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When Jess Franco took the director’s chair for THE VENGEANCE OF DR. MABUSE in 1972, he wasn’t interested in adoration. This is no faithful continuation of Fritz Lang’s hypnotic criminal mastermind, nor even a straight adaptation of Norbert Jacques’ novels. Instead, it’s a rebranding — a “Mabuse” in name only — that allowed Franco to indulge his pulp obsessions: exotic assassins, seedy nightclubs, grotesque henchmen, and half-serious sci-fi conspiracies. The result is a brisk, 76-minute cocktail that feels like a collision between a Euro-crime programmer and a feverish jazz improvisation.

From its opening moments, LILLY LIVES ALONE presents itself as more than just a haunted house story. Martin Melnick’s debut feature blends small-town paranoia, generational trauma, and surreal horror into a fevered spiral where certainty becomes impossible. This isn’t a film that divides the natural from the supernatural. Instead, it traps the viewer inside the same disorienting headspace as its protagonist, where the only constant is unease.

BRUTE 1976 drags the viewer back to an era when horror didn’t wear a polished facade. It was hot, sticky, bloody, and dangerous—cinemas that smelled like sweat and gasoline. Marcel Walz taps into that grime-soaked decade with a vision that’s both homage and rebellion, creating a film that feels like it crawled out of a barn in the middle of nowhere and refuses to let you look away. This isn’t just a throwback; it’s a statement that horror still has the power to be feral and utterly unforgettable. With one of the most jaw-dropping lines ever spat on screen—“Killing makes me so wet?”—BRUTE 1976 makes it clear that its goal isn’t comfort, it’s infamy.

RECESSES is one of those shorts that proves you don’t need scale to make an impact. Dylan Trupiano sets the entire story inside an elementary school office, a space that feels both normal and yet charged with tension. It’s a quiet film on the surface—just a secretary and a boy waiting after a disciplinary incident—but the undercurrent is what gives it power. By the end of its fifteen minutes, it leaves you with the kind of silence that demands reflection.

PLASTIC SURGERY opens with the clinical stillness of a hospital, a space where routine and chaos constantly exchange places. This is the final shift for Dr. Terra, a physician preparing to step away on maternity leave, but her farewell to work quickly turns into something stranger. The emergency isn’t the kind with flashing alarms—it’s an invisible threat already embedded in her patients’ bodies, and perhaps in her own. Writer/Director Guy Trevellyan builds his short film on a foundation of real-world research into microplastics, crafting a story that resonates globally.

CLOUT is a short film that doesn’t waste time dressing up its message. Jordan Murphy Doidge has taken a simple but modern idea—what kids will do for online attention—and turned it into a story that feels immediate, unsettling, and believable. Instead of overwhelming the viewer with statistics or exaggerated warnings, the film illustrates how one teenager’s need for validation spirals out of control. That choice makes it far more effective than a lecture could ever be.

THE TWISTED TALE OF AMANDA KNOX makes it clear from the first episode that it isn’t interested in rehashing myths. Instead, it offers a deliberate and layered examination of a case that consumed headlines for years, reframing Amanda Knox not as the villain many were told she was, but as a young woman caught in the perfect storm of overreach, media sensationalism, and public bias.

It begins with a familiar setup: a college student, on the brink of expulsion, decides to shrug off the threat of tomorrow in favor of one last adventure. In POOLS, that adventure is a summer night of pool-hopping through the manicured backyards of an affluent college town. It’s a premise ripe for energy, yet Sam Hayes’ debut feature has more on its mind than fleeting thrills. Beneath the glow and the adrenaline rush is a story about grief, identity, and the ways we navigate life after a personal loss, which redraws the map entirely. Honestly, the film is all over the place, but that’s not a bad thing; here, it works to the advantage of the story.

A wish at 11:11 feels harmless enough, until the wrong wish changes everything. In Mahnoor Euceph’s short film 11:11, the seemingly light premise—a teen girl wishes to be her crush’s type—becomes the foundation for a pointed exploration of identity, belonging, and the dangers of self-erasure. In just fifteen minutes, the film blends humor with an unshakable undercurrent of discomfort, crafting something both deeply specific and universally relatable. (It’s incredible to me that within a month, I saw two films with an incredibly similar story but that feel like two entirely different messages; both were so powerful in their own ways.)

THROUGH AND THROUGH is not the kind of film that eases you into its world. It drags you there and locks the door. From the opening moments, Grzegorz Królikiewicz makes it clear this is a story that will not pander to expectations or offer easy emotional beats. Instead, it’s an exercise in immersion — in how poverty, shame, and isolation can strip people down until all that’s left is survival instinct.

Radiance Films continues its deep dive into the world of Iga ninja with SHINOBI VOL. 2, a meticulously presented box set that picks up right where the first volume left off. This three-film collection—SIEGE, RETURN OF MIST SAIZO, and THE LAST IGA SPY—retains the series’ mix of historical drama, espionage, and martial arts, while subtly shifting its focus toward political maneuvering and personal vendettas.

PERPETRATOR wastes no time establishing itself as something strange. Jennifer Reeder’s latest is a horror film wrapped in a feminist coming-of-age story, dipped in surrealism, and splattered with blood. It’s as ambitious as it is uneven — a movie with moments of real intrigue, flashes of brilliance, and an energy that refuses to stay in one lane, even when a little restraint might have made all the difference.

Few films manage to combine intimacy and brutality with the confidence of TROUBLE EVERY DAY. Claire Denis’ first engagement with genre cinema is as much a meditation on the human body as it is a horror story — a slow, measured plunge into lust, hunger, and the territory where those instincts become indistinguishable. More than two decades after its controversial debut, the film has lost none of its ability to unsettle, disturb, and haunt. Think of a fusion of RAW, BYZANTIUM, and POSSESSION, with the lingering sting of IN MY SKIN.

This film aims to blend found footage, on-screen storytelling, and a documentary-like curiosity into one unsettling journey. From the very start, it’s clear there’s an emotional spark behind the camera — a genuine desire to build a story with layers of mystery, isolation, and creeping dread. The early sections manage to pull the viewer in, offering a premise that feels both personal and expansive: a central figure embarks on a video-based project. It gradually becomes drawn into an investigation with unnerving implications.

There’s a certain appeal to the “friends in a remote cabin” setup — it’s practically baked into horror’s DNA. Done right, it’s a playground for tension, supernatural chaos, and blood-soaked fun. FEAR CABIN clearly understands the formula, but instead of using it as a springboard for something new, it settles for familiar strides and a patchwork of cliches that never gel into a cohesive or engaging whole. If you don’t follow my socials (which you should), I define a 1.5-star film as “An experience that was hard to get through but not beyond some redemption.” And this is the definition of a film like that. It wasn’t so much “bad” as it was something we’ve seen before, on a budget, with a lot of experimentation.