I first had Emily Robinson’s Ugly Cry on my watchlist during the 2026 SXSW Film & TV Festival, but scheduling conflicts meant I missed it there. When the film came to Calgary, the Calgary Underground Film Festival offered another chance to see it, and they organized an interview with Robinson ahead of the Alberta premiere. Ugly Cry screens at Globe Cinema on November 9 at 7 p.m. as part of CUFF’s year-round Off the CUFF series.

Ugly Cry is Robinson’s feature directorial debut, and she also wrote and stars in the film. The story follows Delaney, an actor who discovers she lost a coveted role because the producers objected to “the way she cried.” Determined to change that, Delaney obsessively analyzes her appearance and performance—convinced that if she can make herself cry more attractively, she can secure the parts she wants. The premise is oddly specific but reveals a broader contradiction in the expectations placed on performers, especially women: to be emotionally exposed while remaining aesthetically pleasing even at the very moment they are meant to lose control.

The film highlights how these pressures are unevenly distributed. Early on, Delaney’s boyfriend Miles, also an actor, remarks with relief that he doesn’t need to worry about crying before shooting a zombie movie. The offhand line underscores a persistent double standard: while men face scrutiny, women are often expected to maintain an attractive vulnerability. Robinson shared with me that an acting teacher contacted her after hearing about the film to confirm that someone they knew had genuinely been passed over for a job because of an “ugly cry.”

Robinson said she chose crying as the film’s focal point deliberately. Actors sometimes chase what she called an “Oscar tear,” yet in everyday life people more often struggle to hold back tears. That tension—where crying is theoretically the moment vulnerability breaks through, but is simultaneously judged for its appearance—felt like a precise way to explore performance, perfectionism, and self-policing.

Watching Delaney, I recognized the familiar spiral of perfectionism: the impulse to compare, to relentlessly improve, and to let perceived shortcomings define your next move. Robinson describes the film as an examination of perfectionism and “striving to reach a ‘there’ that doesn’t exist.” Insecurity and competition push Delaney inward until separation from others becomes part of the problem.

Emily Robinson: Growing Up in Front of the Camera

Robinson began working in entertainment at around five years old, first modeling and then expanding into acting. When I asked whether she could recall a life before performing she answered simply: “Barely.” Despite starting so young, her love of acting has persisted. She told me acting feels liberating because it forces you to stop overthinking and be present—an experience that stands in stark contrast to Delaney’s obsessive self-scrutiny in Ugly Cry.

Even though Robinson describes herself as naturally shy, performing has offered a way to inhabit space as someone else and escape the constant self-focus. The irony she points out is that the industry built on that creative freedom also demands relentless self-evaluation: auditions, image management, and the uncertain infrastructure around work can feel like obstacles to the very presence acting requires.

That unpredictable, freelance aspect of the profession is something Robinson finds especially difficult. As a Type A overthinker who likes to stay busy, she values writing as a way to create work without waiting for external opportunities. Her journals have long been part of how she develops characters and ideas. In 2023 she published her debut novel, Consumed, and Ugly Cry marks her expansion into feature writing and directing—areas she can pursue more independently.

When people ask what she does, Robinson said she usually identifies as a writer. She explained that “writer” feels protective compared with “actor” or “director,” terms that can invite questions, recognition checks, or assumptions about her availability in industry circles. Calling herself a writer allows her to control how much of herself she shares and when to open up.

Ugly Cry: Mirrors, Screens, and a Fractured Self

I’ve always been interested in reflections on screen: mirrors and photos show us versions of ourselves that feel familiar yet strange, and small changes in angle or lens can make an image unsettling. Ugly Cry uses that visual vocabulary to track Delaney’s fracturing sense of self. Her image appears repeatedly in mirrors, on phones, and behind glass—each layer introducing distortion and doubt. As her efforts to “fix” herself escalate, the film multiplies those surfaces until Delaney’s self-view is consistently fragmented.

Robinson and cinematographer Brody S. Anderson intentionally explored degradation alongside reflection. Most of the film was shot on an ARRI Alexa 35, while some sequences were captured on an iPhone to create contrast in image quality. That gradation—grains, distortions, and varying clarity—reflects the film’s themes: the multiple layers of performative identity and the breakdown of Delaney’s self-perception.

Framing also plays a role. Early scenes feature single mirrors or screens; as Delaney’s anxiety compounds, the compositions fracture into increasingly claustrophobic, multi-layered images. Robinson and Anderson referenced Black Swan for mood and, specifically, the recurring fragmented shots of Natalie Portman. The visual fragmentation extended to production design so the spaces themselves echoed Delaney’s psychological disintegration.

The Horror of Having a Body

Ugly Cry begins in a familiar register—auditions, relationships, and the day-to-day anxieties of precarious creative work—often with wry humor. As Delaney’s self-corrections become more extreme, the film moves into psychological and bodily horror, blending dark comedy with intensifying dread. Robinson told me that the script always intended this tonal shift, but the production team debated how far to push the horror elements while keeping everything grounded enough to feel plausible.

She wanted the escalation to remain connected to recognizable pressures: beauty standards, social media scrutiny, and the internalization of external judgment. Robinson cited inspirations across genres—Sunset Boulevard, Maps to the Stars, Swallow, and David Cronenberg—because the film crosses tones and genres. Films like Shiva Baby and Sick of Myself informed how to balance stress, humor, and escalating grotesqueness without losing emotional truth.

In the editing room, with editor Patrick Lawrence, timing became essential: how early should the film invite the audience to laugh, and when must the dread take over? Some social-media content was shot during editing to respond to the film’s evolving rhythm. A character originally written as an agent became a manager to allow a more casual, funny dynamic—another example of reshaping the story at every stage.

