Drama
Perchance to Dream
Directed by Michel Knowles
Warning – This review may contain spoilers.
Perchance to Dream grabbed my attention right away with its creative blend of modern technology and classic Shakespearean tragedy. The film tells the story of a Shakespeare-obsessed stalker who live-streams his break-in at the home of a woman he’s fixated on. The idea of using an Instagram Live format to narrate a crime adds a uniquely disturbing layer to the story, making the viewer feel like a bystander to the madness unfolding in real-time. As the stalker wanders through the house reciting Shakespearean verses, I found myself immersed in the eerie blend of high art and slasher vibes.
The technical aspects of Perchance to Dream are striking. The use of vertical video editing to mimic a live stream is clever, and the cinematography felt true to the concept. There’s something unsettling about watching a phone-filmed home invasion, as it creates an intimacy that draws the audience into the protagonist’s warped mindset. The lighting, especially, stood out to me. It effectively created mood and tension, with the contrast between soft bedroom light and the shadowed figure of the intruder heightening the sense of danger. Sound design was also well executed, with clear dialogue and subtle background noise that felt immersive. However, there was a noticeable transition back to traditional filmmaking toward the end that felt somewhat jarring. Maintaining the live-stream style for a bit longer would have helped sustain the tension.
What I appreciated most about Perchance to Dream is the way it connects Shakespeare’s words to the modern-day madness of its protagonist. There’s a fascinating dissonance between the beauty of Hamlet’s language and the horror of the intruder’s actions. His obsessive need to recite lines from Shakespeare while committing a violent crime speaks to how easily art can be warped into something grotesque. The idea of turning Hamlet into a figure who lives in the toxic echo chambers of the internet is both unsettling and, strangely, believable. The use of live-stream comments as a narrative device also adds a clever touch, making it feel like a performance for an invisible audience that’s complicit in the stalker’s actions.
That said, the story itself felt thin in some areas. While the concept is strong and the technical execution is impressive, the film doesn’t delve deeply enough into its characters, particularly the woman being stalked. She wakes up and takes action, but we never really get to know her beyond her role as the victim. Her character feels underdeveloped, which lessens the impact of the final confrontation. I found myself wanting more insight into her story and her perspective.
Despite the minor flaws, I think Perchance to Dream is a compelling and original short film. The combination of Shakespearean tragedy and modern-day stalking offers a fresh take on both genres, and the film’s creative use of live-streaming technology makes it stand out. The ending, while not completely satisfying, does deliver an unexpected twist that left me thinking about the blurred lines between performance, reality, and obsession. For viewers who appreciate experimental filmmaking and are fans of Shakespeare, this film offers a unique experience worth checking out.
Perchance to Dream succeeds in creating an unsettling atmosphere with its innovative use of format and Shakespearean obsession, even if the narrative could have been more fleshed out. It’s a bold piece of filmmaking that lingers in the mind, leaving audiences to contemplate the darker side of art and technology.
Drama
A Call That Changes Everything in Don’t Hang Up
WARNING! This review contains SPOILERS!
Don’t Hang Up tells a powerful story through one unexpected phone call. Elizabeth Holiday, played by Paula Jai Parker, starts her morning in rural Hayti, Missouri, when Jeremy, a former student portrayed by LT Hines II, reaches out after years of silence. The call disrupts her routine and pulls both of them into a conversation they’ve been avoiding for a long time.
The film moves with intention. Diamond Batiste focuses on honesty and emotional clarity, allowing the story to unfold through the rawness of their dialogue. The pacing feels natural, giving each shift in tone space to land without distraction.
The cinematography keeps the attention on Elizabeth’s experience through warm tones and close framing. The sound design supports the tension between both characters, letting the quiet moments deepen the impact of each line. Every element works together to keep the focus on the connection forming between Elizabeth and Jeremy.
Parker brings a grounded presence to Elizabeth, and Hines brings weight to Jeremy’s emotional state. Their performances carry the story, giving the conversation a sense of history without relying on exposition. The writing allows them to speak with honesty, and the emotions surface naturally.
Batiste brings a strong point of view to the film. His commitment to stories about connection and resilience is shaped by a career that is dedicated to elevating underrepresented voices. His background adds depth to the themes he explores, especially when addressing the pressures that shape communities like the one portrayed in the film.
Don’t Hang Up is a story about reaching out when it matters and finding the courage to confront the past. The film handles mental health with care and delivers an experience that stays with you. I enjoyed it very much.
Drama
The Quiet Rebellion of Sister Wives
WARNING! This review contains SPOILERS!
