jono Tarrant’s cinematography capturing the essence of light and dark in Jonah’s life, keeping the memories warm and cosy, and the present cold and grey, along with Elliot Iddon’s accompanying music, which fits neatly and seamlessly into the narrative, Golden Years builds a feeling and an atmosphere around Jonah that fully encapsulates his life on screen. The way the characters interact, sharing the same space but perhaps not the same time, is elegantly handled as Carter shows us the story from all angles, deciding who to put in the frame, whose emotion to capture, and showing us who is looking at who, as they all move around each other in a dance.

For what is a student film on a small budget, Carter manages to build his vision through the team around him, who all pull together to bring their expertise to bear. Each element works well on screen and fits together to build the narrative that Carter is looking for, allowing us into Jonah’s story in an effective and familiar way. While the themes and scenario are fairly universal, it is how the story is told that really beings the viewer into the experience of what Jonah is going through, and with that Carter has led with his vision to create something that speaks to the audience clearly and emotionally, even if you think you can half remember seeing something similar somewhere before.

Loving Silence follows Jerome (J.J. Bozeman), a young man who runs into his ex-partner, Luke (Addy Marsh), at a silent retreat. As they begin to reconnect through silence, their past threatens to unravel their present. Loving Silence is a self-funded short film made by a five-person production team with minimal production costs.

Perhaps one of the most impressive aspects of Loving Silence is its incredibly unique and heartfelt narrative. While the film may have worked better as a feature-length narrative, the filmmakers waste no time pulling the audience into the silent retreat and introducing the two central characters. The use of voiceover works well, with brief exposition explaining how the retreat works to the central character, Jerome. Sadly, one of the biggest issues is the lack of characterisation. Despite the powerful use of silence throughout, it is hard to feel emotionally invested in Jerome’s reconnection with Luke, as the runtime and lack of context don’t give the audience enough time with either character to understand their relationship. What's not said is incredibly moving, and thankfully both J.J. Bozeman and Addy Marsh’s chemistry is magnetic.

The production value is another memorable technical standout, as the retreat feels incredibly lived-in with a plethora of impressively designed cabins around the area. It's a fly-on-the-wall experience: the camera lingers on each character and captures so much emotion through each performance. Jett Cain, the film's cinematographer, does an astounding job capturing each character's emotion and the silence they have to overcome to heal their wounds. The piece primarily consists of fixed camera movement with unique framing choices such as extreme close-ups during moments of intimacy and characters in recollection. The camera also shifts to tracking the central character as he moves around the retreat, an apt choice as it places the audience firmly within his point of view.

It's a beautifully edited and well-paced film; despite its brisk runtime, the narrative never feels rushed, and its themes of love and desire continue to resonate. That being said, there are some bizarre editing choices, with inserts of flashbacks integrated into pivotal scenes that feel jarring and out of place. While these flashbacks are integral to both characters' arcs, they sadly fail to resonate due to their bizarre placement in the narrative. Despite these issues, the musical score elevates the more pivotal narrative beats with some whimsical motifs that match the characters’ need for connection and comfort.

Both central performances, by J.J. Bozeman and Addy Marsh as Jerome and Luke, respectively, are incredibly moving. Their performances are all the more impressive given the dialogue-free nature of the piece, with their body language conveying so much of what they feel for each other. Despite the lack of characterisation, their chemistry shines through the film's flaws, and the use of silence makes it even more compelling. While both actors are giving it their all, there ultimately isn’t enough buildup for the romance to connect emotionally.

Loving Silence is a heartfelt piece of filmmaking about letting go and finding closure in oneself through silence. Despite the film’s many flaws, it tells a beautiful story, clearly crafted with its heart in the right place when it comes to its exploration of queer love and desire.

The Long Spring (2025) is a critical short film portraying the tragic realities of many young lives who are victims of human trafficking as a result of unsafe migration routes. Olly Ginelli’s directorial proof of concept won the Best Film award at the Soho Independent Film Festival and received several other awards and nominations at various festivals. With a minute-long runtime, The Long Spring is crisply shot, features impeccable sound design, and has well-written, fully rounded characters despite audiences' brief time with them on screen. 