Robinson described discovering body horror almost by accident. She joked about “being a person is like weird fleshbags,” then reflected on whether that impulse is funny, unsettling, or both. In her director’s statement she called the film “not body horror, but a film about the horror of having a body.” That idea connects to growing up in the industry and working through self-objectification. The pandemic’s disembodied interactions—screens, Zoom calls, filmed life—also contributed to Delaney’s dissociation and the increasingly physical attempts to reconcile discomfort with herself.

“Existing in flesh and being on this world is the thing that allows us to live, and also that we are stuck in mortal form,” Robinson said, framing the film’s tension between embodiment and the desire for control.

What Is Next for Emily Robinson and Ugly Cry?

Ugly Cry is slated for a limited North American theatrical release this winter from Obscured Releasing. Robinson is also developing a film adaptation of her novel Consumed (2023), which she describes as more intensely body horror. Calgary audiences can catch Ugly Cry at Globe Cinema on Monday, November 9 at 7 p.m. as part of the Calgary Underground Film Festival’s Off the CUFF series.

Ugly Cry (2026): Cast and Crew

Director and Writer: Emily Robinson

Cast: Emily Robinson (Delaney), Ryan Simpkins (Maya), Aaron Dominguez (Miles), Robin Tunney (Valerie)

Producers: Sophia Sabella, Pablo Feldman, Jolene Mendes, Rhianon Jones, Tristan Scott-Behrends, Emily Robinson

Cinematography: Brody S. Anderson

Editing: Patrick Lawrence

Production Design: Annie Becker

Original Music: Sóley Stefánsdóttir

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The Calgary Underground Film Festival’s CUFF.Docs Documentary Film Festival returns to the Globe Cinema from November 18–22, 2026. For its 14th edition the festival presents 15 feature documentaries, 17 shorts, and the popular CATVIDEOFEST, gathering a vibrant mix of films that span Canadian politics, Indigenous hip-hop, Hollywood legends, underground music scenes, and even a remarkable urban owl.

CUFF.Docs has become a distinct counterpart to the main Calgary Underground Film Festival, showcasing documentaries that embrace unusual subjects, inventive storytelling, and filmmakers who push the form. Attendance has been growing—up more than 20% in 2025 and 85% over the last two years—reflecting the festival’s expanding profile and the interest in inventive nonfiction programming.

The 2026 lineup pairs films that premiered at Cannes, TIFF, Venice, Sitges and other major festivals with Canadian productions and emerging voices. There is also a strong local presence: a Calgary documentary premieres here and several Alberta filmmakers will attend screenings. Below are five recommended films drawn from festival buzz, directorial track records, regional connections, and personal interest.

More to Watch at CUFF.Docs 2026: Features, Shorts, and the Matthew Rankin Retrospective

Beyond the five spotlighted films, the programme includes notable features such as Captain Newfoundland, which explores the eccentric legacy of Newfoundland broadcaster Geoff Stirling, and More Miles Than Money: The Story of Jr. Gone Wild, an Edmonton-made film about Alberta’s country-punk scene. Fans of practical effects and behind-the-scenes movie craft will want to catch Rubberhead: The Life & Monsters of Steve Johnson, while Mineshaft: The Cruising Murders reexamines the controversies around William Friedkin’s Cruising. Sumo: Spirit Weighs Nothing, from director Erik Shirai, continues to travel the festival circuit after screenings at Venice, Telluride and BFI London.

The short-film programme features nine new Canadian shorts, three from Alberta, including Concrete Nature about Canada’s youngest Olympic athlete, The Bookstore That Never Sleeps about an independent bookstore, Find Your Pack focused on roller derby, and Not in My City: The Paul Brandt Story confronting human trafficking. Two Indigenous shorts developed through the Winnipeg Film Group’s Super 8 Special Film Incubator—Giiwe πρό bizhiw and Indigenous Joy—are also in the lineup.

An Afternoon with Matthew Rankin: Documentary Shorts Retrospective and Artist Talk

One standout event is An Afternoon with Matthew Rankin on Thursday, November 19 at 4:00 PM. The retrospective screens four early short documentaries—Kubasa in a Glass: The Strange World of the Winnipeg TV Commercial (2006), Cattle Call (2008), Negativipeg (2010), and A Day in Grasslands (2019)—followed by an artist talk with CUFF Lead Programmer Cameron Macgowan. Rankin’s short work illuminates the development of the singular style he later brought to feature films like The Twentieth Century and Universal Language. Paired with Rankin’s opening-night feature, the retrospective offers a rare chance to see a filmmaker’s evolution across nearly two decades.

Here are five films to prioritize at CUFF.Docs 2026.

5. Ladies and Gentlemen, Brian Mulroney

Festival Presentation: Opening Night Film: November 18, 6:30 PM

Notable Festivals: Toronto International Film Festival 2026 (People’s Choice Midnight Madness Award Winner), Atlantic International Film Festival 2026

Matthew Rankin’s documentary examines the flamboyant rise of Brian Mulroney, the charismatic 18th prime minister of Canada. Using a collage of archival material—roughly 80,000 pieces—Rankin constructs a genre-bending portrait that blends politics, propaganda and pop culture into a psychedelic look at political performance and media-driven identity.

Director: Matthew Rankin

Notable Previous Work: The Twentieth Century (2019), Universal Language (2024), The Tesla World Light (2017)

In Attendance: Director Matthew Rankin

Why Ladies and Gentlemen, Brian Mulroney Might Be Worth a Watch

Rankin is one of Canada’s most distinct filmmakers, known for surreal reworkings of historical figures and events. This film applies that sensibility to archival documentary, turning a political biography into a hypnotic, often absurd, study of image-making and national identity. It won attention at TIFF and took the People’s Choice Midnight Madness prize, and Rankin’s presence at CUFF.Docs—paired with his shorts retrospective—makes this a high-priority screening for those intrigued by inventive documentary form and political storytelling.

