Director: James Sweeney
Writer: James Sweeney
Stars: Dylan O’Brien, James Sweeney, Alexa

Synopsis: Two grieving men bond in support group and form unlikely friendship.

Therapy isn’t exactly a one-stop shop for every demon in an individual’s arsenal – “Take it from someone who knows,” he says, as if anyone who has ever gone to therapy hasn’t walked away feeling like the foremost authority on the matter – but in one way or another, it tends to serve as a jumping off point for people, no matter what they happen to be going through. And, for that matter, whether or not they respond to the therapy itself, or just happen to identify with another soul in the grieving circle. In James Sweeney’s triumphant sophomore feature Twinless, Roman (Dylan O’Brien) finds identification with Dennis (Sweeney), both of whom begin attending group therapy specifically for people whose twins have died. The odd thing about it – their connection, not the therapy session, whose leader (Tasha Smith) seems to be more interested in using the group to try out the stand-up routine she and her boyfriend-stealing sister Claire never got to debut together – is that Roman and Dennis have absolutely nothing in common. Their first conversation, unfolding in a diner where Roman inhales a panini while Dennis sits food-less, proves as much. The latter doesn’t seem to know that there’s a city called Moscow anywhere but Idaho; when he complains that his mother has started charging him rent to live in her basement, and Dennis asks how she’s taking it, Roman replies, “Cash.” Because obviously, that’s what Dennis was curious about.

Nevertheless, a friendship blossoms, one based far more on their personal differences and their seemingly similar losses. They bond frequently on trips to the grocery store, attempting to stock Roman’s barren pantry with more than a single pop tart and a jar of olives. The unlikely duo browse bookstores together, with Dennis picking out worthwhile titles based on their cover art, a practice Roman has to warm to given how he was taught not to judge something in such a manner. (One of the many common adages he takes literally over the course of 100 tender minutes.) But there’s far more to Sweeney’s dramedy than what initially meets the eye, that being a film far less about found connection than it is about the root of undisclosed infatuation. It’s a film that starts out feeling like one thing, only to repeatedly rip the rug out from beneath your feet every time you feel even the slightest semblance of comfort.

In less capable hands, Twinless might feel manipulative and overly-calculated for the purpose of deliberately testing its audience’s patience as it takes another twist, and then another turn for good measure. But Sweeney manages to keep things unexpected in a way that doesn’t shy away from the film’s queasy developments, rather embracing them in an effort that highlights a rare grasp of the human condition. When it comes to grief, it’s almost natural to cope by doing things we aren’t proud of; it’s likely that we know we’re doing something wrong, yet aren’t willing to give up the bad habits just yet due to their resuscitative powers. 

As a matter of fact, it’s deliciously ironic that Roman and Dennis encounter one another at a therapy session, given how everything that follows their initially-friendly meet-cute would be a licensed psychologist’s nightmare. It’s difficult to even talk about what unfolds after Twinless’s title card drops a little more than 15 minutes into the picture – never a bad sign – aside from praising its creatives, from the director-writer-star in Sweeney on down to Marcie, the receptionist at Dennis’ office who initially seems a bit too empty-headed to be a character of any consequence yet ultimately allows Twinless to broaden its reach beyond that of a showcase for the never-better O’Brien, exceptional as the evolving Roman in the present and the already-evolved Rocky in occasional flashbacks. Perhaps it only feels that way because Marcie is played by a note-perfect Aisling Franciosi, who revels in the bliss of a role that affords her the opportunity to have a bit of fun on screen, something the Irish actress had yet to experience in her career. (Spoiler: Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale and Twinless have nothing in common.) Or, perhaps the charm she brings to the procession is thanks not only to her chameleonic gifts as a performer, but to Sweeney’s whip-smart script, one that lets its characters breathe rather than forcing those inhabiting them to create something out of nothing. 

Therein lies the true charm to Twinless, a film not without faults but one with more than enough heart to make you willing to look past the elements that make it occasionally feel as though its working too hard to fill the space between the “shockers,” for lack of a better word, of its early, middle, and late-stage revelations. (In case you have yet to catch on, Sweeney is itching to keep you guessing, and is willing to have his work ask for forgiveness later rather than begging, “Hey, would you mind if I wrongfoot you just once more?”) If much of its runtime makes its audience feel a bit too much like Charlie Brown believing that Lucy couldn’t possibly yank the football away at the last second again, there’s plenty of technical prowess to make up for that, too. In Straight Up, Sweeney’s debut, the problem wasn’t entirely with its writing, just that it never went far enough beyond the trappings of its premise, one that seemed to care less about developing its characters than forcing you to accept being fussy as a personality trait. With Twinless, the director in Sweeney seems to have caught up with the scribe; even if he tends to go back to the well one too many times with some editing tricks that will make viewers moan with intrigue one second before inducing an eye-roll the next. He plays with mirrors an awful lot, an obvious metaphor for a movie about twins to settle on as its key visual maneuver, but each one of these shots succeeds in making one question whether or not the film’s key players are willing to accept what’s staring back at them. 

Sweeney’s other go-to – split screens that initially separate the two parties on either side – always resolve themselves by fading away, leaving us with a conjoined image of Roman moving forward and Dennis hurdling backwards into his ever-familiar state of obscurity. If they initially feel like an unnecessary gimmick, much like the film’s multiple surprises, these moments tend to uncover the deepest truths of all: No matter how often we try to identify with the people around us, no matter what they represent, and certainly no matter who we may or may not have shared a womb with, the only person we’re left with in the end is ourselves. Twinless is endlessly curious about whether or not we are willing to accept that, but it’s also wise enough to know that there isn’t a universal answer to that quandary, and certainly no universal way to cope with the dilemma, either. 

Grade: B

Director: Michael Shanks
Writer: Michael Shanks
Stars: Alison Brie, Dave Franco, Damon Herriman

Synopsis: A couple’s move to the countryside triggers a supernatural incident that drastically alters their relationship, existence, and physical form.

Michael Shanks’ Together will likely be the best horror-comedy of the year. Is that a surprise though? It’s got a solid body horror premise. There’s the winning combination of Alison Brie and Dave Franco. It’s a film about love and how baffling it can sometimes be! Wrap that all together, and Shanks’ feature film debut will have won you over from its intriguing opening. Although it plays out in standard horror fashion, it makes a bold promise that brings to mind films like The Thing and From Beyond. As soon as it’s clear that Shanks won’t be afraid to break the rules of horror, genre fans will feel as if they’re in capable hands. And based on the riotous events that occur in Together, that assurance is proven correct.

We meet Millie (Brie) and Tim (Franco) at their going-away party. After years milling around the city, the ever-focused Millie has taken a teaching job in the country and lost puppy dog Tim is tagging along for the move. He’s an aspiring musician who is planning on dropping a self-released EP. The key word is planning, as one gets the sense that Tim, despite being a charmer, doesn’t have the most drive. While Tim catches up with Millie’s brother, he unkindly points out that rather than Tim making Millie more fun, Milllie just made him less cool. Shanks’ film works because the film makes clear that that’s completely false. Franco obviously brings a charm to this character so he’s not too unlikable, but he most definitely is grating. All it takes for that realization is to hear Millie update her friend on some of the recent troubles they have been having as a couple. Even before that, Millie adorably points out that all the guests love how the two of them are wearing similarly-styled outfits. Tim’s reaction is more than enough to elicit a groan. So upon hearing the genuine issues they’re facing, Shanks’ script shines even further in how he depicts the two of them in this first act.

Despite the frustrations both sides of the relationship feel regarding one another, there’s palpable love. They’re adorable together. Of course, it helps to have a real-life couple at the center of this two-hander. The chemistry is clear and it carries this film a long way. It’s not a shock to see that these two remain together in the hopes of reclaiming what once was. It’s in their baked-in chemistry as performers that allow the sharper elements of the script to really shine. They do their best to put on the show of a perfect couple in front of guests, but the not-so-subtle jabs at one another sting. It reveals the underlying problem Together is so interested in, but also makes for awkward comedic beats that work great. Beyond that past love that they’re holding onto for dear life, there’s a lot of built-up resentment, anxieties, fears, and even selfishness that’s being internalized. Before the film even really settles into its full horror premise, there’s nightmarish sequences that, while again occasionally familiar, work quite well. They operate wonderfully as jump scares, but like any great horror, they put a literal face on whatever internal dilemma our characters may be facing.