The film begins as viewers meet siblings, a brother and a sister, both seeking refuge and eager to start their new lives. On the one hand, the sister is exhausted and apprehensive about their journey. She is visibly panicky and uncertain about how safe they are, rightfully so, given the treacherous journey they are bravely taking on. On the other hand, her brother appears bold in the face of danger. Whilst his fear is still perceivable to viewers, he acts as a comforting leader for his sister, using light humour to brighten her mood and reassure her that they will be okay. Meanwhile, also inside the container are several other afraid and conflicted men and women, unsure of whether they have made the right decision in seeking refuge.

Heavily highlighted are the brutal conditions that the migrants undergo to seek safety. Attention is drawn to the way that passengers’ basic needs are not met, such as being able to use a toilet. This is indicated through performances from the smaller cast members whose disgust and discomfort at the odours within the container are emulated strongly. Having this added detail is extremely powerful given the film’s message, as it brings to the forefront that it is more beneficial for these asylum seekers to risk their lives and put themselves in horrible situations than to stay in a country where they are not safe.

The cast of The Long Spring is small, largely using unprofessional actors; however, it is incredibly strong in portraying the story and feelings involved. The chemistry between the main sibling dynamic is beautiful to watch, as viewers sense the impact of the brother’s reassurance for the sister, and how having each other by their sides makes all the difference. Their loving relationship is heartwarming to see, and importantly highlights the innocence and normality of the individuals who are seeking refuge, a fact that is often ignored by the radical right who are hateful towards those who leave their country in search of a safe home. 

Many aspects of the sound design are excellently done, accompanied by crisp location shooting, with effective use of wide and tight spaces, characterised by the sinister darkness of the night. The music in the film adds brilliantly to certain scenes, artfully incorporating the language and cultures of nations. The final 30 seconds of the film involve an ingenious contrast to the first and main segment, as the filmmakers literally bring to light the realities of modern slavery, placing the viewers within a reality they recognise, following on from the story of the film. 

As The Long Spring gains increasing traction, viewers may await the upcoming Television Screenplay which the short is being developed into, an exciting, refreshing project hopefully to be available on Netflix or Insight MP in the future. It is impossible to overstate the cruciality of this story, as more and more people become victims of human trafficking every day, and governments continue to fail to provide safe routes for migrants, leading them to have to make the very difficult decision of risking their lives for a chance of safety.

Dogbone (2025) is a short graduation film, written and directed by Austen Taylor Pease. It follows Mark (played by Jude Pollitt), a teenager who plays football as a homage to his late father, who was a massive football fan. The abuse by his football coach and the suicide of his teammate Simon cause Mark to spiral, as he is engulfed in grief and the dark reality of his sport.

This film was exceptionally crafted to be deeply emotional and gripping. What seems to be a very uncomplicated script hides many layers and complexities through the multifaceted characters and amazing performances from the cast. I was surprised by the quality of Jude’s performance and his ability to portray such saddening trauma so beautifully.

The story was very powerful and eye-opening, with the film making comment on the terrible side of grassroots football culture in such a cinematic way. The visuals, sound and even the casting were all very professional and to an impeccable standard. Despite the strategically used original music and crisp shots, the performances were not lost at all. The strength of this film comes from its ability to engage audiences in its compelling and sensitive topic.

There are a few moments that stand out in particular. The performance of Mark’s mother (played by Lucy Dixon) as she breaks down and apologises for not being able to protect her son was very touching. The reveal of Mark’s injuries and his anger was a very moving scene also. The end moments where Mark moves through the camcorder-captured memory offer audiences a glimpse at what he and his mother have lost, emphasising their grief and the hard-hitting plot. This was such a heartwarming, yet heartbreaking way to end such a reflective and sombre film.