4. Starry Night

Premiere Status: World Premiere

Set in Calgary, Starry Night follows a troupe of performers—many living with schizophrenia—as they create and tour a play that conveys lived experience through theatre. The film highlights how artistic expression and community support can improve quality of life and reduce stigma, presenting a hopeful view of mental health and creativity.

Director: Bruce Thomas Miller

In Attendance: Director Bruce Thomas Miller and local cast and crew

Why Starry Night Might Be Worth a Watch

This world premiere is a strong example of why local work matters at festivals. Director Bruce Thomas Miller’s ties to the Schizophrenia Society of Alberta and his collaboration with non-professional performers give the film credibility and sensitivity. Rather than framing participants as subjects for outside commentary, Starry Night centers their own stories through performance—an approach that offers dignity and nuance and that festival audiences will find both moving and informative. At under 50 minutes, it’s also convenient for busy schedules and a great way to support Calgary filmmaking.

3. Wild Inside

Notable Festivals: Rooftop Films 2026 (World Premiere), Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival 2026 (Opening Night)

Wild Inside tells the surprising story of Flaco, a Eurasian Eagle-Owl who escaped the Central Park Zoo and became a symbol of freedom across Manhattan. The film combines crowd-sourced footage, local testimony and observational scenes to trace Flaco’s transformation from captive to cultural icon.

Director: Penny Lane

Notable Previous Work: Our Nixon (2013), Nuts! (2016), Hail Satan? (2019), Listening to Kenny G (2021)

Why Wild Inside Might Be Worth a Watch

Penny Lane is a filmmaker who turns unusual subjects into thoughtful investigations of culture and meaning. Her personal interest in birdwatching and the community-driven nature of Flaco’s story make this more than a quirky nature film: it asks how we relate to wildlife, captivity and symbolism in the city. The film’s mix of intimate local voices and broader reflections on freedom gives it a fable-like resonance that appeals to both casual viewers and documentary fans.

2. Dernsie: The Amazing Life of Bruce Dern

Notable Festivals: Cannes Film Festival 2026 (Cannes Classics), Sitges Film Festival 2026 (Best Sitges Documenta Film Winner)

Dernsie is an intimate portrait of Bruce Dern, spanning his decades-long career in Hollywood. Built from more than 50 hours of interviews, rare photographs and personal footage, the film traces his persistence, reinvention and influence, with contributions from directors and actors who worked alongside him.

Director: Mike Mendez

Notable Previous Work: The Convent (2000), The Gravedancers (2006), Big Ass Spider! (2013)

Featuring: Bruce Dern, Laura Dern, Quentin Tarantino, Alexander Payne, Billy Bob Thornton, and others

In Attendance: Director Mike Mendez

Why Dernsie Might Be Worth a Watch

Bruce Dern’s career connects eras and styles in American cinema, from studio-era stars to contemporary auteurs. Mike Mendez, known for cult genre work, brings a fresh perspective to the biography, and the film’s strong festival recognition—Cannes Classics and Sitges awards—underscores its appeal. For viewers interested in film history and acting careers forged outside the mainstream, Dernsie is a richly detailed celebration of resilience and craft.

1. Turtle Island Rap

Notable Festivals: Toronto International Film Festival 2026 (World Premiere), Vancouver International Film Festival 2026

Turtle Island Rap celebrates contemporary Indigenous youth culture by following three emerging rappers—A$h Da Hunter, Travis Thompson and Wiidaaseh—as they develop their craft and shape communities through music. The film blends performance footage, intimate moments and creative process to showcase Indigenous creativity and resilience.

Director: Alexandra Lazarowich

Notable Previous Work: Fast Horse (2018), Lake (2019), Winding Path (2024)

Featuring: A$h Da Hunter, Travis Thompson, Wiidaaseh

In Attendance: Director Alexandra Lazarowich, producer Jessica Ford, Wiidaaseh, and cast and crew

Why Turtle Island Rap Might Be Worth a Watch

This film offers a timely and celebratory counterpoint to documentaries that focus primarily on historical trauma. By following three distinct artists from different nations and communities, Turtle Island Rap emphasizes the diversity of contemporary Indigenous experience and the ways young voices are reshaping music, fashion and cultural life. Director Alexandra Lazarowich—herself a Cree filmmaker from northern Alberta—brings local ties and a strong documentary track record, making this screening a meaningful chance to support Indigenous storytelling and emerging talent.

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Over the decades filmmakers have repeatedly used the holiday to amplify fear. The 1972 slasher Silent Night, Deadly Night famously unfolds on Christmas Eve, delivering the shock value of a killer stalking victims at a time associated with safety and family. Two years later, Black Christmas (1974) brought the menace into a sorority house, exploiting the tension between homecoming and hidden danger; its 2006 remake revived that same unsettling contrast for modern audiences. More recently, 2015’s Krampus reinterpreted Austro-Bavarian folklore by pitting a family’s dwindling holiday spirit against a punitive demonic creature. These films illustrate a simple formula: take a familiar horror premise, then dress it up in tinsel, carols and decorations to make the dread feel unexpectedly intimate.

There are practical and psychological reasons this works so well. On a practical level, Christmas provides instantly recognizable visual shorthand—evergreen trees, flashing lights, candles, wreaths, red-and-white color schemes—that can be used to create atmosphere and to misdirect expectations. When a filmmaker mixes those symbols with traditional horror motifs such as shadowy lighting, isolated settings or an unseen stalker, the contrast heightens unease. We instinctively associate the holiday’s brightness and warmth with safety; when those comforting cues exist alongside danger, our sense of dissonance intensifies the emotional response.