Starting her new job knowing absolutely nobody, she meets Jamie (Damon Herriman), a fellow teacher who holds out a kind, and perhaps flirtatious, olive branch. While discussing what brought her to the new school, he exclaims how exciting her reply was in reminding him that passion is still possible. While it’s in reference to teachers who genuinely want to bring positive change to the lives of children, it can also be taken as a nod to the lost passion Millie feels in her relationship. There’s another clear-cut metaphor Shanks makes use of to depict how this relationship has made the two feel. 

Tim details a story from his childhood where a rotting rat carcass was stuck in his ceiling. Due to it occurring so gradually, he simply became accustomed to the rotting smell. The deeper Shanks brings us into the relationship of these two, the link is clear. The frustrations Tim and Millie have amongst one another are now being wrapped into being seen as pillars of their relationship. They have intertwined these negative aspects with the love they shared from one another, forcing themselves to put up with it rather than ever face the issue. It’s an upsetting notion to see anybody fall into but will certainly be relatable to some. As is made literal in the film, being together can feel like carrying dead weight if both parties aren’t committed. At one point in the film, a character details what the ultimate intimacy in a relationship is. It’s a warped way of thinking about relationships. But Together explores both sides of its own argument, in turn making for a compelling and thought-provoking film.

In the end, Together doesn’t shame either solution it presents to its audience. On one hand, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a bit more space. Understandable amounts of separation provide more room for love to exist. On the other hand, completely turning oneself over to another person is exciting! It can also be completely freeing, providing you the ability to be your complete self with another person. To quote the great body horror of 2024, you must respect the balance. Together is a twisted, f**ked up romance that’s all about taking the plunge and seeing what works out best in the end!

Together is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Midnight category.

Grade: B+

Director: Andrew Ahn
Writers: Andrew Ahn, James Schamus
Stars: Joan Chen, Bowen Yang, Lily Gladstone

Synopsis: A gay man makes a deal with his lesbian friend: a green-card marriage for him, in exchange for in vitro fertilization treatments for her. Plans evolve as Min’s grandmother surprises them with a Korean wedding banquet.

It can often be worrisome news when it’s announced that an exciting indie director takes on a big blockbuster or remake as their sophomore project. To lose fresh and vital voices of cinema to the machines of cinematic universes is rarely something to cheer on. There are success stories of course. Lee Isaac Chung’s Twisters is one of the more recent examples. Now, another Sundance alum can be added to that list. With The Wedding Banquet, Andrew Ahn provides a much-needed update and delightfully modern spin to the 1993 Ang Lee film of the same name. It’s a faithful remake but isn’t afraid to take liberties as far as shifting the narrative or tone goes. The original film is one that’s both very well-made and quite enjoyable. Ahn’s version takes a solid foundation and improves upon it in a very beautiful way. With his second film, Ahn is showing himself to be a filmmaker who isn’t interested in showing his audience somebody who’s perfect. He’s far more intrigued in depicting people that feel inadequate. And this makes for films that are far more compelling.

Practically every character in The Wedding Banquet grapples with a sense of failure in some way. For some, it takes the form of inadequacy. Chris (Bowen Yang) is afraid to marry his long time boyfriend, Min (Han Gi-chan), as he’s worried Min will be throwing away his career and large inheritance for a mistake. For Angela (Kelly Marie Tran), she’s frightened at the thought of being a mother and messing up the life of her child. Min grapples with the idea that he isn’t allowed to be his true self in front of his grandparents out of worry they’ll be disappointed in him. These are all fairly standard dramatic plot points, but Ahn captures them so tenderly that The Wedding Banquet will capture your heart and not let go until you start to cry. But the film isn’t all drama and reckoning with sadness and familial trauma! In fact, Ahn’s film is often quite lively and full of fun.

The film begins with a lively gala full of dancing, celebration, and live music. Somebody describes Joan Chen dancing on stage as giving mother (Twin Peaks fans are eating incredibly well). For Angela and her partner, Lee (Lily Gladstone), it’s a comically awkward event amongst family members bragging and intruding on personal news. It’s all quite relatable, and that’s even before we meet Chris who is suffering from social anxiety at a party where he knows one other person. Very quickly, Ahn makes each of the central characters so deeply relatable that his viewers will gladly latch onto all of them. We learn that Lee has received a second round of IVF, and this tight-knit group are celebrating the prospect of being one big, happy extended family. It’s a breezy introduction that’s fueled by the clear love these individuals share for one another. They all radiate such joy not only amongst their significant others, but as the true friends they all appear to be. But with enjoying their joys also comes enduring their struggles.

Ahn’s film has pivoted quite a bit from the original in that it appears far more interested in the in-between moments of his character’s lives. So much of the narrative and the humor of the original is in service of building to the wonderful sequence from which the film derives its name. But in this update, we’re given so much opportunity to spend time with these partners and these friends in the quiet moments of their lives. Ahn delves into their worries, their insecurities, their delights, their love. And if anything stands out most, it’s just how beautifully Ahn captures the feeling of love. He has such a warm eye for imagery that reveals itself all throughout The Wedding Banquet. It can be felt in the way Marie Tran looks out the window at Gladstone tending to her garden. It can be felt in the way Yang and Gi-chan playfully come together during their morning routine. It’s just so full of warmth. What makes him equally impressive as a filmmaker is his ability to capture the reverse of this.

Ahn captures pain in ways that sneak up on the viewer. After seeing so much love on screen, it’s heartbreaking when he reveals the antithesis of his previous compositions. In the most conflict-ridden moments of the film, Ahn focuses on the items that once represented such peace and joy in this home. One sequence in particular doesn’t even have any of the characters present, but we can feel the sadness and lack of joy in our core. It’s poetic composition that’s showing and trusting the viewers to intuit using their own emotional intelligence. It’s instances like these which show Ahn is far more interested in the emotional dynamics of this premise, knowing that they are likely relatable across audiences anywhere. But again, that’s not to say The Wedding Banquet isn’t full of fun moments too.

In this film, the curveballs life throws our way are best solved with screwball antics. And so, Ahn delivers several set pieces that just have joke after joke land. The titular banquet itself is an absolute blast and makes for a wonderful crescendo. But even here, Ahn cleverly sneaks the entire crux of his film into a joke. The Wedding Banquet is ultimately about the massive burden familial expectations place on us. In our journeys to become individual people, that burden rears its head in frustrating ways. The irony is, as depicted in one joke during the wedding, we can strive to follow certain traditions and remain rigid to them, all while forgetting their meanings entirely. In the end, perhaps it’s sometimes best to leave traditions and expectations in the past. It’s only after that that we can allow ourselves to live life the way we both desire and deserve to. Whether it’s with actual family coming to terms of who we are or the family we find along the way, all of us are made stronger by the love shared with others. Ahn’s The Wedding Banquet is many things. But perhaps above all else, it’s a heartwarming reminder that we all deserve lives full of complete love.

The Wedding Banquet is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Premieres category.

Grade: B

Director: Mary Bronstein
Writer: Mary Bronstein
Stars: Rose Byrne, Danielle Macdonald, Conan O’Brien

Synopsis: With her life literally crashing down around her, Linda attempts to navigate her child’s mysterious illness, her absent husband, a missing person, and an increasingly hostile relationship with her therapist.

“Time is a series of things to get through.” 

This is a thought that comes into Linda’s (an exceptional Rose Byrne) head when asked what she perceives time to be. It speaks to her worldview so perfectly. How disheartening is that? That life isn’t something that should be experienced, but rather dealt with, until we eventually no longer have things to go through. This is the central conceit around which Mary Bronstein’s If I Had Legs I’d Kick You revolves. How to accurately describe this film proves quite the challenge, but it’s a challenge that Bronstein clearly reveled in creating. This film is a madhouse of sensory overload. It feels designed to make you laugh, wince, squirm, or perform some combination of all three in your seat. It’s also a devastatingly bleak film full of one of the most grim outlooks on life we’re bound to see in a film all year. And yet, If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is also a raucous and exciting film any way you try to look at it. Bronstein has crafted a bold film about how easy it is for the hardships in life to swallow us completely. One thing is for certain; Linda doesn’t have it easy.

