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AFTER DARK is a compact morality play about what we owe a stranger when our instincts disagree. In ten minutes, it sets up a classic 'what would you do' scenario: a man on his way home meets a young woman who needs help getting to the station. He decides to walk with her. From there, the film becomes a tug-of-war between two impulses—compassion and self-protection—played out on quiet streets where every footstep sounds like a decision.

THE MASK is the rare studio comedy that fully understands its star as both actor and special effect. Jim Carrey’s face, posture, and body language were already a cultural event in 1994; this film turns that energy into its own premise. Stanley Ipkiss is a pushover with a kind heart and a habit of apologizing for occupying space. The mask he finds doesn’t create a different person; it detonates the person he’s been holding back, then paints him green and lets him sprint across the screen. That simple idea—your repressed self, set free—is what gives the movie its lasting power. The jokes go big, the gags go bigger, and yet the concept remains clear enough to anchor all the chaos.

The candy-colored surface of BUT I’M A CHEERLEADER hides more than you know. Jamie Babbit builds a world of bubblegum pastels and gender norms not to soften the story, but to sharpen it. Beneath the powder-blue lawns and Pepto-pink dorm rooms is a clear, pointed satire of “conversion therapy” and the cultural pressure to sand queer teens down into an acceptable shape.

There’s a quiet fire beneath BOYFIGHTER. Even as it keeps close to the bruised world of underground combat, it never lets violence define the characters’ worth. Julia Weisberg Cortés approaches the story not as a spectacle of fists and fights, but as a compassionate examination of how love, regret, and masculinity can become entangled into something that hurts even when it tries to protect. That unique perspective gives BOYFIGHTER a soul deeper than the genre typically offers.

THE RISING GIRLS OF K-POP: CONFIDENTIAL wants you to believe it’s cracking open a massive pop culture mystery. What it actually does is spend most of its runtime complaining about one of the most normal, unmysterious things in modern music: backing tracks.

PEACOCK is a dark, unsettling mirror held up to the modern performance of identity. It’s not simply a satire about role-playing; it’s a slow-motion implosion of a man who’s built his entire existence around being whoever others want him to be. Austrian filmmaker Bernhard Wenger’s feature captures the distorted comedy of self-erasure, a modern parable for the age of curated authenticity and algorithmic intimacy. The result is a smart, sharp piece of filmmaking that oscillates between humor and despair — a performance study wrapped in social commentary.

LITTLE AMÉLIE OR THE CHARACTER OF RAIN is a reminder that animation isn’t just a storytelling tool — it’s emotion with color. It’s what happens when you let art speak of memory, especially those first memories that never fully leave us. This is a film about a little girl learning how enormous life is, one moment at a time, and it uses animation to bring that realization to life in a way live-action never could.

PUT YOUR SOUL ON YOUR HAND AND WALK arrives with a story already aching inside it — a young woman whose life mattered, whose art demanded attention, and whose humanity insists on being remembered. That insistence is the backbone of Sepideh Farsi’s documentary. This film does not dramatize war so much as live inside it, through phone screens and connections that refuse to break even when everything else around them does.

he thing that makes 31 CANDLES engaging is this: it understands how much harder it is to change when you’re old enough to know better. Jonah Feingold plays Leo, a guy who skipped having a Bar Mitzvah at 13 and never quite shook the feeling that he left something unfinished. Now grown and stuck in the adult version of neutral — successful enough, charming enough, avoiding anything that might expose what he hasn’t figured out — he decides to finally accept the tradition he dodged, not as a punchline, but as a reckoning. The movie builds from a relatable place: when you’re tired of calling procrastination a personality trait, you have to do something uncomfortable.

In fifteen minutes, TRAPPED builds genuine tension, explores layered social commentary, and leaves you thinking long after the credits. Directed, written, and produced by brothers Sam and David Cutler-Kreutz, the short turns an ordinary high school janitor’s shift into a nightmare of escalating peril. But beneath the suspense lies something more penetrating—a critique of power, privilege, and how the smallest choices reveal who society protects and who it doesn’t.

PISTACHIO WARS peels back California’s agricultural facade and reveals something far more unsettling beneath the orchards. Directed and written by Yasha Levine and Rowan Wernham, the investigative documentary follows the trail of corporate greed that turns the state’s natural resources into a luxury commodity. What begins as a straightforward inquiry into a small water deal evolves into a sweeping, damning examination of power, branding, and the privatization of something as essential as life itself.

THE DEMON’S ROOK is the kind of horror artifact that earns its place on a late-night shelf through sheer willpower. Made on weekends with a group of friends, cast in latex and fog, and pointed squarely at anyone who missed the hand-built monsters, it’s an oddity that wears its influence proudly. You can feel the lineage: nightmares, ritual nonsense that plays like a dare, and a devotion to practical effects that puts much pricier productions to shame. On those terms, it’s a blast—an unruly parade of demons, zombies, slime, and the occult that proves enthusiasm can do a lot of heavy lifting.