From a psychological perspective, filmmakers deliberately tap into our emotions to make a movie resonate. Drama and romance often rely on positive emotions such as love or nostalgia to connect with viewers, while horror trades in fear. By setting fear against the backdrop of a season known for joy and goodwill, the filmmakers exploit cognitive dissonance: our brains are told to expect comfort, yet we are simultaneously primed for threat. This mismatch deepens the impact of scares because it violates a strong cultural and personal script—Christmas is supposed to be safe, so something horrific occurring at that time feels especially transgressive.

Horror also leverages basic, evolutionarily rooted fears—darkness, isolation, hidden predators—and Christmas imagery can both obscure and spotlight those fears. Low-key lighting and shadowy corners create anticipation, while seasonal elements like a tree’s twinkling lights or a brightly decorated living room make the danger feel all the more intimate and closer to home. The angel atop the tree, the kindly face of Santa Claus, and the sounds of carols provide familiar anchors that, when corrupted, produce a powerful shock: we are witnessing the subversion of what we trust.

Part of the appeal of Christmas horror is the emotional rollercoaster it offers. Audiences often seek out horror for the adrenaline rush and the subsequent release of tension. When a holiday icon is twisted—when Santa becomes a threat or the spirit of giving becomes perverted into punishment—viewers experience surprise, outrage, laughter and fear in swift succession. That rollercoaster can be cathartic; it allows us to confront anxieties about family, consumerism, tradition and mortality in a framed, safe way.

Christmas itself is rich with symbolic meaning: family gatherings, rituals, expectations, and commercial pressures. Horror films set during the holiday can interrogate those themes directly. For example, Krampus critiques consumer excess and the erosion of familial warmth, while slasher films that take place at Christmas can reflect the tension between public celebration and private secrets. Because the season amplifies interpersonal dynamics—old grudges, financial stresses, emotional estrangement—it naturally fuels the character-driven conflicts that horror thrives on.

The incongruity of joyful imagery and terrifying events is the central reason Christmas horror keeps returning. That incongruity makes scares sting harder and makes the films linger in viewers’ minds. Whether a movie uses the holiday as mere decoration or as a central thematic device, Christmas horror continues to be an effective way to explore fear in an unexpected setting—reminding us that even the brightest lights can cast long shadows.

Written by James Cullen

Recommended for you: 50 Unmissable Christmas Movies

The post He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: Psychology of Christmas Horror first appeared on Yenifragmanlari.

What Jack Built (2015)

Director: Matthew Mahler
Screenwriters: Ross Mahler, Matthew Mahler
Starring: Timothy J. Cox

What Jack Built attempts an economical, experimental approach to minimalist genre filmmaking but ultimately struggles to deliver a cohesive narrative or emotional connection. Running just 11 minutes, the film leans heavily on mood and repetition, yet it does not provide sufficient context or development to make that economy feel purposeful. The result is a short that often feels longer than it is, leaving viewers with more questions about intention than a satisfying sense of discovery.

Matthew Mahler frames the piece as a cross between science fiction, horror, and psychological thriller, but the film never commits to a single mode long enough to explore its thematic territory. Instead of deepening any one idea, it disperses attention across a series of oblique images and procedural actions. The core of the film follows the title character, Jack, as he searches for materials and assembles an unknown device in his workshop. Nearly nine of the eleven minutes are devoted to this repetitive sequence of gathering, building, and wandering, but the effort to create tension through repetition falls flat because the audience is not given a clear reason to care about the project or its maker.

Successful short films often depend on suggestion—leaving certain elements unsaid while giving the viewer just enough to infer meaning. In this case, the filmmakers appear to rely on assumption rather than skillful implication: they expect the audience to fill in narrative gaps without providing the necessary visual or structural cues. Shots are composed without clear intention, and the camera’s angles and pacing provide little guidance about why each moment matters. Because the world of the film is so thinly explained, the repetitive sequences become monotonous rather than hypnotic, and the build-up to the reveal is deprived of momentum.

The reveal itself—what Jack has constructed—lacks payoff. When a short does not steadily increase stakes or emotional investment, any final image or twist struggles to land. That is the central deficiency here: the film introduces an intriguing premise but does not follow through with escalating clarity or consequence. Without those elements, the ending reads as underplanned rather than enigmatic.

Timothy J. Cox anchors the film with a committed performance. He portrays Jack with a frenetic intensity that suggests obsession, and he sells moments of mania convincingly. Yet the film’s sparse visual storytelling and largely non-diegetic soundtrack place enormous responsibility on the actor to carry the audience’s engagement. At times his acting tips toward melodrama, but given the thin scaffolding around his character, nearly any performer would have faced the same uphill challenge. Cox’s work is one of the film’s few consistent assets: he imbues the character with clear purpose even when the film’s structure does not.

Where the film could have benefited from clearer signposting—either through production design, sound design, or tighter editing—it instead opts for prolonged ambiguity. Ambiguity can be a powerful creative tool, but it requires careful calibration; here it feels like omission. The filmmakers seem more interested in preserving mystery than in shaping an experience, and that choice keeps viewers at arm’s length. Rather than building tension through escalating discovery, the film repeats motifs without deepening them, which diminishes both suspense and emotional resonance.

In the broader context of independent short filmmaking, experimentation and risk-taking are essential. What Jack Built demonstrates willingness to experiment, but the execution lacks the structural discipline needed to make that experimentation meaningful. The short contains interesting visual moments and a compelling central performance, yet it ultimately reads as a concept that did not receive the development required to reach its potential.

Score: 4/24

Recommended for you: More Short Film Coverage

For reference: the film is credited to Matthew Mahler (director), Ross Mahler and Matthew Mahler (screenwriters), and stars Timothy J. Cox. Search film databases or festival listings for further production details and screenings.