The film opens with an intense close-up on Linda’s face. She’s in a group therapy session where her unseen daughter refers to her as “stretchable… like putty.” Linda snaps for feeling as if she’s unable to speak, and delivers a borderline manic monologue about how all this talking, observations included, doesn’t seem to be addressing the issues at hand. Byrne’s performance comes out the gate incredibly strong. It’s easy to buy into an entire film watching her slowly break down psychologically and emotionally when this is her introduction to audiences. Much of If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is played for laughs. At the very least, Bronstein is injecting this film with a sense of cosmic irony that the humor is able to arrive from. So, while audiences will be laughing quite often, there’s a lot more going on here than just empty comedic ideas. In fact, part of what makes If I Had Legs I’d Kick You so impressive is just how quickly Bronstein can shed the laughs of her film for a reaction that’s far more upsetting.

At one point in the film, Linda receives some rather frustrating news in her office. Her reaction is one that will surely be very relatable to most viewers. She grabs a pillow and violently screams into it. We then hard cut to the hallway outside her office. The door opens, Byrne pops her head out, and very calmly tells her next patient to come in. It’s one of the most classic bits in the comedy handbook. And make no mistake, it is just as funny here. But the longer Bronstein’s script torments Linda, the more difficult it is to look at these reactions without some sadness. As her Gen-Z patient drones on and on about an issue she had while shopping on the RealReal, Byrne’s face is weighed down with exhaustion. After screaming into the void for solace, Linda appears numb in the face of issues she deems to be irrelevant. Considering she’s a therapist, this poses a rather concerning issue. But it’s an issue that Bronstein clearly wants to pick apart and go all the way down to the bone with in If I Had Legs I’d Kick You. This feels exceptionally true when thinking about a scene that’s bound to be remembered as one of the best comedy sequences of 2025.

After constant begging from her daughter, Linda acquiesces to her request and the two get into the car with a new pet hamster. From here, things go terribly awry with genuinely gut-busting laughs to likely be the reaction. It’s in this sequence that Bronstein points out the sheer ridiculousness of life. A chain of events can just completely spiral out of control to the point we can no longer process each individual piece at a time. Instead, we can either lash out and completely lose our cool, or take on a completely peaceful aura with the help of some substances and believe everything’s fine. Linda often alternates between both. Can anybody blame her? Life often dumps problems into our lap with little respite. And in most cases, it can overwhelm us to the point where we feel completely helpless and utterly alone. The painful irony of If I Had Legs I’d Kick You can be found right here.

Despite Linda feeling alone (and in many ways, she is), Bronstein surrounds her central character with an unreal ensemble of bit performances. The two that are most integral? Her therapist (Conan O’Brien) and her next-door neighbor (A$AP Rocky). In Linda’s eyes, they’re mostly there to torment and/or anger her. But they are shown to be quite helpful and kind on more than one occasion. Eventually though, it’s far too easy to hit a point where it still feels like we’re stranded on an island of our own making. Linda’s not to be blamed here, but as we watch her fall further and further into the frightening depths of her own mind, we can only hope she reaches out for somebody to catch her. She begins to outright refuse facing any problems head on. O’Brien delivers a perfectly exasperated yet deeply sympathetic tone to ask Linda how she expects anything to get better if inaction is the path she’s choosing. Linda merely replies that it won’t get better. By this point, it’s as if she has conceded to life’s overwhelming sense of defeat.

So the title of Bronstein’s film really says it all: if I had legs I’d kick you. In other words, if we didn’t feel so utterly helpless by life, maybe we could solve some of the problems put in front of us. But if we can’t, then what? What if all our attempts to make things better are met with even more absurd predicaments? One of the inciting incidents of If I Had Legs I’d Kick You sees a massive hole in Linda’s ceiling. As the film goes on, and the hole grows both literally and metaphorically, Bronstein’s film becomes more nightmarish. Visually, sonically, and thematically, Bronstein drags Linda and her audience down into the abyss. It’s here when the climax becomes an emotionally wrought and devastating prospect. Both the film and Linda feel like they have completely given up. The surreal nature of Bronstein’s script begins folding in upon itself. No matter how badly we want to patch the metaphorical holes in our lives, perhaps it’s easier to just succumb to the strength of the waves. At one point in the film, The Book of Matthew is quoted. It’s a passage that questions if it’s perhaps better to give in completely to the void of it all rather than condemn another to that same fate. But a committed Byrne and Bronstein’s perfect method of capturing desperation and facing struggle supply her audience with so much to chew on in the finale. It’s a film that’s both bonkers and panic-inducing. It also happens to be one of the best films of the year.

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Premieres category.

Grade: B+

Director: Ira Sachs
Writer: Ira Sachs
Stars: Rebecca Hall, Ben Whishaw

Synopsis: Conversation between photographer Peter Hujar and Linda Rosenkrantz from 1974 sheds light on New York’s vibrant downtown art world and the introspective journey of an artist’s life.

Peter Hujar’s Day feels dry by design. After all, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Ira Sachs’ latest film is a two-hander chamber piece pulled from a transcript of photographer Peter Hujar (Ben Whishaw) detailing his previous day to friend and writer Linda Rosenkrantz (Rebecca Hall). A relaxed and very great Whishaw details these past moments in a very lackadaisical manner. To an audience, it’s exciting as he rattles off the names of cultural icons he interacted with. The list goes on and on. But to Hujar, these are just people he knows. He still worries about getting paid for photography credits. He gets annoyed with certain interactions. He will occasionally tell a white lie. In some instances, it’s to avoid extended discussions. Other times, he does so without even thinking. Despite his working with some of the most legendary artists who were floating around New York City in the 1970s, he’s just another person on the planet mulling over the mundanities of life. But it’s in those details, both minor and major, that make our lives what they are. And with Sachs’ latest film, he explores these details through vivid recreation, unmatched curiosity, and a clear passion for the simplicity of life. He also goes ahead and finds a way to deliver all of this as a potent thesis on the power of cinema.

Hujar begins by explaining an early morning interaction he had the previous day. As he sat beside somebody having another conversation, he states how he “could’ve listened but wasn’t interested.” It’s quite funny, like much of this film’s deadpan humor is. But it poses an interesting question. By that same token Hujar states, why should we be any more compelled by the day he’s detailing? The answer feels cliché, but it’s simply the power of cinema. In this recreation, we are able to experience a conversation that was previously lost to time. Is it not magical that we can witness a day that occurred 50 years ago? It’s been translated through a page, through a lens, and finally, through a screen. But this day that Hujar is recounting, however trivial it may appear to an audience or even how it appeared to him at the time, will now live forever. And there’s an innate beauty in that.

Perhaps more than anything, Peter Hujar’s Day makes for a compelling cinematic experience. It doesn’t quite fit into the vein of slow cinema, but it at least borrows the style and structure of this style of film. At less than 80 minutes long however, the film is an absolute breeze. In that short time, Sachs forces us to consider just how much can happen in such little time. He also begs us to question the thought of how many moments we can miss in an equal amount of time. At one point, Hujar makes note of how he went back to bed for a nap without removing any of his clothes. He then goes on to say how, upon waking up, he put his clothes back on. Rosenkrantz calls him out on lying, to which Hujar completely admits his mistake. In any other type of film, this would likely force an audience to question whether the narrator is unreliable or not. But here, this folly speaks to something different. In Peter Hujar’s Day, a trivial sequence like this speaks to the moments we can recall most versus the ones that remain fuzzy shortly after occurring before fading into oblivion. And this is why a film like this matters. No matter how trivial, it’s nice to know that we can have and return to a living document of our lives as we experience them.

To look at the day Sachs is recreating on an even larger scale, this is why a project like Rosenkrantz’ is not only so exciting, but matters so deeply. As Hujar nears the end of his day, he points out how, prior to writing down the notes he’d refer to for Rosenkrantz, he initially thought he had wasted a day. He feared there was nothing to report. It’s a feeling that is all too relatable for basically any human on the planet. But here is the physical proof of a day that was not only not wasted, but lived through extensively. Even after being lost for so long, it has been frozen in amber. This is as raw and as realistic as one can get: merely saying out loud what you did within a 24-hour-period. From there, Sachs layers on a ton of artifice to this day. At the very least, it makes for a thought-provoking experiment.

These experimental interstitials and stylistic flairs work to varying degrees in my opinion. Sachs doesn’t shy away from the artifice of cinema. In fact, he appears to revel in it with Peter Hujar’s Day. Visible boom mics appear during shot set-ups. We see clapper boards and mid-scene outfit changes alongside Whishaw and Hall preparing for their respective roles. This transcript from which the film is pulling directly from is an uncut, pure exploration of Hujar’s mind. Even still, Sachs reminds us that what we are seeing is, at the end of the day, play. In Hujar’s recollections, there are, no doubt, liberties taken here and there. It’s a natural facet of storytelling. As Hujar goes through his day to the best of his ability, Sachs reminds us that his film, too, is just a story being told to an audience. These interstitials, though maybe not always necessary, serve as those concrete reminders. And in those reminders, this retelling of a day morphs into a rumination on life. How we interpret our day to day activities ultimately creates the story of our lives one page at a time. And at such a brisk runtime, all should feel welcomed and invited into the day of Peter Hujar through the framework of Sachs’ film.

