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-

Director: Questlove
Stars: André 3000, Chaka Khan, George Clinton

Synopsis: It focuses on the life and legacy of Sly and the Family Stone, telling the story behind the rise, reign and fadeout of one of pop music’s most influential artists.

Questlove returns to Sundance after his Oscar-winning Summer of Soul with another documentary examining the scope of Black artistry. Only this time, he channels his focus into a singular group: Sly and the Family Stone. And again keeping in line with his previous film, Questlove has provided his latest with an alternate title captured in parentheticals: Sly Lives! (aka The Burden of Black Genius). And everything one could hope to gather about this documentary is right there in either title. This documentary is very much about Sly and the Family Stone, and the borderline unquantifiable impact they have made on music. But in so many ways, this film extends far beyond the group and the man at its center. Their story is just the vessel through which Questlove begins his examination. This film attempts to question the duality of what it means to be a Black artist, and a Black genius, in any capacity. And while much of this film is reverential, and celebratory of the legacy of such an iconic group, it refuses to shy away from the devastating effects such a storied history had on the individuals at the center of it all.

Early on in the film, after a ridiculously cool and fast-paced introduction, Questlove pumps the brakes completely. We see Sly Stone preparing for an interview a bit later into the prime of his career. The reporter attempts to question the seemingly downward trajectory he’s been facing. Stone replies with the simple statement that “He didn’t blow anything”, and that he feels he never changed. It’s a sobering statement whether you know anything about the man or not. The reason being is that Questlove surrounds this section of the film with fellow bandmates, historians, and contemporary artists and icons who all allude to Stone’s issues after fame. From there, it grows into a larger statement on Black artistry, and how Black artists are viewed differently not just by the public, but by the industry at large. While legendary artists like D’Angelo or André 3000 have different thought processes in regards to the pressures of Black genius, they both appear in agreement that the toll it takes is a rather large one on an individual. It’s clear that, upon being asked, they understand the weight of the question. It’s a loaded question in the sense that there’s so much to cover contextually, subjectively, and theoretically. Questlove understands this too, and opts for a fragmented approach in this documentary that speaks to his innate artistic sensibilities.

There’s an undeniable rush to hearing music presented in the context of a documentary. And if it can be seen in a loud, dark theater? One of the most enriching experiences a viewer could have. As the film makes its way through an iconic catalog full of lush music that pioneered the artform, we arguably arrive at the peak of the mountain. There are many songs by Sly and the Family Stone that could surely be counted as their best. But there’s perhaps no song more iconic in their catalog than “Dance to the Music.” It’s one of the songs that practically transcends the artists who created it. To detail why a piece of art is so pivotal, so brilliant, so legendary in its status is a very difficult task. But aside from letting the music merely speak for itself (and come on, how can hearing this song not get you dancing in your seat?), Questlove takes an approach to detailing this song that replicates his approach to this entire documentary. Visualized in a very clever way, and detailed through music theory by a fellow artist, “Dance to the Music” is broken down into individual pieces. Each instrument is given its own moment to shine and is allowed a moment to be placed into the greater whole of the song. Each individual layer is then added together to create something magical. With his fragmented approach to telling Stone’s story and examining the burden of Black genius, Questlove provides details about the variety of experiences within Stone’s life to showcase the greatness, the tragedy, and the lasting effect on music history that he had. These parts all make way to a culmination, and exist beyond the mere moments in which they occurred much like the different instruments coming together to create a sensation. It’s a thrilling approach to documentary filmmaking.