The post What Jack Built (2015) — Short Film Review first appeared on Yenifragmanlari.

Here Lies Joe (2016)
Director: Mark Battle
Screenwriter: Mark Battle & Pamela Conway
Starring: Dean Temple, Andi Morrow, Timothy J Cox, Mary Hronicek, J P Valenti, Kristie Stumpf Rork

Poignant and thoughtfully observed, Here Lies Joe confronts a pressing public issue—suicide and mental health—in a direct, unvarnished way that feels both brave and sensitive. The film refuses easy answers and instead offers a carefully constructed, intimate study of loneliness, despair, and the fragile moments that can begin to shift a life.

The opening sequence is stark: close-up images show a man attempting to suffocate himself inside his car. That harrowing scene quickly gives way to a suicide awareness support group where the protagonist, Joe, finds himself. There he meets Z, a younger woman whose unpredictable, energetic presence forms a bond with Joe that promises to change the course of both their lives. The encounter sets the emotional center of the film and frames the story as a study of connection at the edges of crisis.

Visually, Here Lies Joe is striking. The cinematography and mise-en-scène are deliberate and precise; each frame feels carefully composed to reinforce the film’s tone. Wide, detached shots and lingering compositions create an atmosphere of isolation and weight, amplifying the characters’ internal struggles. The camera’s restraint and the film’s sparse aesthetic underscore the rawness of the subject matter rather than sensationalizing it.

Location choices further underline the theme of solitude. The movie largely avoids populated spaces and extras, favoring expansive, empty environments: a graveyard, an underpass, and other open, desolate settings. This spatial isolation gives the impression that the characters exist in a small, suspended world—almost a liminal space where the decision to end a life and the decision to continue coexist. The geography of the film mirrors the internal geography of its characters: wide, barren, and quietly fraught.

Sound design is minimal but effective. The film eschews a conventional score, relying instead on a few diegetic songs performed by characters and a single, haunting indie track near the end. Intermittent birdsong punctuates the silence, creating a subtle counterpoint: the natural beauty of birdsong continues regardless of human anguish. That contrast feels intentional, a reminder of life’s small, persistent details that often go unnoticed by those consumed by pain.

Dean Temple’s portrayal of Joe is restrained and convincing. He embodies a man at the end of his rope with a quiet, believable defeatism that never tips into melodrama. Temple’s physical stillness and interior focus make Joe a compelling study in resignation. Opposite him, Andi Morrow’s Z operates as a catalyst—her kinetic, expressive performance brings lightness and unpredictability to the film. Where Joe is compact and reserved, Z is expansive and impulsive. Their interplay creates a dynamic of opposites—stoicism meeting frenetic hope—that explores how human connection can interrupt patterns of despair.

The supporting characters—members of the suicide awareness group—provide an unexpected tonal counterbalance through dark humor. Their conversations, which touch on everything from joking about overdosing on vitamins to the absurdity of reworking a suicide note, are played straight, producing a disquieting comedy that remains tasteful rather than exploitative. Those moments reveal how people facing similar struggles can use humor and candid exchange to bridge isolation.

If the film has a weakness, it lies in characterization. Joe remains an enigmatic figure: he is sympathetic in emotional tone, but he is not always fully fleshed out as a three-dimensional character with a distinct arc beyond his despair. This may be intentional—a deliberate, metaphorical approach to make Joe emblematic of a broader issue—but at times the character feels more like a vessel for theme than a person with a detailed past. Z is more textured and relatable, though her portrayal occasionally borders on the “manic-pixie” trope, as if her primary purpose is to reflect the male lead’s inner life. Even so, Morrow largely avoids caricature and brings a believable vitality to the role.

Overall, Here Lies Joe handles a taboo subject with respect and an unflinching eye. It neither glamorizes nor simplifies suicide; instead, it examines the messy, contradictory reality of people on the brink and the small, fragile gestures that can change a trajectory. The film’s atmosphere is aptly summed up by a line in which Z describes a statue in the graveyard as “perfectly morose”—a description that captures the movie’s melancholic beauty. Mark Battle’s direction offers a thoughtful, measured film that treats a vulnerable subject with sensitivity, leaving the viewer with an uneasy but honest reflection on life, loss, and the possibility of connection.

Score: 17/24

Written by James Cullen

‘Here Lies Joe’ was brought to attention by one of its cast members, Timothy J Cox. You can support the film through its official social channels and listings.

The post Here Lies Joe (2016) Short Film Review: Plot & Analysis first appeared on Yenifragmanlari.

Maren Ade’s Toni Erdmann is a multilingual character drama infused with sharp comedic beats. The film won widespread acclaim across Europe, earning major recognition at the European Film Awards in 2016 and becoming Germany’s celebrated entry in the 2017 Foreign Language Oscar race. Produced with funding from multiple European sources and set primarily in Romania, the picture — led by standout performances from Peter Simonischek and Sandra Hüller — interrogates corporate culture, class and generational divides, the influence of large industry, and workplace sexism, all while maintaining a steady undercurrent of dark humor that reveals a careful, deeply human character study.

At its core, Toni Erdmann revolves around a simple but potent premise: the eccentric Winfried (Peter Simonischek), a lovable oddball with a penchant for elaborate pranks, visits his adult daughter Ines (Sandra Hüller) in Bucharest in a bid to reconnect. Ines is a high-powered, serious-minded executive whose life and values are quickly diverging from her father’s freewheeling outlook. Winfried’s attempt to bridge that distance — largely by trying to make her laugh — launches a series of encounters that are alternately uncomfortable, uproarious, tender, and revealing. What could easily have been a predictable comedy becomes something much more resonant through patient pacing and the actors’ committed portrayals.