Peter Hujar’s Day is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Premieres category.

Grade: B-

Director: Meera Menon
Writers: Paul Gleason, Meera Menon
Stars: George Basil, Ali Lopez-Sohaili, Kiran Deol

Synopsis: As the zombie apocalypse unfolds, a podcast host struggles to maintain their dwindling audience amidst the chaos.

It’s often joked about that cockroaches will be one of the few, if only things, to survive in an apocalypse. Interpersonal drama and podcasts also deserve to be in contention for the top spot of apocalyptic immortality. They’re two ever-present staples of our current society, and they seem like they’re going to be here for the long haul. It’s these two elements of humanity that Meera Menon’s Didn’t Die focuses on. And the genre lens through which she picks it apart? The zombie apocalypse. A staple of the horror genre, zombie films have always been at their best when they extend themselves beyond pure gorefests (not that there’s anything wrong with those types of films). But from the moment they were popularized in American cinema, zombies came to represent something far beyond a literally frightening concept. The often mindless creatures served as mirrors, forcing survivors to reckon with guilt, fear, panic, dread, and more. From allegories of racism to trudging through life lacking any ambition, zombies are an excellent hook to convey your ideas physically. With Menon’s return to Sundance, the creatures may take a backseat, but it’s in favor of examining how modern society would now grapple with a lot more time on its hands. And with the apocalypse in full swing, there’s no better time to start that podcast that was always too much of a time suck.

While watching Didn’t Die, I was reminded of a zombie film which I feel is criminally underrated: 2008’s Pontypool. Without delving too much into it, it’s another film that grapples with the presence of technology existing between straggling survivors and a crowd of the undead. Instead of a radio show, Menon’s film uses the much more timely counterpart of a podcast. Vinita (Kiran Deol) hosts one celebrating its anniversary wherein she and her brother travel around the country interviewing survivors and reckoning with the question of what comes next. It can be an overwhelming concept to think about, and it’s one that has been explored time and time again throughout the history of films set during an apocalypse. But when given a microphone and an endless amount of time to record your thoughts running wild, it makes sense that people would begin to find themselves stuck in a cyclical nature of reflection. That’s not an excuse for the film following the path of least resistance at times. Still, it does get to the heart of one half of the more interesting arguments Menon seems to be grappling with in Didn’t Die.

At one point in the film, Vinita is just talking into the void. Her microphone is recording some rambling thoughts before bed. Deol has her own podcast, and this experience (and incredibly soothing voice) lends itself quite well to the character. It’s a performance that perfectly encapsulates the experience of listening to a podcast and how easily we can get sucked into hours upon hours of an escape from reality. Upon taking off her noise-cancelling headphones, she hears the outside world in all its brutal, and frightening, truth. She quickly puts the headphones back on and tries to sleep. Menon then introduces a visual motif that will repeat throughout Didn’t Die. What looks like classic home movies bleed into the frame, before overtaking it entirely. Dreamlike in its introduction and presence, there’s a calming sensation whenever Menon utilizes these moments; but there’s also a yearning. In our endless desire and necessity to fill the blank, mundane spaces of our lives, do our escapes from reality help or hinder us? Is Vinita creating this podcast with a noble intent? Or is it merely a way to escape the current situation she finds herself in alongside her two brothers, sister-in-law, and the ever-growing number of undead? 

The answer to this question shifts slightly over the course of the film. But it’s at its strongest when Menon focuses on the family dynamic initially introduced in the film. Unfortunately, Didn’t Die veers into territory that’s both more familiar and much less interesting. Vinita’s ex-boyfriend, Vincent (George Basil), comes back into her life with a random baby in tow. Vincent is described as a serial cheater to her podcast audience. As the two speak to one another (with her ever-present microphone recording), Vinita looks upon the present with worries about how the past might affect her and her family’s future. It’s a genuine and relatable fear. There’s nothing wrong with looking to the past for answers. It can even be used as a way to propel us forward into reckoning with what the future holds; but it can also hinder us. This should be made clear by the next decision in Didn’t Die, but the choice to ignore any sense of development in favor of bland romance is a frustrating one. When should we return to the past versus when should we not? This question feels like a far more interesting dilemma in line with what the film has built up thus far.

While Vincent and Vinita are sharing this scene together, her two brothers are upstairs searching through a closet when they stumble upon family heirlooms. It’s a universal experience, finding items long thought lost. We can find ourselves transported to the past through these items. They can dredge up emotions we’ve held at bay, memories we’ve cherished, and motivations as to why we keep moving forward. Again, these are common tropes of the zombie film. But coupled with the dreamlike use of home-video footage, what feels like a personal touch and genuine reckoning with the past is baked into the essence of the film. Didn’t Die feels far more interesting when it utilizes that emotional through-line. It’s again made all the more apparent by the standout sequence which carries us into the finale.

It’s always refreshing when a horror film finds a way to lull its audience into a sense of comfort. The third act of Menon’s film primarily occurs within the confines of a safe space. It’s here that a family is able to come together and enjoy life as if normalcy has returned for a moment. Upon accepting that the past can be remembered, but ultimately needs to be left behind, joy can be shared among loved ones when the time is right. The past can still be held onto in ways that matter. To rely on it too much, and to fall into complacency because of it, does have ramifications. That Didn’t Die ignores this dynamic in favor of the connection with an uninteresting and unfaithful man is a hindrance more than anything. Still, Menon’s usage of the ways the past can affect us despite an ever-growing and looming threat has Didn’t Die end on a warming note.

Didn’t Die is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Midnight category.

Grade: C-

Director: Justin Lin
Writer: Ben Ripley
Stars: Sky Yang, Radhika Apte, Marny Kennedy

Synopsis: A 26-year-old missionary journeys to the remote North Sentinel Island, determined to convert an isolated tribe, while authorities attempt to intervene before potential harm occurs.

North Sentinel Island is a bit of an enigma in culture. It’s a location that remains utterly compelling to most who hear about it. And can that intrigue really be blamed? It’s an island isolated from the rest of the world, with a group of people on it living as remotely as possible. So when Christian missionary John Allen Chau (Sky Yang) decided to venture to the island in the name of spreading Christianity, the aftermath of the news was met with mass discourse. So much so that in Justin Lin’s first film post-Fast & Furious, it almost feels like a requirement that Last Days begins with voiceover news anecdotes either justifying or slamming his actions. Whether you are aware of these events or not, the opening of this film details its outcome. It’s a smart move. This choice then shifts the entire drive of the rest of the film. Chau’s story is an inherently interesting one because it’s rather unique, so this film seeks to delve into some of the motivations behind what could ever cause somebody to take such drastic actions in life. Although tonally the film may not always feel like that’s actually the case, Lin’s film provides a fascinating exploration into how fundamental failures in Chau’s life caused such a needless tragedy. Lin and screenwriter Ben Ripely are just filling in the blanks.

With Last Days, Lin is making his return to Sundance more than two decades after his breakout film, Better Luck Tomorrow. It’s an exciting prospect at face value: to see if the indie filmmaker now more likely known for his mega-blockbuster hits can cross back over into the realm from which he originated. In that regard, Last Days has a lot of curiosity going for it. Having that baked into the DNA of a film can be both a blessing and a curse. The opening scene feels more in the realm of the former. The film begins with Chau arriving at North Sentinel Island. It’s captured in a sweeping manner, reminiscent of establishing shots you would see in a massive action film. And lo and behold, once Chau’s optimism at his arrival has worn off, Lin’s extensive action filmmaking background comes to light. It’s a thrilling sequence with camerawork that’s both frenetic and assured. Although I have to imagine the budget of this film wouldn’t classify it as an indie film in the traditional sense, this does represent an exciting venture. As this is Lin working in a much more stripped-down manner than his previous decade and a half of work, it serves as a reminder that we can treat films of any size with the same scope, style, and flair as that of a big-budget spectacle. Of course, budgets will unfortunately always come into play and each film requires its own style in conversation with the film itself. But it’s nevertheless exciting to see Lin choose to make a film about this particular story in this particular fashion. It’s the way this story is explored that makes Last Days such a perplexing film to mull over.