Louisa Connolly-Burnham’s Sister Wives is a haunting & heartfelt exploration of love, repression, and quiet rebellion in unexpected places. Set in a strict, polygamous community in 2003 Utah, the film follows Kaidence and Galilee—two young women as they discover something forbidden but deeply human: love for one another. Beneath its rural stillness, this film hums with tension and tenderness.
Sister Wives feels deliberate and immersive right from the start. The muted color palette mirrors the rigid life of the community—dull, restrained, and heavy with strict rules—while the women’s prairie dresses introduce just enough color to suggest individuality trying to break through. The cinematography captures both the beauty and isolation doing an outstanding job at enhancing the emotional connection. When the camera holds on moments between Kaidence and Galilee, these moments are where you can feel the emotion connection the strongest.
Connolly-Burnham, who also stars in the film alongside BAFTA-winner Mia McKenna-Bruce, directs with remarkable empathy. Her approach is not exploitative or sensational. She creates a world that feels lived-in, fragile, and real. The editing and sound design work in harmony, never too much to draw attention to it unless you are looking for it. Even the lighting feels symbolic—soft in moments of connection, harsh and cold whenever the outside world closes in.
Sister Wives is about two women reclaiming the right to have feelings. The performances are powerful while still being subtle as they are charged with emotion.
Connolly-Burnham’s direction shows a deep understanding of contrast—between faith, freedom, duty, desire, silence and voice. Her use of music, inspired by films like Drive and Lost in Translation, adds a pulse that modernizes the story. This kind of repression still exists, and her storytelling makes sure we feel that.
The production design captures the rustic isolation of its world and is spot on to transport audiences into this world. It’s easy to see why Sister Wives has been gaining recognition at Oscar, BAFTA, and BIFA qualifying festivals. Every aspect of its production, costuming, lighting, (well the whole thing just works) in service of the story’s truth.
What stays with me isn’t the setting or even the tragedy of the women—it’s the courage. The courage to question, to feel, and to dream of freedom in a world designed to suppress it. Sister Wives is quiet, brave, and unforgettable.
Drama
Can You Trust What You See Anymore?
WARNING! This review contains SPOILERS!
Iñaki Velásquez’s Danka Priscilla Danka is a sleek and unsettling political drama that digs into the growing unease surrounding artificial intelligence and power. Set against the high-stakes backdrop of a Chilean presidential race, the film centers on Priscilla, a campaign manager whose loyalty is tested when she discovers that the very technology fueling her candidate’s success may be built on deception. What begins as a story about deepfakes and politics slowly turns into something more intimate—a study of control, manipulation, and trust between two women whose relationship blurs the line between personal and professional loyalty.
From the opening frame, Velásquez makes his control of tone clear. The lighting is sharp and purposeful—each scene feels designed for the emotional temperature of the moment. Hotel rooms glow with uneasy warmth, police offices buzz under cold fluorescent light, and Danka’s balcony conversations carry the quiet weight of a woman performing both for the public and for herself. The cinematography captures Chile’s landscape in striking contrasts: the natural mountains towering over the geometric sprawl of the city. It’s an image that mirrors the story’s central question—what happens when something human becomes overshadowed by something manufactured?
The performances are gripping. Tamara Acosta brings depth and precision to Priscilla, grounding the film’s moral tension in every look and pause. Katty Kowaleczko, as Danka, balances charisma and menace with a politician’s grace—her smile hiding a thousand motives. Their chemistry makes each exchange electric, turning even the smallest gesture into a battle for power.
Technically, the film is top-tier. The camera work is confident, the framing consistently intentional, and the editing tight enough to maintain suspense without ever feeling rushed. The sound design amplifies every shift in mood—especially the use of ambient noise during confrontations, which keeps the audience alert to what might happen next. While the background score occasionally enters a moment too early, it hardly detracts from the film’s overall polish.
Velásquez, already an Academy-qualified filmmaker for his short Victoria Rosana Maite, proves again that he knows how to build worlds that feel both cinematic and urgent. His direction balances spectacle with substance, never letting the technological themes overpower the human story at its core. In his director’s statement, he calls the film “about the nature of power and abuse in a relationship between two women,” and that focus is exactly what gives Danka Priscilla Danka its bite. It’s not just about AI—it’s about how control manifests, both digitally and emotionally.
By the end, I found myself thinking less about algorithms and more about people—the ones who hide behind them, and the ones who suffer because of them. Velásquez’s film feels timely yet timeless, a warning and a mirror all at once. Danka Priscilla Danka doesn’t just explore deception in politics—it exposes how easy it is to believe the lies we want to be true.