Maren Ade’s direction balances comedy and drama with a rare sensitivity. The film feels deliberately paced, allowing quieter, character-driven beats to breathe before delivering moments of absurdity or emotional release. This approach turns many scenes into slow-burn payoffs: jokes land not purely for shock but as revelations about who these people are and what they need from each other. Ade’s screenplay and editorial rhythm work together so that humor serves character development rather than overshadowing it. The result is a film that both entertains and provokes thought — a subtle social commentary wrapped in warm, often awkward human interactions.

The film’s greatest strength is its character development. Winfried and Ines begin as almost archetypal figures — the clownish father and the stern corporate daughter — but they are fleshed out into complex, sympathetic individuals. Winfried’s pranks and theatrical gestures initially read as disruptive and even intrusive, but as the story unfolds, his actions are revealed as forms of empathy and unconventional care. Ines, meanwhile, sheds layers of professional armor and exposes vulnerabilities that explain her distance from her father. As the narrative progresses, responsibility and emotional labor shift between them in a way that feels authentic and earned. This transformation is one of the film’s most affecting achievements: a father and daughter who teach each other about living, risk, and intimacy.

Some viewers may find Winfried’s methods uncomfortable or borderline invasive. The line between affectionate meddling and inappropriate interference is intentionally blurred, and that ambiguity is part of the film’s design. Rather than presenting a sanitized father figure, Toni Erdmann offers someone boldly human — flawed, persistent, and surprisingly wise in his own unorthodox way. Over time, Winfried functions less as a cartoonish comic device and more as a catalyst for Ines’s emotional reawakening. His seemingly outrageous behavior becomes a vehicle for truth-telling and personal reconnection.

The film also excels as a portrait of modern corporate life and its effects on identity. Ines’s workplace environment, with its vapid team-building language and performative leadership, provides a sharp backdrop against which personal authenticity stands out. Ade’s camera lingers on both the mundane offices and the isolated interiors of expatriate life in Bucharest, illustrating how professional ambition can disconnect people from themselves and their loved ones. Humour emerges naturally from the contrast between corporate absurdity and human vulnerability.

Technically, the film is understated but precise. Performances by Sandra Hüller and Peter Simonischek are central: Hüller brings a controlled intensity and gradual softening to Ines, while Simonischek invests Winfried with warmth, theatricality, and an emotional honesty that keeps the film grounded. The screenplay’s blend of long, observational scenes and unexpected comic set pieces lets the audience settle into the characters’ world and feel the stakes of each encounter.

In summary, Toni Erdmann is a standout in contemporary European cinema — a film that merges intelligent social critique with genuine emotional insight and sustained comic invention. It rewards patient viewing and offers a rich, humane experience that lingers long after the credits roll. Audiences seeking a comedy with depth and a drama with heart will find much to admire here.

Score: 22/24

The post Toni Erdmann (2016/17) Review: A Bold, Unforgettable Comedy-Drama first appeared on Yenifragmanlari.

Annie Waits (2017)
Director: Marnie Paxton
Screenwriter: Chris Anastasi
Starring: April Kelley, Sam Gittins, Sarah Huxley, Alex Jordan, Andrew Simpson, Sam Swainsbury.

Marnie Paxton’s short film Annie Waits is a sharp, observant portrait of twenty-somethings navigating intimacy and identity. Running under nine minutes, the film uses wit and plainspoken honesty to examine modern dating, the fear of settling down, and the ambiguous space many millennials occupy between youth and adulthood. Paxton’s direction and Chris Anastasi’s script combine to create a small, incisive piece that feels both personal and widely recognizable.

The film follows Annie (April Kelley), a young woman who resists conventional milestones—marriage, children, and the stable domesticity society often expects. The story relies heavily on Annie’s voiceover, a candid, often ironic narration that strips romantic experiences to their awkward cores. Relationships flit by in brief, sometimes laughable vignettes; each one arrives and dissolves almost as quickly as Annie’s offhand descriptions. This brisk pacing is an intentional device: the rapid-fire sequence of encounters mirrors how quickly life and relationships can pass, and underscores Annie’s desire to extend youth and avoid the certainty she equates with adulthood.

What gives the film its emotional weight is its frankness about the uncertainty of that in-between stage. Annie’s voiceover reads like a private diary, honest to the point of discomfort. The film’s tone is intimate rather than glamorous, especially in its depictions of sex and short-lived romances. Those scenes are presented with a soft, warm light that quickly cools as the relationships lose their luster. The narration’s “on to the next one” rhythm reinforces Annie’s detachment—she pursues pleasure without necessarily seeking deeper connection. That diary-like approach invites the audience into Annie’s inner life, revealing both self-awareness and contradiction without casting judgment.

April Kelley anchors the film with a nuanced performance. Her portrayal keeps Annie relatable: skittish, witty, and vulnerable beneath a veneer of sarcasm. Kelley’s delivery makes Annie sympathetic; the audience perceives not an unlikeable cynic but someone honestly grappling with what she wants and who she’s becoming. That grounded performance prevents the character from tipping into caricature and ensures the voiceover feels like a plausible interior monologue rather than a gimmick.

Technically, the film is economical and confident. The editing is the most striking technical element: quick cuts enforce the film’s comedic timing while also underlining the brevity of each relationship. Juxtapositions—such as placing a mundane introduction next to an intimate encounter—highlight Annie’s emotional distance and reinforce the film’s central contrast between physical immediacy and emotional detachment. Framing and composition work in service of the voiceover, often positioning the viewer as an observer slightly removed from Annie, which allows the audience to notice ironies and contradictions within her narration.

At its core, Annie Waits is a coming-of-age short for those who feel stuck between self-discovery and societal expectation. The film may resonate most strongly with millennials who recognize the anxieties and freedoms that come with delayed adulthood, but its central themes—fear of commitment, searching for identity, and negotiating intimacy—are widely relatable. Paxton and Anastasi present a character type not often foregrounded in contemporary short cinema: a young woman who openly rejects conventional life scripts while still confronting loneliness and longing.