The question of Last Days ultimately boils down to what it’s trying to be perceived as. In some ways, it’s a tragedy. We’re witnessing everything in Chau’s life that led to his eventual death. This ultimately being a story about religious extremism means there is a lot of runtime devoted to what feels like a faith-based Christian film. At many points throughout the film, it admittedly feels rather strange. It’s not until the third act where I believe Last Days reveals its hand and completely upends any previous notions about intention and tone. But more on that in a bit. The only reason to hold off on diving into this section is due to its sequencing.

There’s another pivotal moment earlier in Last Days that again amplifies my thoughts on this being a film where we watch an indoctrinated individual fully come to grips with his sense of feeling lost. Chau catches up with Chandler (Toby Wallace) to tell him of his plans to bring Christianity to North Sentinel Island. Chandler, the person who planted the idea of such radical missions in Chau’s head in the first place, flat out states Chau should abandon this plan. Eventually, he concedes that if Chau is to do it, he should completely reinvent his online persona in order to travel to the island through India without raising suspicion. What follows is an extended sequence set to a somber song that follows Chau venturing around the world. He’s living the life that many could only dream of. Traveling to the most stunning locations, Lin captures a real sense of adventure and extravagance at each destination. And yet, the look delivered by Yang is one of complete emptiness. These are all hollow memories being formed in the name of an extreme falsehood. It’s one of the standout sequences of the film. We’re seeing extremism rob this individual of any joy to be gleaned from the world around him. His travels are all part of an exterior motive. If this can’t pull him off the path he’s on, can anything?

Without spoiling what occurs too much, the film begins to outright shame Chau’s actions. It’s not subtle or veiled. This then leads to a scene that feels as if it’s directly poking fun at a certain cliché often seen in romantic comedies. Coupling this sequence with the writing peppered throughout Last Days, I can’t help but believe that it was ultimately made as a tragic film with hints of tongue-in-cheek jabs at the ridiculousness of his motivations in the first place. Make no mistake, I don’t believe this film is a comedy in any sense. But most rational viewers will see the form of extremist behaviors and thought processes on display and feel no choice but to chuckle almost in mockery of it all. The tone can be a bit jarring and disjointed in this regard. More than anything, I find this film to be as strange as it is fascinating. It’s as if we’re seeing Lin iron out the ins-and-outs of making a film in this sort of environment once again. Personally, I find it to be a welcome and occasionally exciting venture.

Last Days depicts Chau as somebody who does appear to be genuinely good-natured at heart. He has just been completely and utterly misguided. This comes to a head in Ken Leung’s performance as Patrick, Chau’s father. One of the most tragic elements of the film is that Leung isn’t in it more. What might seem like a recognizable face doing a bit performance at first almost overtakes the entirety of Last Days to become the moral center of the film. The finale is so sparse, yet it finds a way to perfectly capture this sense of damnation and unfortunate inevitability. Perhaps if this film were concurrently about Patrick (who in real life politely declined to be involved with the film) coming to grips with his feelings of guilt and parsing through the relationship between him and his son, Last Days would feel like a more cohesive film. But there is a dual narrative occurring, and it does pair thematically with the other half of the film. 

Perhaps there was a time when the events of Last Days could have been changed, but these wheels were set in motion long ago. And what ultimately makes this a tragedy in my eyes is how the actions of Chau’s parents were ones of both good intent and done from a feeling of necessity. Patrick tells his son that shortly after he immigrated to America, he visited the church with John’s mother as a way to fit in and to meet nice people. It’s a noble idea, but it would have likely helped had we seen Chau slowly delve further into being misguided by the teachings of his church. There are glimpses, but before we know it, he is off with a small group training to be a missionary. This is ultimately a film about the aftermath of his extremism, so perhaps Lin and Ripley preferred to stick strictly to this portion of his life when he was fully committed, or at least was then grappling with his actions. All the while, Meera (Radhika Apte), an Indian police officer, has been clued into the fact Chau is missing, and is on the hunt to find him. These sequences of the film are a ticking clock thriller. Even if we know the outcome, Apte brings a palpable energy to the film that undoubtedly excites. Whereas Patrick seems to come to the conclusion that it’s far too late, Meera’s optimism and inclination to brush up against her lazy and jaded superior is a welcome addition to Last Days. She too has found herself lost in a system that has cast her aside. And so she is trying to stop another tragedy before it occurs. But ultimately, despite her drive, we know what will occur. In all these ways, Last Days very much feels like a film about damnation. Where some see untapped potential or the opportunity to keep something pure, others see the opportunity to dominate. It’s ultimately a tragedy that seems to hint at the notion that nothing can be kept pure, and in time, all will succumb to the failings of everything around us.

Last Days is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Premieres category.

Grade: C

Director: Cristina Costantini
Writers: Cristina Costantini, Tom Maroney
Stars: Lindsey Lamer, Varda Appleton, Billie Jean King

Synopsis: Sally Ride’s groundbreaking journey as the first American woman in space concealed a deeply personal story. Her life partner, Tam O’Shaughnessy, unveils their covert 27-year romance and its accompanying sacrifices.

When Tam O’Shaughnessy and Sally Ride first met at a tennis tournament when they were 12 and 13, respectively, the first thing the former noticed was that the latter was standing on her toes. When the line of girls waiting for their draws moved forward, Ride’s posture didn’t relent; she walked on her toes, too, as though she was hoping to literally stick out above the competition. It makes sense, then, that despite her relative quietude, a tendency that leaned toward shyness until comfortable enough to break out of her shell, Ride couldn’t be stopped from delivering eight-minute-long scouting reports on the pre-teen competition, nor from intentionally nabbing the pressure position in double’s matches. As Molly Tyson put it, some people want the last shot when the game is on the line, “and Sally was like that.” She may not have said so explicitly, but she made a not-so-subtle effort to call for the ball before the clock hit zero. 

With the anecdotes from her youth in mind, perhaps it should be no surprise that when NASA began expanding its astronaut core in 1976, Ride took it upon herself to turn in a handwritten letter talking up how she would be eager to bring her astrophysics experience to the space program, one of many assets that qualified her to “contribute as much to the program as [she expected] to get out of it.” She grew up in the heyday of the space program, seeing news of the United States’ space-related efforts on the front page of the newspaper every morning, and fondly remembering when her elementary school teachers would wheel in television sets so that the students could watch early launches. “I think all the kids dreamed of being astronauts at one point or another,” Ride once said. And while it didn’t initially occur to her that she could be an astronaut due to NASA’s patriarchal makeup, the moment that changed, Ride took the leap; by 1983, she orbited into history, becoming the first American woman to ever go to space. Insert your chosen “one small step for woman” quip here.

You know what? Don’t. It’s a waste of energy, and if it were up to Ride, all energy would be expended in even the loftiest efforts, whether that has anything to do with space travel or not. As described by her friends, coworkers, and loved ones in Cristina Costantini’s Sally – a National Geographic documentary that world premiered at this year’s Sundance Film Festival – this was the titular astronaut’s way, maintaining a drive that propelled her to heights no woman had been to before, while also detracting from her own personal truths, the biggest of which didn’t come to light until Ride lost her battle with pancreatic cancer in 2012: For 27 years, she and O’Shaughnessy had been partners. As O’Shaughnessy states early on in the film, “Sally risked everything to make history. But telling the world about us was a risk she just couldn’t take.”

On paper, that line reads like the sort of heartbreaking wallop that would serve as the breaking point for a couple in a hammy romantic drama, all before the friend lending an ear to such emotional testimony tells the main character to go get them back. In reality, O’Shaughnessy’s delivery is much more matter-of-fact. It seems that this was Sally’s way, and that everyone in her life was either okay with it or resigned to it, if not a combination of both. “It hurt me, but I’m not sure it hurt Sally,” O’Shaughnessy continued. “She didn’t care about such things.” To Costantini’s credit, Sally doesn’t shy away from painting its subject as she was seen by those she was closest to, even as it goes to great, overdone lengths to document her accomplishments while at NASA. After all, Ride can only be seen and heard from in archival footage and audio; the interviews that otherwise guide the film are from her aforementioned confidants; as well as journalists, historians, and a brief appearance from Billie Jean King. 