Another wonderful element of Questlove’s direction is how stylish it is. Despite always remaining respectful to the reckoning occurring in the film, there is a playful tone to the style of Sly Lives!. This documentary is both reverential and celebratory of all that Stone has accomplished as an artist. It rarely enters a dry spell. Questlove is consistently employing exciting imagery and media formats to make for a cinematic experience that’s as exciting as listening to Sly and the Family Stone. He’s also not afraid to make choices that speak to how genuinely interesting of an artist he is. If the music of Sly and the Family Stone can be described as anything, it’s lush and constantly surprising to listeners. And for as stylish as this documentary is, there’s a fair amount that is particularly muted in response. It makes for an interesting clash of visual language, but it fits together nicely within the larger conversation being had throughout the film. Many of the talking heads for example, are mainly static shots in front of a starkly deep red or blue background. There will occasionally be close-ups, or quick action shots within the same space. It makes for a nice, simple contrast with the lush images and audio found throughout the rest of the film. While it can occasionally feel a bit fragmented, it’s great to see a musician so known for experimenting with style doing the same in his filmmaking career. They’re risks and slight missteps that can be looked past in the name of genuine creativity and artistry. Unfortunately, that doesn’t necessarily give a pass to the third act being a bit rocky. Segments of it take on the form of a traditional description of a fall from fame and become a bit directionless. Luckily, Questlove manages to land the plane by ultimately looping Stone’s later years back into examining how the public and the industry can so easily turn on Black artists.

There’s a palpable sadness to how Questlove captures Stone’s later years. It should be pointed out that throughout Sly Lives!, we witness a meteoric and awe-inspiring rise for Stone. What he did for music will be heard and cherished for generations to come. And one of the personal bombshells of this film arrives in the final third. In 1971, nearing the dissolution of the group and the rising legal troubles of Stone, it’s briefly mentioned in a newscast that Stone was only 30 at the time. It’s a baffling realization when looking back on all that Stone’s music had soundtracked throughout history up until that point. So while referring to his later years isn’t really all that late, it’s another painful reminder of the added pressures Black artists faced and continue to face. During a talk show appearance, Stone referred to there being “a pressure on all of us.” Through his musical output, he provided artists the freedom to experiment and create boldly without shame. This gift, coupled with the toll success takes, forced Stone into a zone where he seemed to do all he can to remain relevant. This is an artist that has given the world so much, and in his times of struggle due to substance abuse, the public, the industry, and the government all used his struggles to be made an example of. It’s deeply upsetting, as family members and former bandmates reckon with the alternate paths life could have taken them on had the world been more kind to a man who needed help rather than damnation. But in the end, despite a tear-inducing final moment, Questlove leaves us with a film that hopefully causes celebration and the cultural reignition of an electrifying artist. He depicts a fraction of the iconic samplings of Sly and the Family Stone across hip-hop history. He highlights the various contemporary artists who pay direct homage to the cover of the 1971 album, “There’s a Riot Goin’ On.” With this documentary, Questlove and the various people who are asked about it throughout the film admit there is a burden on Black genius. But despite that burden, there are artists who rise to the occasion and aim to shatter it over time. Sly Stone can clearly be described in many different ways. Many people in the film highlight this through a rapid-fire montage. But at the end of the day, it seems that the way Questlove wants people to remember Sly Stone most is to remember that he lives. He lives through all that he has given us.

Sly Lives! (aka The Burden of Black Genius) is celebrating its world premiere at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival in the Premieres category. It is scheduled to be released on February 13, 2025.

Grade: B

Director: Cole Webley
Writer: Robert Machoian
Stars: John Magaro, Molly Belle Wright, Wyatt Solis

Synopsis: After a family tragedy, siblings Ella and Charlie are woken up by their dad and taken on a cross-country journey, experiencing a new world. As their adventure unfolds, Ella begins to understand that things might not be what they seem.