The film doesn’t break new technical ground, but it succeeds through clarity of voice and tonal precision. Its value lies in the way it distills complex feelings into a compact, emotionally truthful piece. For viewers who appreciate short films that balance humor and vulnerability, Annie Waits is a pointed, thoughtful example of modern, female-led storytelling.

Score: 18/24

Annie Waits began as a vignette connected to a TV series in development and marks director Marnie Paxton’s debut feature work following experience in television. The film was co-produced by Christian Cooke and written by Chris Anastasi.

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Director: Sean Meehan
Screenwriter: Sean Meehan
Starring: Tory Berner, Steven Conroy
Plot: Cori is an actress, but her main job is unusual: she works for a company that hires performers to play the other person in difficult real-life conversations. Clients can rehearse a breakup, a firing, or an awkward confession with a live, breathing “sparring partner.”

We have all faced those tense, uncomfortable conversations that keep us up at night. We try to choose the right words, imagine possible reactions, and worry about how to end things gracefully. How do you break up with someone you once loved? How do you tell a friend or colleague something painful? How do you fire a long-time employee who is also a friend?

Sean Meehan’s short film Total Performance answers that scenario with a clever premise: a business that lets people rehearse emotionally charged encounters with trained actors. The film follows Cori (Tory Berner), a professional rehearsal actor, through roughly 18 minutes of sharp emotional shifts. The narrative balances humor and drama while exploring the emotional labor of role-playing for other people’s private crises.

Presented as a dramedy, Total Performance fluidly moves between comedic beats and more serious emotional moments. The screenplay leans into awkwardness in a way that often produces both laughter and empathy. Tim, played by Steven Conroy, is written and performed as a particularly unsympathetic character, which helps drive the story’s tension and viewer frustration. The short’s pacing feels deliberate yet brisk, aided by well-chosen music cues that smooth transitions and heighten emotional impact.

One area where the film occasionally falters is sound design. Some sequences felt oddly quiet, with long silences that at times came across as unnatural. For example, an early street scene features only the footsteps and voices of the client and Cori, with no ambient sounds like traffic, distant conversations, or rustling leaves. That absence can create a sense of artificiality rather than intimacy, making a few moments feel unfinished. Still, silence is also used to very effective effect elsewhere in the film. The near-absence of background noise during an early client meeting builds tension and discomfort, while the quiet in a later scene where Cori composes an audition email registers as reflective and intimate. A full-screen shot of the email—showing tentative typing and edits—was a smart cinematic choice that pulled the audience directly into Cori’s inner life.

Visual choices, particularly the film’s color palette, contribute strongly to its tone and thematic cohesion. Blue tones recur throughout—from the reception desk and a receptionist’s sweater to Tim’s apartment and the lighting during the pivotal conversation with his girlfriend. That recurring blue motif contrasts with the gray, muted palette of the audition sequence: gray walls, low-contrast lighting, and understated costumes for Cori and her rival. This deliberate color coding subtly separates the “life” and warmth of Cori’s workplace from the sterile, draining world of auditions and corporate evaluations, offering commentary on professionalism, workplace culture, and the emotional safety net a service like Total Performance claims to provide.

Tory Berner and Steven Conroy deliver strong performances. Berner, in particular, brings warmth and nuance to Cori, shifting smoothly between playful rehearsal moments and quieter emotional beats. Her ability to inhabit multiple roles within a single scene—switching tones, mannerisms, and emotional registers—helps sell the central conceit of an actor who must be many people for the sake of a client. Conroy’s Tim is deliberately off-putting, a character who earns the audience’s ire and underscores the ethical and emotional complications of the film’s premise.

The concept itself is original and compelling. It calls to mind elements of science fiction series that explore identity and performance, but Total Performance remains grounded in everyday reality. My main criticism is the running time: the short leaves many intriguing threads unexplored. I wanted to learn more about Cori’s background, how she came to this line of work, and the company’s internal dynamics—what happens behind the scenes, what limitations exist, and what can go wrong. The short raises questions about emotional labor, the commodification of intimacy, and burnout among performers who inhabit other people’s pain—questions that a feature-length version could examine in richer detail.

Like many effective short films, Total Performance ends with unanswered questions that linger in the mind. Will Cori find a breakthrough? How does this unusual industry impact its workers over the long term? These open-ended threads are part of the film’s appeal: they invite reflection and suggest much larger stories lying beneath the surface.

Overall, Sean Meehan has crafted a thoughtful, well-acted short that blends humor and poignancy. With its consistent visual language, strong central performances, and a concept that prompts deeper ethical and emotional consideration, Total Performance offers a rewarding viewing experience and clear potential for expansion.

Score: 13/24

Where to watch

Total Performance is available to view on Vimeo. Additional production details and credits can be found on standard film databases.

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Star-Lord and his ragtag crew return in a sequel many fans eagerly awaited. With new cast members, an emotionally resonant core, and a soundtrack packed with 1970s and 1980s hits, director James Gunn captures much of the charm that made the first film special. While the sequel doesn’t quite reach the same level of surprise and innovation as its predecessor, it remains a lively, colorful, and frequently hilarious entry in the Marvel landscape.

At its heart, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 exemplifies the type of blockbuster summer film audiences expect: lavish visual effects, a star-studded cast, memorable music, and well-timed humor. What sets this film apart from similar high-profile genre releases is Gunn’s clear affection for his characters and his willingness to let certain emotional and narrative threads develop naturally, trusting viewers to piece things together without heavy-handed exposition. This character-first approach makes the movie feel less like a mere spectacle and more like a heartfelt adventure that balances awe with empathy.