And to be fair, that aforementioned archival footage is often put to good use, those that help to paint a “when you fall down, you get back up” sort of tone to the film, and thus Ride’s professional ascendance. While there are interviews and clips that shed a light on the treatment of women at NASA even after they had been ushered into its ranks – like questions about space travel’s impact on child-bearing, and whether or not a woman could simply handle the pressure that such a task places on a person – also featured are a slew of triumphs for Ride, like how, in 1981, she was selected to be the capsule communicator for Mission STS-2, the second Space Shuttle mission conducted by NASA. This made her the only person in mission control with the ability to talk to the astronauts on said shuttle; she handled the pressure brought on by a series of potentially life-threatening issues with the spacecraft calmly, Shaughnessy notes, garnering praise from her male colleagues in the control room. Of course, the main focus is placed on Ride being the first woman in space, and much of Sally’s midsection dedicates its attention to the launch, its lead-up and aftermath included. Ironically, the most interesting piece of history that the film delves into also happens to be the most devastating, that being the tragic explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger; Ride was appointed by Ronald Reagan to be a member of a special investigative panel looking into the disaster, and among other failures of NASA’s, it contributed to Ride’s eventual resignation from the agency.

If you’re unfamiliar with Ride’s specific portion of interstellar history, then Costantini’s efforts to place such an emphasis on the details of her subject’s professional escapades will feel informative, if not particularly inventive. Yet the ping-ponging nature between Ride’s astronaut career and the internal conflict she dealt with in her personal life makes one itch for a work that delves deeper. It’s as though the film’s subjects are keeping in line with how private Ride was when discussing non-NASA matters in interviews. Molly Tyson – the friend from tennis who also happened to be a past girlfriend of Ride’s – has a few fleeting on-cams that contribute minor elements of exposition to Ride’s personality. Steven Hawley, the astronaut to whom Ride was married for five years, is featured somewhat prominently, but he hardly digs beyond the surface of his emotions regarding the strained nature of their relationship due to Ride’s sexuality, of which he was initially suspicious but unaware.

O’Shaughnessy has the most screen time of any interviewee, yet her testimonies seem to have been reduced to generalities. While recounting the details of the early stages of their relationship, O’Shaughnessy notes that she and Ride were “always excited to see each other,” and that their chemistry was palpable. When she speaks of the first moment she realized that Ride was interested in her romantically, O’Shaughnessy describes how she felt when Ride’s hand touched her lower back, and how it was a different feeling than what she had experienced before. It’s this sort of anecdote – intimate retellings of firsts and lasts, like one about how these two long-time partners danced in their living room when Ride was approaching her last days – that are far too rare in documentaries of this nature, and only show up sparingly here. When they do, the proceedings are injected with a bolt of lightning, but that sensation is gone as swiftly as it struck.

In terms of its filmmaking, the main thing that differentiates Sally from the many similar entries that represent the ghosts of Sundance’s past is the frequent use of intimately-constructed reenactments shot with actors portraying young versions of its featured “characters.” It’s an overused tactic in documentarianism, often deployed cheaply in order to fill space that can’t be uncovered through research and thus can’t be physically seen on film, but Costantini utilizes just enough visual flair in these moments that they don’t feel invasive nor entirely unnecessary. One moment of particular intimacy between O’Shaughnessy and Ride slowly dissolves into the night sky, littered with stars and the glare of a solstice. More use of this storytelling method should not be wished for, but if it must be done, the way to go about it is what you see here.

But these dramatizations aren’t what you watch documentaries for. You watch them to learn, to gain insight, and hopefully, to discover something brand new that you couldn’t have found elsewhere. Watching Sally, I was too often reminded of recent festival premieres like 2024’s Never Look Away and 2022’s The Janes, both clunky works of non-fiction that played more like audiovisual textbooks than innovations of the craft, and not necessarily because Sally has a one-to-one throughline to either, but because it fits a mold that feels familiar, irritatingly so. One of the worst things a film – and especially a documentary – can do is make its viewer wonder what its story might look like if done differently; my anticipation for the forthcoming series The Challenger isn’t exactly through the roof, but I’m suddenly curious to see how Kristen Stewart plays Sally Ride, a fascinating figure whose legacy is honored and celebrated here, if not quite interestingly enough to warrant a 90-minute film that goes only slightly further than that of a truncated biographical summary. If it isn’t obvious, though, the eventual Disney +-streaming Sally wasn’t made in order to promote a television show from an entirely different distributor. It was made to tell the story of a woman who reached for the stars and became the first of a sort to ever touch them. It’s a shame that the same can’t be said about the film itself.

Grade: C-

Director: Katarina Zhu
Writer: Katarina Zhu
Stars: Katarina Zhu, Austin Amelio, Sarah Baskin

Synopsis: A cam girl navigates a toxic client relationship while reconnecting with her estranged, dying father, exploring complex relationships and family dynamics.

Katarina Zhu’s Bunnylovr is such an assured debut that you’ll find yourself completely won over by the trance state it places you in. Rebecca (Zhu) is a camgirl living in Brooklyn. That’s all Zhu initially reveals to us. She’s quite friendly with the patrons of her chat room. It’s important to remember that this isn’t an indication of genuine personality. And that’s not a dig. It’s merely an honest observation about the transactional nature of sex work; especially of the online variety. It’s this honesty that makes Bunnylovr quite the debut feature. It feels so sure of itself that it isn’t afraid to grapple with the potential harm that can come from the situations Rebecca finds herself in. Zhu’s film is obviously pro sex-work. Still, there’s almost a warning of sorts to be found in this film. It comes in the form of an honest condemnation. Many of the customers we see interacting with Rebecca in Bunnylovr are observed to be harshly demanding. They feel they have a right to this sort of behavior involving creepy requests due to that transactional relationship at play. And so, Bunnylovr becomes a character study that observes how this can ultimately affect an individual. Just because it’s across a laptop screen doesn’t mean it can’t have a lasting effect on somebody.

The film begins with Rebecca in a group chat amongst her fans. There’s playful banter, plenty of tips being sent her way, and the occasional creep. Swiftly blocking the anonymous guest, you get the sense that Rebecca doesn’t play games when it comes to her camgirl occupation. Zhu, both as playing this character and in writing her, understands the very real danger that comes with sex work. Over the course of this patient film, we come to learn that Rebecca’s online persona is vastly different from her daily life offline. But before Zhu shows us this other side of Rebecca, she receives a private message from a chat member with an ominous request. The topic of loneliness comes up once Rebecca creates a private video chat for the two of them. She inquires whether or not she has the ability to help with their loneliness. Not turning on their camera, all we can gather is the strange and foreboding tone these messages convey. They say they’re sending Becca something to help with her loneliness.

From here, Bunnylovr essentially remains disconnected from Rebecca. We’re purely observing her from the outside as she mostly remains sealed off from the world around her. Zhu even goes about this in a way that’s not only literal, but exciting from a filmmaking perspective. During one morning routine, Zhu places a camera in the corner of Rebecca’s room. We’re shown a sped-up montage of her tasks captured through a fish-eye lens. It perfectly captures the sense of always being observed Bunnylovr appears to be going for. Not to mention it feels shockingly similar to that of a webcam. Everything is fully in focus, so there’s no single point directly calling our attention. We’re merely meant to observe and try to glean all we can from Rebecca over the course of this film. This visual of being made privy to her just waking up is also something that feeds back into the themes of Bunnylovr. The primary one? How Rebecca feels obligated to be tied to her camgirl work and sexuality.

There are so many instances in Bunnylovr that involve Rebecca sacrificing her time for men.

The first example is with her ex-boyfriend, Carter (Jack Kilmer). Although she tells Bella (Rachel Sennott) that they haven’t spoken in ages and won’t backslide, we later see her in his bed. There’s no judgement to be found in Zhu’s film, but there is a sadness to be felt. The reason is clear from how he treats Rebecca. As they are wrapping up their night, Rebecca proposes the idea of them getting back together. He brushes it off with a typical male non-answer, only to then ask for his set of keys back and have her call her own Uber home. Rebecca deserves better, and Zhu plays it in a way that makes it seem she knows it as well. She instead escapes into her chat rather than dwell on these emotions further. It’s here that the second example of the film reveals itself in the mysterious chat member, “Jas”. Eventually revealed to be a man named John (the always-great Austin Amelio), his character further pushes this idea that Bunnylovr is a film partly about condemning the ways in which men impart burdens unto sex workers. Though avoiding larger plot points here, John’s actions are incredibly discomforting and often menacing. Casting Amelio, especially after his excellently dark turn in Hit Man, feels like a distinct choice. Between the mysterious nature of the script and how Amelio plays him, it certainly feels like Bunnylovr was positioning itself to be a thriller at one point. There is a clear-cut danger to be found in some of his actions. And the film regularly revisits how men feel they can override a woman’s time and place unwanted responsibilities on them. That Bunnylovr feels as if it’s building to something more genre-influenced and then backs out is upsetting. But Bunnylovr was never necessarily that film to begin with. It’s far more interested in the drama that can be found in an observational character study.

