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What to do when a movie about environmental collapse won’t play ball and instead wants to turn itself into something more digestible? CLIMATE CONTROL begins with that idea embedded in its core concept, then delights in flipping all expectations, over fifteen incisive, restless minutes, not just dismantling climate conversations but also the systems that increasingly render them into content, convenience, and algorithm-friendly placation.

What does it mean to document a relationship when the camera can’t fix what’s already fractured? DIANA & MINERVA begins from a place of observation rather than explanation, following two women whose bond is defined less by grand gestures than by endurance. The film doesn’t reach for metaphor or symbolic framing to elevate its story. Instead, it stays rooted in the everyday realities of care, tension, and dependency, allowing intimacy to emerge through repetition, routine, and moments of unspoken strain. What unfolds isn’t a mythic portrait or a romanticized study of devotion, but a patient record of two lives moving forward together because separating would cost more than staying.

What happens when a comedy stops trying to be quick-witted and commits fully to being honest about how people actually behave when they’re hurt, embarrassed, and making things worse by the second? DANNY IS MY BOYFRIEND answers that question by leaning into discomfort and letting it spiral. There’s an honesty here, there’s something that lets the people in this story exist, break down, and come out swinging on the otherside, telling a cathartic story about who they are.

What if a documentary stopped asking how it should show the subjects of the film, but rather how those subjects wish to be seen? While BRAILLED IT doesn’t explicitly ask this question, it’s built around the answer. We leave behind the premises of conventional documentary expectations the moment this film begins, giving cameras to blind and low-vision kids competing in the annual Braille Challenge. The filmmakers make a discreet yet strong choice against translating experience into sight for sighted viewers and instead invite the audience to come to the experience itself, to where it exists.

What does a dying town look like when nobody’s performing for the camera? CLOVERS answers that question by refusing pageantry. There are no sweeping drone shots of abandoned factories, no heavy-handed narration declaring economic ruin. Instead, the film plants itself in a quasi-legal strip mall casino in Asheboro, North Carolina, and lets time do the storytelling.

What does masculinity express itself as when nobody’s required to show it? SIKSIKAKOWAN: THE BLACKFOOT MAN answers this calmly and without making a big deal of it. The film doesn’t put forward a point or a central idea; instead, it leaves room. Room to look. Room to hear. Room to simply be, and not have to give reasons.

Is there a difference between being stuck and choosing not to move forward? DADDIES BOI opens with a blunt awareness of the world it occupies. This is a space where relevance has a shelf life, youth is treated like a renewable resource, and anyone past a certain point is expected to either reinvent themselves or disappear altogether. Rather than softening that anxiety with irony or distance, the short confronts it using humor as both armor and confession.

Is unexpected shock still effective when it’s tied to something real? PUKE BITCH declares its desires immediately as something uninterested in politeness. This isn’t an experience designed to ease viewers into its world or offer safety handrails. It drops you into an environment already steeped in neglect, cruelty, and unresolved trauma, then dares you to stay long enough to understand how that damage spreads. The result is a viewing experience that’s deliberately abrasive, heavy, and far more disciplined than its title might suggest.

What does it mean to grow up in a moment when the perception of privacy is fragile, identity is curated, and desire is learned through a screen rather than lived experience? BRB doesn’t treat that question as nostalgia bait or sarcastic shorthand. Instead, it approaches the early-internet experience as something volatile and formative, a space where intimacy and exposure were inseparable, and where the urge to be seen could feel just as dangerous as being invisible. Set during the era of dial-up modems, the film understands that this wasn’t simply a technological phase, but an emotional one, especially for young women learning who they were allowed to be. While I grew up and was molded by these same moments, my firsthand experience was as a teenage boy on the other side. I think that made me appreciate the film even more!

What does it mean to cling on when everyone has made up their mind and decided you’re done? THE OLD MAN AND THE PARROT starts with a premise that leads to a punchline, yet quickly develops into something much more delicate. A man breaks into the house of a stranger, armed and carrying a stuffed bird, and he then demands the spirit of his lover to be freed. It could have been the premise of a sketch comedy, yet the film hints from the beginning that it’s not aiming for that. Under its odd workings, there’s a message about grief with no place to go.

How do you measure what survival means when simply existing is treated like an accomplishment? STILL STANDING is one of those short documentaries that wastes absolutely no time pretending it needs more than it does. At ten minutes, it understands its responsibility, its limitations, and its strengths, and it never overreaches. Instead, it tightens its focus until the concept becomes unbearable in the best possible way. This isn’t a film about the exhibition of wildfire, not about flames swallowing neighborhoods, not about cinematic devastation. It is about what comes after, when the fires are gone, some of the houses are technically intact, and the danger is invisible.

What happens when concealed ideology refuses to stay buried? MURPHY’S RANCH wastes no time establishing its tone. What begins as a routine job unfolds with a steady unease, the kind that creeps in rather than presenting itself in an obvious way. The film understands that the most effective horror often comes from recognition, the idea that something deeply wrong has been hiding in plain sight all along.

How much of a family’s identity is inherited, and how much is silently imposed? THE LEMIEURS is the kind of documentary that disarms you by refusing to posture. There’s no thesis announced up front, no framing designed to guide you, no reassuring sense that this film knows exactly where it is headed. Instead, filmmaker Sammy LeMieur begins with proximity. He points the camera at his own family and lets time do the shaping. Over four years, what starts as documentation gradually becomes confrontation, not through conflict itself, but through inevitability.

What happens to a carefully controlled society once its walls stop holding the story inside? PARADISE answers that question head-on in its second season, not by undoing what worked before, but by deliberately stressing until cracks become unavoidable. Where season one thrived on tension, secrecy, and carefully rationed information, season two expands its lens without losing its grip, turning the series from a tightly sealed mystery into something more volatile and emotionally exposed.

What if the hardest part wasn’t surviving the lie, but learning how to live once it returns? THE LAST THING HE TOLD ME: SEASON 2 opens with that unspoken pressure point hanging over every scene. Unlike the standard thrillers that mistake escalation for evolution, this season understands that continuation only works if it deepens the damage already done. Season 2 commits to consequence, building a slower, more psychologically loaded follow-up that trusts its audience to sit with discomfort.