That said, the sequel is not without weaknesses. The massive success of the first film and the Guardians’ integration into the wider Marvel universe brought new pressures and constraints. The sequel leans more toward the established Marvel formula than the more independent spirit of the original, trading some of the earlier film’s boundary-pushing humor and surprising tonal choices for more conventional blockbuster beats. In addition, the expanded budget and expectations sometimes lead to overlong set pieces and moments that prioritize visual scale over emotional clarity, making the film feel heavier in its opening acts compared to the brisker second half.

Despite these issues, the movie delivers spectacular visuals. The palette and cinematography set it apart from many entries in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, offering vivid, imaginative worlds and top-tier CGI. Although a few sequences occasionally read like high-end video game visuals due to aggressive camera moves, overall the film is a feast for the eyes and showcases production design and effects that rival — and in some ways surpass — other franchise entries.

More importantly, the film focuses on the right characters. The Guardians maintain their distinct personalities, while previously underexplored characters such as Gamora and Nebula gain much-needed depth. The sequel takes advantage of no longer needing to introduce its heroes, allowing scenes to dig into emotional stakes and relationships. Rocket and Yondu receive especially strong character arcs, and Michael Rooker’s performance helps make Yondu one of the film’s emotional anchors. Kurt Russell’s addition is compelling and adds a grounded, human presence. By contrast, performances from Sylvester Stallone and Elizabeth Debicki feel more peripheral, contributing little beyond brief plot functions.

Music continues to be central to the Guardians’ identity, and the soundtrack in Vol. 2 is used with purpose. Songs act as emotional shorthand or character reflections, enriching scenes without heavy-handed dialogue. This creative use of classic tracks provides both narrative shorthand and emotional resonance, reinforcing character motivations and memories in ways that feel organic rather than manipulative.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is its portrayal of found family. The emotional core of the series remains the group dynamic: a band of misfits who, despite their flaws and differences, become the galaxy’s protectors because of those very traits. James Gunn treats their differences as assets, and the movie earns many of its warm moments by emphasizing the genuine bonds between the characters. That human, relatable center — feeling like an outsider and finding belonging — is what makes the Guardians resonate and what ultimately carries the film.

In conclusion, Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 may not surpass the charm and novelty of the original, but it builds on that foundation with strong performances, vibrant visuals, and an emotional focus on family and identity. It delivers an entertaining, heartfelt adventure that showcases the cast and Gunn’s distinctive voice, making it a satisfying blockbuster experience and a worthy follow-up for fans.

Score: 18/24

Author’s note: if you haven’t seen this yet, be warned that there are five post-credit scenes.

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M. Night Shyamalan has confirmed that a long-awaited sequel to his surprise 2017 hit Split is scheduled for release in 2019. Titled Glass, the film will bring together characters and storylines from both Split and Shyamalan’s 2000 film Unbreakable, forming a definitive continuation of the director’s unconventional superhero universe.

Glass reunites key performers from both earlier films. Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson are confirmed to return to their roles from Unbreakable, while James McAvoy and Anya Taylor-Joy reprise their parts from Split. The project represents Shyamalan’s effort to merge two distinct movies into a single, cohesive thriller that revisits and reframes the origins and psychology of its central characters.

The director publicly announced the project on April 26, 2017. In his statements he explained that Glass is intended as the sequel to both Unbreakable and Split, a long-held creative ambition to have the two narratives collide in one film. He also noted that he was re-teaming with producer Jason Blum and Universal Pictures to realize the film’s tone as a “comic book thriller,” and that Universal would release Glass worldwide on January 18, 2019.

The decision to connect Split and Unbreakable surprised and excited many fans and critics. Split had become a major commercial success, earning more than $270 million worldwide on a modest $9 million budget. That strong performance helped re-establish Shyamalan as a commercially viable director after a string of less successful projects earlier in his career.

Unbreakable, released in 2000, earned critical attention as an early, unusual take on superhero origin stories, focusing on character study and moral ambiguity rather than spectacle. Split, released in 2017, likewise centered on psychological drama—specifically Dissociative Identity Disorder portrayed through McAvoy’s performance—and combined it with genre elements to create a taut, suspenseful narrative. Glass aims to synthesize those approaches, continuing the human-centered exploration of power, trauma, and identity while delivering the darker, more suspenseful tone Shyamalan is known for.

From a production standpoint, Glass represents a deliberate crossover, bringing together actors and story elements from two very different eras of Shyamalan’s career. Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson’s presence ties the film back to Unbreakable’s grounded, mystery-driven take on heroes and villains, while Split’s McAvoy and Taylor-Joy introduce psychological intensity and modern genre energy. Fans anticipated how these different tonal threads would be interwoven into a single narrative arc.

Following the announcement, reviewers and audiences speculated about tone, character dynamics, and how the film would balance the cerebral, character-led drama of Unbreakable with the visceral suspense of Split. The January 18, 2019 release date positioned Glass as an early-year tentpole, offering a fresh genre entry after the holiday season when audiences often seek something new and discussion-worthy.

Glass also marked an important chapter in Shyamalan’s career arc: a return to the creative territory that originally brought him acclaim, but filtered through his more recent experience crafting tight, surprise-driven thrillers. The project reinforced the director’s interest in blending genre conventions with moral and psychological inquiry, a hallmark of both Unbreakable and Split.

Glass was set to invite both longtime fans of Shyamalan’s earlier work and newcomers drawn to modern psychological thrillers. With its ensemble cast, interwoven mythology, and clear release date, the film promised to be a focal point for conversations about superhero storytelling, character-driven suspense, and how two distinct films can merge into a single, resonant continuation of a cinematic universe.

Recommended: M. Night Shyamalan Directed Movies Ranked

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