My only criticism is that I would have liked some more insight into Mark’s relationship with his teammate Simon, who committed suicide. Without taking away from the protagonist’s focus, some flashbacks of them together and to actually see Simon in the film may increase the emotional depth even further.

The aesthetics of the scribbly film title was a nice personal touch; I would have liked to understand the meaning behind the title ‘Dogbone’, however.

Overall, this was a captivating and passionate film, produced to be polished and to look almost high-budget. The performances stood out the most throughout, with the cast’s ability to open themselves up like that to the camera being highly admirable.

A criminal wants to tell us that really he’s a good guy, that he’s just a victim of circumstance, and that the criminal justice system is really just a joke to anyone who’s been on the inside.

Starting us off with a couple of statistics about reoffending in the UK; 33.2% of those released from custody or starting court orders, growing up to 55.5% of those released from custodial sentences of less than 12 months; you might think that writer/director, Chris Clynes is going to give us some sort of short, sharp documentary into life beyond the criminal justice system. Instead what he’s got for us in Good Guy, is a two-act play with him as the star.

Sitting with his shirt off, and proudly displaying his wolf neck-tattoo, our guy starts talking to us directly through the camera. He’s chugging some cheap Stella knock-off and is waxing lyrical about how easy it gets to do time on the inside. Every so often he looks straight down the barrel to leave us in no doubt that he’s talking to us, but really he’s just pleasing himself in bigging up how much of a man he is, and how the system is bullshit, and how no-one could be expected to live by the normal rules – which is why he keeps finding himself in prison all the time.

The camera stays fairly static throughout, just with a dramatically slow push shot thrown in towards the end of the monologue, and we’re left sitting with Guy, listening to his ranting until he’s done. That is until about half-way through, where we get some transition, and then we’re into scene two, where he’s got some clothes on, but is standing against a similarly bare white wall as before, with the light off. A phone call with Nan provides some emotional context to Guy’s story and finally we see some vulnerability as he contends with perhaps knowing that he’s not always making the best choices in life. A sad lament for a violent thug.

What we get during the fourteen-minutes of Good Guy is an almost static chamber piece, written in two acts, filmed in HD from a single camera and microphone, and performed in monologue by the guy who wrote it, who we can tell from his fake temporary tattoos and peely-wally body that would only get him some admirers on the inside, has probably never actually seen the real insides of a prison. This can make it difficult to connect with Clynes’ performance, too, as we witness him try to spout vicious hard-man lines, when really he seems more like a gentle creative type who prefers treading the boards.

It’s not that Clynes’ ability to carry off the character isn’t there, it’s just that there’s no action or dynamism to the role to allow him to inhabit his character with any sort of realism or believability. Everything in Good Guy is approached as Clynes knows it, as a play, and so he has presented it as such, from one point of view, talking straight to the audience as though he was on stage, never minding about lighting or audio in front of the camera, and keeping everything very still. The character’s monologue keeps most things vague and uses broad brush strokes, not allowing us to get to know the actual character underneath, but instead gives us a stock, standard, anonymous villain who we never learn anything personal about. Beyond the turmoil of a fairly archetypal character, there’s not much else to see here.

In amongst it all, Clynes does manage to work through his themes and create an arc to the story, to at least make you think when the credits roll. Guy Cooper is an everyman criminal caught in a system that doesn’t care for him, which makes his story one of many. It’s just not clear what makes his story different enough from all the others to tell it.

Egg (2025) is a short film from Darren James King courtesy of Golden Eagle Films and Red Road Productions following the teenager Kelsie (Kezia Cotterrell) as she lives with her abusive stepbrother George (Jake Curran). It is a horrifying and deeply unsettling short film that highlights the brutal realities of domestic violence.

The film begins and ends with the same scene of Kelsie sitting on a bench. As the film opens, there is an ambient yet haunting score that immediately unsettles the viewer and as the camera focuses on the back of Kelsie, a brief siren in the background foreshadows the final scene. The street lights create a great lighting to this scene here too amid the darkness.