When Cole Webley’s Omaha begins, we see nothing but a shell of a home. Based strictly on visual context cues, all we can fathom is that something in this house has gone terribly wrong. But when we first meet the primarily nameless Dad (John Magaro, in a gut-wrenching, astonishing performance), Ella (Molly Belle Wright), and Charlie (Wyatt Solis), it’s clear that things weren’t always this way. With a tender lens, Webley eases us into the midst of such turmoil. Dad wakes up his two children and gets them into a beaten-down car, begging them to cooperate and to gather the items they most cherish. Shot beautifully by cinematographer Paul Meyers in his first feature, so much of this film is lensed with obstacles in the way. This is especially telling in the introduction. We peer around the edge of doorways alongside Ella to see Dad as he seems to be holding back tears. We look beyond staircases we can barely see over and through dusty car windows seeing Dad speak to a sheriff. So much of Omaha feels, both visually and thematically, like a story we shouldn’t have access to. But the fact that we do makes it all the more special. It also makes it all the more heartbreaking.

Ohama is a film pretty much exclusively made up of deeply intimate moments. The approach to these events is more often than not captured through the eyes of the children, Ella and Charlie. Constantly utilizing a handheld camera whenever outside of the car, the locations and events of the film take on a larger-than-life-quality. We’re always pulled through life by the whims of fate and circumstance. But as children, this feeling is compounded through the lives of our parents. Whatever path they’re on, for better and for worse, is the path the children are often relegated to. So Ella and Charlie merely follow along on this journey with an unknown destination. Through the children, Webley often exudes a sense of wonder. The world just looks so vast and magical before their eyes as they run across salt flats flying a kite. They could seemingly remain there forever, frozen in pure bliss unbeknownst of what tomorrow will bring. All the while, Magaro remains off in the distance, carrying the weight of the world in his face.

To state it plainly, Omaha doesn’t work without the three outstanding performances it revolves around. Starting with Magaro, so much is captured in his face. The pain, despite the film only revealing momentary glimpses into it, radiates off his features. Robert Machoian’s excellently sparse script utilizes the lack of concrete information as a feature rather than a bug. Whatever Dad is going through, he is trying to keep his children free from that emotional weight. But he’s not hiding it nearly as well as he would like to. And thus, the brilliance of Omaha reveals itself in this veiled blatancy. The film subtly shows its hand early on. But from there, Webley forces his audience to hope against hope that we’re wrong. Magaro plays a man who is profoundly lost, and his children are unfortunately being caught up in this storm. To them, this is a confusing experience, peppered with moments of joy. The balancing act of such beauty and pain lies in the hands of these unbelievable child performances from Belle Wright and Solis.

Despite the unknown circumstances around which this film revolves, Dad and his children are a clear unit. So much of the film is full of inside jokes and adorably childish improvised questions. The common routines they share with one another have become muscle memory. Belle Wright is exceptional as Ella. As she tries to slowly piece together context clues from the behavior of her father, you can almost see her internally reckoning with what learning the results will mean for her childhood. Yet there’s still an expression of youthful hope across her face as she tries to entertain herself and her brother amidst the packed car. Next to Solis as Charlie, the two provide a genuine and necessary chemistry as brother and sister. Of course they bicker. And of course, they hide a depth of thoughts within their silent stares out the window. When they are creating imaginative stories in a play place or dancing along the side of the road, you’d never believe these two weren’t genuinely related. Solis, playing the younger of the two, provides such a humorous tone to the impending worry and curiosity of what might be in store for this family. The two have different approaches to brushing against the actions of their father, yet they both share the commonality of wanting to remain joyous and hopeful amidst uncertainty. 

All the while through watching Omaha, the devastating reality is this: many of these moments we’re made privy to are beautiful. If this was a standard road-trip film, it would primarily be an occasion beyond joyousness. These are memories that harken us back to moments in childhood that capture the beautiful simplicities of life. And yet, where Webley and Machoian take this film is tainted with uncertain worry. In the end, Omaha is a great film because of its ability to capture both aspects of this journey. There is a lot of beauty to be found throughout its short runtime. But there’s also such pain coursing through the very foundation of its genesis as a film. By the time Omaha ends, we’re forced to reckon with whether or not certain actions can ever be forgiven. Perhaps there’s a shred of understanding or sympathy to be found in the context of which this film is set, but it’s equally damning towards a society that has fundamentally failed the people within it.

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

Grade: B+