The third key relationship to be examined in Bunnylovr is the one between Rebecca and her distant father, referred to as William (Perry Yung). It takes a while for Zhu to outright reveal the inner workings of this father/daughter relationship. But how she scripts the introductory sequence of William is telling enough. It’s disorienting to both the viewer and Rebecca, by design. Although Rebecca is clearly in a rush when they unexpectedly run into one another on the street, his repeated insistence breaks down her guard enough to grab a quick coffee. Like so much of this film, Rebecca is placed into discomforting situations by men who she doesn’t owe anything to. But Zhu explores this relationship with both a tender screenplay and camerawork. One line of William’s in particular stands out as they begin to rebuild their clearly fractured relationship: “It’s nice not having to answer to anyone.” While this can clearly be taken as a bit selfish considering his and Rebecca’s relationship, it feels like Rebecca would love nothing more than to share that sentiment. Instead, we see how John and Carter don’t allow her this freedom through late-night texts still asking to come over and impromptu chat room demands while Rebecca is at work or going out with friends.

This pervasive sense of loneliness builds throughout Bunnylovr until Rebecca attends Bella’s art gallery opening. As she finds herself getting drowned out by the circling friends insisting on postgame plans and her overwhelming emotions regarding the art based on her likeness, her father, and her increasingly frequent conversations with John, Rebecca turns inwards. She retreats into a hermetic lifestyle and removes herself from situations with friends and family. It’s an all-too relatable feeling, and Zhu captures it both quite beautifully and painfully. Lit by the harsh glow of her laptop, Rebecca is searching for a way out. All we can hope for is that she does so through a relationship that is beneficial for her. As Bella tells her earlier in the film, “Introduce the new.” With that in mind, Bunnylovr would likely feel a bit more impactful in its closing moments if it went a bit farther into developing the relationship between Rebecca and Bella. Upon exploring this friendship a bit more, the moment of catharsis and subsequent finale of the film would feel more impactful. Nevertheless, Bunnylovr is a very strong debut, with a methodical pace that keeps you engaged and focused on its central character.

Bunnylovr is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the U.S. Dramatic Competition category.

Grade: B-

Director: Laura Casabe
Writer: Benjamín Naishtat
Stars: Fernanda Echevarría, Dady Brieva, Dolores Oliveiro

Synopsis: Follows a jealous girl who enlists the help of magic to interfere with a relationship involving the apple of her eye.

With the opening scene of The Virgin of the Quarry Lake, director Laura Casabé pulls her audience in with a question. It’s a simple one at face value: can’t we ever have a moment to ourselves? It’s incredibly relatable regardless of what age the viewer might be. But for a teenager, in this case, Natalia (Dolores Oliverio), this question is one that becomes more and more layered the longer the film plays out. Those tuning into The Virgin of the Quarry Lake expecting a coming-of-age film will certainly get one. But excitingly, there’s a lot more present in this film than it initially leads on. What begins with such a common occurrence morphs quickly into something sinister. It’s this undercurrent that bubbles up into a larger problem which can’t be ignored that Casabé hinges her film on. She, and screenwriter Benjamín Naishtat, do so by linking the two cruxes of the film together. The first is the emotional element of it all: Natalia, or Nati, is on the cusp of finally coming into her own. The second is the time and place during which this film is set: 2001, during the Argentinian economic crisis. By wrapping these dilemmas up amongst one another, Casabé’s film has as much to say about a single individual as it does an entire society. The commonality linking the two dramatically? Apathy.

Nati is taking a bath when the film begins. What should be a calm release is instead intruded on by yelling that only becomes more pervasive. As she comes to learn, there’s a displaced individual relieving himself in the middle of the street. Before anything can even be processed or next steps can be taken, a man from the neighborhood begins brutally attacking the individual. It’s a jarring shock for Nati that catapults her back to reality. But for the viewer, it takes us elsewhere. It’s such a clearly unjust and upsetting reaction. Captured with such a cold lens, we very quickly want it to end. But Casabé doesn’t let us off the hook that easily. It’s only after Nati pleads to her grandmother to stop the violent perpetrator that the film eases up its instantaneous grip on us. This is an event that nobody would ever want to confront; it’s now something that cannot ever be forgotten. How long has this been going on that somebody could have such an explosive reaction to an unfortunate situation? The scarier thought is, “What if this was the first time?” It’s an opening sequence that sets your expectations on edge. With a surreal quality to it, it’s made all the more strange by the next scenes following Nati as if it never occurred. She’s in chat rooms with friends, listening to music, hanging out at the public pool. But it’s in this tonal back-and-forth that slowly blurs the divide between one another that Casabé finds the thrill that sustains her film.

It becomes clear during the course of The Virgin of the Quarry Lake that Casabé wants to examine the breaking point of both an individual and of a society. And the pair of these come about by a group of people that are both apathetic and frightened. During the period in which this film is set, Nati’s neighborhood is beset by frequent blackouts, rationed water, and lack of government assistance. In the few instances we see neighborly interactions, they’re marked by hostility, anger, and fear set back onto Nati. It’s not always entirely out of malice, but out of worry and anger that nothing is going to be as okay as they’d hoped. In turn, this feeling of isolation and what almost feels like entitlement, is a lens that Nati is beginning to see the world through. Casabé uses violence sparingly in this film, but makes sure it feels explosive upon its arrival. It not only jolts the viewer to attention, but directly calls attention to what Casabé feels we are teaching a younger generation. At one point, Nati tells a young boy her grandmother has taken in that “life is crap.” For the adults in her life, it most certainly is. And Nati is beginning to feel that, because of her own problems, coupled with where she’s living, this is true. Oliverio’s performance seems to reckon with what should matter most. But just because there’s turmoil going on in the economy doesn’t mean Nati’s personal struggles are any less valid.

The Virgin of the Quarry Lake primarily follows a group of friends who have known each other for quite some time. As they spend the summer together, it’s clear that the three girls and their beloved Diego (Agustín Sosa) have had little trouble operating as a unit. It’s not until Silvia (Fernanda Echevarría), a woman a decade their senior, swoops in and invades their group hangouts. It’s done in the most annoying way possible; through bragging about how worldly and well-traveled she is, alongside displaying all the excellent music taste and easy access she has at clubs and concerts. There’s a comedic take on this behavior, simply because we all know somebody a bit like Silvia. But more than anything, it’s embarrassing and upsetting. The former is felt when remembering Silvia’s audience is made up of high-schoolers. The latter is felt in that, despite both audience and characters understanding Silvia is showboating, Nati can’t help but feel envious of her standing. It’s working on Diego, whom she has more than a small crush on. The core trio of young women at the center of the film are cool! They roll as one, sharing expensive pairs of jeans, going to clubs in the city, doing everything together like any member of a tight-knit group fundamentally understands. So to see Silvia get under Nati’s skin so deeply is upsetting, and unwarranted in the sense that Silvia feels lesser than in their presence. But even so, Nati’s feelings shouldn’t be minimized! Casabé shows her audience what would happen should somebody try to do so. At such a young age, these emotions we have bottled up within perhaps matter most; it’s because they’re all we have.

By the time we arrive at the exciting climax of The Virgin of the Quarry Lake, the emotions that have been brewing the entire film are unleashed. Importantly, it’ll be understood by the audience. Casabé and Naishtat steadily build wilder genre elements into the foundation of the film before wholly committing. It’s an exciting feat in practice. Instead of opting for a full lean into overblown fantastical elements, the film operates more like a powder keg. It raises a question that Casabé and Naishtat are clearly interested in: Do we become who we grow up to be of our own accord? Or is it a mixture of the people we are surrounded by, the experiences we live through, and the setting we come of age in? It’s not quite nature versus nurture, but rather, whether or not we are willing to let ourselves be transformed by the world around us. How this film goes about examining the dilemma of transformation Nati and her friends face may be rocky at times in terms of character development, but as far as leaning completely into the conceit of the film goes, it’s an exciting venture. Ultimately, this acceptance comes at a price, and The Virgin of the Quarry Lake questions whether or not it’s worth paying.