King is incredibly effective in his portrayal of domestic abuse which is shown through his mirroring of both characters. When the title screen drops to George sitting in front of the TV, stabbing an egg and swigging from a can of Tyskie, it is evident the kind of character he is. At the kitchen table, however, Kelsie has left her food untouched and she is seen daydreaming with sunlight etched across her face. It is a poignant pair of scenes that captures both characters and highlights signs of this abuse early in the film before the viewer sees it develop.

From this scene onwards, Egg descends into a devastatingly horrific insight into the lives of victims and the humiliation that King decides to revolve around the title of the film, eggs. At times, it becomes increasingly difficult to watch which is only heightened through the performances of both Kezia Cotterrell and Jake Curran. As George, Curran plays an evil, aggressive and unpredictable man that sees delight in the humiliation of his young stepsister. Cotterrell, however, plays this character that defies the weak, timid character as seen through George’s eyes. She gives an incredibly strong performance that leads to a look of pure defiance that terrifies George (Curran). It’s a powerful moment that leads to the film’s full circle final scene and what viewers will feel like to be a satisfying ending that leaves the question, ‘what happens next?’

Egg would not be the film it is without these two lead performances. The film has a short run time, even for a short film, at eight minutes and it’s the characters of Kelsie and George that carry the tension. Viewers may be surprised to learn of the small £250 budget that went into the making of Egg, when the film looks and sounds as good as it does. There are some beautiful shots that showcase King’s excellent eye and the score, as mentioned before, adds to the unsettling harsh reality of the film.

Overall, Egg is a difficult but necessary watch that uses its short runtime to shine a light on the harsh realities of domestic abuse and violence against women. It is anchored by two fantastic performances and King ensures that there is a powerful, defiant ending. It is a film that will stick with the viewer and gives a voice to the voiceless.

A short, poignant drama inspired by true events, written and directed by Kasra Karimi and starring Suzanna Hamilton, Lizzy McInnerny, Francesca Zoutewelle and Mark Edel-Hunt.

Juliet (Hamilton) has lung cancer. She has been in a romantic relationship with Ruth (McInnerny) that they have kept secret from loved ones. The year is 2013 and the British govenrnment is considering the legalisation of same-sex marriage. Aware of this, Juliet and Ruth announce to their relatives that they want to get married before Juliet passes away.

Right from the start, this film makes it clear that it is going to be a heavy viewing, opening with a scene where Juliet poignantly shaves her hair off, while Ruth watches her in sadness. What follows is a great deal of drama, with Juliet undergoing treatment with her partner by her side, while eargerly awaiting for the law enabling same-sex marriage to come into effect. Meanwhile, their decision to marry, especially under such circumstances, creates tension in the family, particularly between Ruth's daughter (Zoutewelle) and son (Edel-Hunt). Confrontations, sadness and comfort ensue and the atmosphere is significantly supported by Alan Snelling's dramatic music.

The narrative could be described as a combinations between a romance, a family drama and a political thriller, with archival footage throughout of same-sex marriage legalisation being debated by politicians. Karimi directs beautifully, creating wonderful shots that are aided by Arushi Chugh's cinematography.

Hamilton and McInnerny deserve great praise for their performances. Hamilton is very moving as a woman battling lung cancer, who hopes to live long enough to marry her partner. McInnerny is just as emotional as a person who is doing her best to support her ill partner and (like Juliet) desperately wants to become marry her. Zoutewelle plays Ruth's understanding daughter, while Edel-Hunt portrays the son who does not understand the situation between his mother and Juliet and therefore is uncomfortable with it.

Deep themes are explored here, terminal illness being one, predominantly how it affects the sufferer and those who care for them. Another major subject is same-sex marriage, how it brings joy but also how it is condemned by those who disagree with its legalisation. Moreover, this short involves courage, support, equal rights and the determination to achieve one's dreams.

A film that utilises same-sex marriage and terminal illness in order to tell a heartbreaking but beautiful story. A main message appears to be that making same-gender marriage legal brings happiness.