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What does redemption cost when the world stops giving second chances? THE ARTFUL DODGER: SEASON 2 opens with that question already answered in practice, if not yet in words. Jack Dawkins isn’t flirting with consequence anymore; he’s staring straight down the barrel of it. Where the first season was about possibility and transformation, this is about debt, the kind that doesn’t disappear just because you’ve learned new skills or adopted better manners.

What happens when something you made to escape becomes something others used to survive, or worse, to justify harm? That question hangs over NOSTALGIE from its opening, shaping the film not as a tale of faded fame but as a quiet, devastating examination of authorship, complicity, and the myths artists tell themselves to stay afloat. At just nineteen minutes, Kathryn Ferguson’s BAFTA-nominated short manages to feel both intimate and expansive, never rushing its ideas yet never overcomplicating its message.

What do you do when the world feels on edge, and every new technological promise sounds like a threat dressed up as convenience? GOOD LUCK, HAVE FUN, DON’T DIE doesn’t offer comfort, clarity, or solutions. Instead, Gore Verbinski returns to filmmaking by throwing gasoline on that anxiety and daring the audience to keep up. This is a loud, restless, deliberately overstuffed movie that treats chaos as both subject and method, and it never pretends otherwise. Everything you think you know about this film is wrong, and ultimately, in the best way possible.

What happens when the desire to be loved curdles into the desire to disappear? BY DESIGN doesn’t ask that question softly, and it certainly doesn’t bother cushioning the answer. Amanda Kramer’s feature takes an absurdist premise that sounds like a punchline and commits to it with absolute seriousness, using surrealism not as a stylistic lens, but as a blunt instrument for interrogating female interiority, objectification, and the fantasy of frictionless existence.

What does it mean to watch a band at full strength when you already know what they’ll become decades later? LET’S SPEND THE NIGHT TOGETHER doesn’t just document the Rolling Stones’ 1981 U.S. tour; it captures a rare moment when scale, stamina, and self-mythology briefly aligned without fully calcifying into legacy management.

What does it mean to help someone you love when the cost of that help is never defined? HONEY BUNCH has that question deeply embedded in its premise, then spends nearly two hours refusing to let the audience resolve it. Rather than positioning itself as a puzzle-box thriller or a pure body-horror production, the film commits to something more emotionally destabilizing: a love story in which devotion is both the pulse and the exposure.

What happens when Broadway’s most enduring myths are frozen in celluloid, then revisited decades later, not as nostalgia pieces but as living documents of performance, desire, and contradiction? That’s the challenge at the heart of BROADWAY ON THE BIG SCREEN, a six-film collection that doesn’t ask you to love every note or every choice, but instead invites you to sit with how wildly different these adaptations are in tone, ambition, and intent.

What happens when a way of life depends on being alone, but survival increasingly demands connection? THE LAST PUESTERO doesn’t try to frame that question as a philosophical exercise. It observes it unfolding in real time through the daily routines, silences, and contradictions embodied by Adonai Jara, a gaucho (a skilled, historically nomadic horseman and cattle herder of the South American pampas (grasslands)) stationed at a remote Patagonian outpost where tradition still holds, but only barely.

What happens when a nation explains its violence through myth instead of responsibility? THE HOLE, 309 DAYS TO THE BLOODIEST TRAGEDY doesn’t ask that question civilly. It drags it into the open, smears it with blood, and dares the audience to look away. Hanung Bramantyo’s film isn’t content to simply unsettle its audience; it wants to indict, and it understands that horror is often the most honest language for doing so.

What does it mean to be American when the definition keeps changing depending on where you stand, how you sound, and who gets to decide? FIL-AM starts with that issue quietly embedded in its bones rather than declared outright, and it trusts the audience to feel the tension long before it names it. Writer-director Ralph Torrefranca frames his short not as a thesis statement about Filipino American identity, but as a lived-in memory shaped by displacement, resentment, and reluctant adaptation.

What makes a neighborhood feel safe, and how quickly does that illusion fall apart once doubt creeps in? The ’Burbs takes that question and stretches it across eight tightly constructed episodes, using comedy not as a release valve but as a delivery system for discomfort. This isn’t a lazy remake, nor is it a nostalgia trap desperate to coast on the past. Instead, it’s a deliberate reworking of an idea that still feels uncomfortably relevant: the belief that danger always comes from somewhere else.

What does a home-invasion thriller owe its audience when it’s built almost entirely on escalation? MISDIRECTION answers that question with a focus on nostalgia while creating its own path forward, if not always with depth. This is a lean, tightly wound genre piece that understands its limitations and chooses momentum over overstatement, even when that choice occasionally exposes thin character shading or narrative shortcuts.

How long can grief sit inside a person before it starts shaping everything around them? THE ARBORIST builds its entire identity around that question, using folk horror not as a gimmick but as a framework for emotional decay. This isn’t a film interested in jump scares or cheap provocation. Instead, it settles into the dirt below you and waits, allowing unease to accumulate, as rot does, slowly and invisibly, until it becomes impossible to ignore.

How do you revisit a work that already reshaped how history is told without diminishing its impact on the world? THE HELL OF AUSCHWITZ: MAUS BY ART SPIEGELMAN approaches this challenge carefully, refusing to position itself as a definitive statement on Maus and instead framing the graphic novel as a living object that continues to provoke, educate, and agitate select people decades after its publication.

What happens when a system designed to shape young minds becomes a hunting ground instead? TEACHER’S PET takes a premise that feels uncomfortably plausible and refuses to treat it as a metaphor or exaggeration. Writer/director Noam Kroll’s psychological thriller frames the academic environment not as a refuge, but as a system built on trust, authority, and access. These very conditions make it vulnerable to exploitation.