The Virgin of the Quarry Lake is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the World Cinema Dramatic Competition category.

Grade: B-

Director: Sam Feder
Stars: Chase Strangio, Jelani Cobb, Lydia Polgreen

Synopsis: Civil rights lawyer Chase Strangio’s courtroom battles against anti-trans laws intertwine with exposing media narratives impacting public perception of transgender rights.

Chase Strangio doesn’t look like an attorney who has argued before the Supreme Court. He doesn’t look like an attorney, period, at least not the way we might imagine one in our minds. That vision is of a slouched figure who looks as though they’re nearing the end of an 85-hour work week, their hair thinning and graying, the bags under their eyes having bags of their own. It’s of the men and women we tend to see in commercials or on billboards as we enter cities where their faces are as recognizable to the general population as that of their favorite quarterback. (Trivia question: What phone number follows the words, “Hurt in a car? Call William Mattar?”) We see people who bring briefcases to steak dinners; the walls of their offices are covered in degrees and certificates, the likes of which no one actually reads, but everyone admires due to the words “Yale” and “PhD”; they don’t film Tik Toks, and if they do, you can bet that their Gen Z intern had a hand in orchestrating their stiff performance. 

Instead, Strangio looks like someone you might see enjoying a summer day on the streets of Brooklyn. He wears tank tops and jean shorts while making a pit stop at his office, the headquarters of the American Civil Liberties Union in New York City. He has a jet-black asthmatic cat named Raven whom he calls “Ravey,” an ironic nickname for the only cat who has ever calmly been administered a feline-specific asthma chamber. Tattoos stretch up and down his arms, and a stud is pierced into his left ear. Strangio does his hair in the morning, wears a chain around his neck, and anxiously eats an everything bagel with cream cheese on the floor of his office’s hallway as he awaits news of when oral arguments for an upcoming Supreme Court case will be scheduled. In other words, Strangio is more human than most non-fictional lawyers we see on a day-to-day basis, some of whom fight for basic freedoms, while most of them sleepwalk through legal proceedings en route to a hefty payday, no matter the outcome of their case. 

He also happens to be a human who, on Dec. 4, 2024, made history when he became the first known transgender person to make oral arguments before the Supreme Court of the United States in United States v. Skrmetti. The case, which was brought to challenge a Tennessee law that prohibited forms of gender-affirming care like puberty blockers and hormone therapy for transgender minors, is meant to look at whether these bans violate the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, which “guarantees that all people within a state’s jurisdiction are treated equally under the law.” A decision is still pending, though it is expected that the President of the United States will withdraw the government’s request for the Supreme Court to hear the case altogether; as Vox’s Ian Millhiser wrote in November 2024, Skrmetti is “arguably the most important trans rights case the justices have ever heard,” yet “it’s hard to imagine a worse time” for the Supreme Court to be hearing it. 

This case and Strangio’s presence at its core are what make up the basic framework of Sam Feder’s Heightened Scrutiny, and if Feder had elected to limit their film’s focus to that of a follow-doc tracking Strangio’s argument before the highest court in the land, it would have theoretically made for a captivating enough watch by documentary standards. But Feder’s films, including their Sundance debut, 2020’s Disclosure, tend to go the extra mile when it comes to broadening the scope of the film in question’s principal topic. With Disclosure, the equation was examining the history of Hollywood’s depiction of transgender people on screen and the cultural impact these stories had on transgender people and the country at large by way of personal stories from transgender figures in the film industry and beyond, those of which provide concrete examples of how the distortion of trans tales on screen affected their individual experiences. Heightened Scrutiny is even more sweeping, as it captures the lead-up to a historical legal case while also detailing how the transgender experience has been negatively portrayed in the media, and how such portrayal has influenced federal legislation in recent years. 

“We’re up against a manipulation machine that is incredibly effective,” Strangio says early on in the film. “So I am constantly thinking in those terms. ‘How is this going to be used against us?’” In order to examine the broad, harrowing “this” that Strangio refers to, Heightened Scrutiny brings in a seemingly-endless lineup of journalists and forward-thinking celebrities from in and intimately around the transgender community, all of whom have had their own experiences arguing for gender-affirming care, whether in writing or in oral arguments of a sort. These figures highlight how the mainstream media – from Fox News to The New York Times, from Matt Walsh to The Atlantic – have all played a part in outlining a playbook for anti-trans legislation to overtake the United States of America like an endless storm cloud. Whether that effort was subconscious or deliberate isn’t the point so much as that it has already happened, and it’s in the hands of people like Strangio to fight for the betterment of the country and its marginalized people.

Feder has a knack for interviewing incredibly intelligent, thoughtful minds in their work, not merely using sit-downs with celebrities and journalists for expositional fodder that recaps well-known historical information for the sake of their desired narratives. And to be clear, Feder has a clear-cut goal with Heightened Scrutiny, one that the film itself outlines painstakingly, but one that the director specifically stated in a pre-festival interview with the Sundance Institute’s Lucy Spicer: “Between January and June 2025, [the U.S. Supreme Court] will be determining the future of trans rights. I want to impact the public discourse before the court releases their opinion.” But they are not willing to take the easy route, as it were, in providing that information. It’s not rare to see archival footage put to use in Feder’s work, but far more of an emphasis is placed on sit-downs with perceptive thinkers on their chosen subject, specifically their history in covering or dealing with its realities.

In Disclosure, the journalist Tre’Vell Anderson – who identifies as gender nonconforming – offered insight into the history of transgender faces in popular culture that came not solely from an intellectual root, but a personal one. The writer and activist Tiq Milan, the professor and historian Susan Stryker, and Strangio himself also appeared in the documentary, which focused on Hollywood’s depiction and featured familiar figures like Michaela Jaé Rodriguez, Angelica Ross, Alexandra Billings, and Laverne Cox (who also appears in Heightened Scrutiny). Here, it’s the likes of The New Yorker’s Jelani Cobb and The New York Times’ Lydia Polgreen who profoundly examine topics like, in Cobb’s words, the “adaptable argument” that focuses on children’s safety when it comes to transgender and/or non-binary couples having kids, and how similar criticisms have been leveled in other cases, like interracial marriage. 

It’s through these interviews that Heightened Scrutiny can become slightly too in the weeds for its own good, despite the fact that its all-encompassing nature is imperative to the story Feder and his featured subjects are telling. The manner with which it unfolds can feel too academic, almost too well-researched for an 85-minute documentary to properly carry the message it wishes to deliver as effectively as desired. The weight of its central argument, to use legal parlance, may have been easier, for lack of a better word, to grasp if it was consumed in a court setting, or even in a peer-reviewed essay. In fact, that’s a topic Feder briefly lends some time to in the film’s midsection so as to highlight how often right-wing voices making broad claims against gender-affirming care based on generalities and one-off cases go unchecked, nevermind how harmful the declarations within can be to the transgender community at large. Perhaps it’s a case of lead-fingered editing, the desire to cut from point to point to point in order to pack as much information as possible into one document so that nothing is left out. But if anyone can understand that dilemma, it’s a writer, and given how crucial it is that every point is properly represented in Heightened Scrutiny, maybe the best takeaway regarding its contents is that it warrants a longer runtime, one that would make for a more streamlined and informative viewing experience. 

Better yet, it’s already an incredibly informative film that will require revisitation for all audiences, not because it’s difficult to pin down in one sitting, but because nothing it emphasizes can be properly understood in less than an hour and a half. If you think about it through the lens of Heightened Scrutiny’s contents being its primary character’s lifelong pursuit, then of course it makes sense that a dense and intellectual work of activism can’t serve as a one-stop shop for the education of less-informed audiences. Feder said so themselves: The characteristic that contributes most to their success as a storyteller is the act of asking questions. Heightened Scrutiny asks many of them, and it often provides answers. But the trend that serves as its throughline has been publicly persistent for decades – that being the lack of trans sensibility guiding cases like Skrmetti, something Strangio directly bucked by making his historic argument before the Supreme Court – asks a question of its own: What happens now? It’s not Feder’s job, nor is it Strangio’s, to provide a concrete answer. But a work of documentarianism as vital and dynamic as this is an act of activism in and of itself. It’s another punch thrown in a fight that, if our government has its way, will end in June, when the court is expected to deliver its United States vs. Skrmetti ruling. Heightened Scrutiny is here to astutely say, “Not on our watch.”

Grade: B-