SUNFISH (& OTHER STORIES ON GREEN LAKE) is a soft-spoken anthology with a backbone. It moves with the logic of a true summer—people arrive, drift into each other’s worlds, and leave changed in ways they won’t fully understand until later. Across four interlocking stories, the film treats the lake not as scenery but as the constant: a place where lessons are learned, responsibilities sneak up on kids and adults alike, and every victory feels earned because it’s so small you could miss it if you blinked. Sierra Falconer writes and directs with a confidence that favors presence over plot; the film is less about what happens than how it settles in your chest after.

When memory becomes a commodity, truth is no longer sacred—it’s transactional. That’s the unsettling premise behind FALSEHOOD, a high-concept Canadian sci-fi thriller from director Ethan Hickey. While ambitious and full of provocative ideas, the film occasionally leans too heavily on its philosophical framing. Still, there’s no denying its scope. For a low-budget production, it manages to feel expansive, polished, and politically charged, threading personal drama through a near-future narrative steeped in surveillance, power, and faith.

The marketing tagline promised “HIGH NOON in space,” but that undersells what OUTLAND actually achieves. Peter Hyams takes the bones of a Western—one good man against an empire of corruption—and transplants it to a mining colony orbiting Jupiter’s moon Io. It’s as bleak as it sounds: six hundred million miles from home, the air is synthetic, the work is brutal, and every worker is disposable. The colony, Con-Am 27, has the energy of a late-stage capitalist nightmare. Productivity is worshipped, human life is collateral, and one man dares to ask why miners keep dying in such spectacular, gruesome ways.

If there’s one thing Jess Franco could always do, it was find the line between camp and sleaze—and dance across the line with a grin. DEATH PACKS A SUITCASE (also known as Der Todesrächer von Soho or The Avenger of Soho) is one of the director’s stranger entries: a playful, oddly clean-cut mystery with all the hallmarks of German “Krimi” cinema and just enough Franco flavor to keep it weird. For an artist better known for erotic exploitation and psychotropic nightmares, this 1972 London-set whodunit feels like a weekend vacation—blood light but heavy on personality.

There’s a moment in AI WEIWEI’S TURANDOT when art and activism stop being separate entities and merge into something entirely new, for Ai Weiwei, whose career has always been an act of rebellion, directing an opera feels both unexpected and inevitable. The artist who once dropped a 2,000-year-old urn in the name of challenging authority now orchestrates Puccini’s Turandot inside the Rome Opera House—turning one of Western culture’s grandest traditions into a living statement on censorship, humanity, and power.

WALK WITH ME is exactly what its title promises: an invitation to stay present as a marriage reshapes itself around early-onset Alzheimer’s. Shot over four years by filmmaker and casting director Heidi Levitt, the film tracks her husband, Charlie Hess—an artist, father, and community builder—through the incremental changes that a diagnosis brings. There’s no manufactured drama here. Instead, we get the paces of real life: clinic visits, family conversations, small victories, and the tougher days when words slip, plans falter, and the world narrows. The honesty of that approach is the documentary’s power. It doesn’t explain Alzheimer’s so much as it lets you inhabit its slow encroachment, moment by moment.

THE WRONG ARM OF THE LAW sits in that distinct pocket where caper mechanics and manners share top billing. A crew of impostors dressed as police keeps robbing the robbers, forcing London’s crooks and the Yard to cooperate just to restore the “proper” order of things. That inversion is where the film lives—less in a belly-laugh sort of way and more in the absurdity of villains and cops negotiating work rules like rival trade unions.

OLIVE is that rare short film that doesn’t feel confined by time. Thirteen minutes pass, but it leaves an emotional afterglow that lingers like a full-length drama etched into your mind. Written, directed, and co-starring Tom Koch, it’s an intimate portrayal of love, loss, and identity through the lens of Alzheimer’s. This isn’t a film about the disease itself — it’s about the humanity caught inside. And with Lesley Ann Warren delivering a performance of astonishing grace, OLIVE stands as one of the year’s most powerful achievements in short-form storytelling.

GOING TO THE DOGS begins with silence — the kind that hangs heavy over an empty stadium, its lights long gone out. For much of the 20th century, this was the soundtrack of working-class Britain. Greyhound racing wasn’t just a pastime; it was a ritual, a community, a shared language of excitement and release. Director Greg Cruttwell’s documentary treats that history not as nostalgia, but as a question: what happens when a culture built on speed, noise, and adrenaline is forced to slow down and listen?

Alireza Khatami’s THE THINGS YOU KILL seeps in—an atmospheric riddle where vengeance and grief walk the same path until they’re indistinguishable. On its surface, it’s about a man haunted by his mother’s suspicious death and a gardener coerced into revenge. Beneath that, it’s about the futility of trying to purify pain with more violence. Every frame feels like a confession whispered into a well, knowing the echo will return distorted.

Dan Curtis’ DEAD OF NIGHT plays like a séance conducted through a TV antenna — flickering, imperfect, yet oddly intimate. First aired in 1977 and now preserved through Kino Lorber’s new release, this trio of stories captures the singular magic of broadcast horror: the sensation that something dark could slip through your living room at any moment. It’s uneven, yes, but within its framework lies the DNA of an entire generation’s fear.