Drama
Lobo
Directed by Sean Connolly
This review contains SPOILERS
Lobo is an exploration of brotherhood, sacrifice, and the complexities of familial loyalty. The film follows two brothers, one fearless and the other timid, who flee into the wilderness after a violent confrontation that results in the death of their abusive father. As they escape deeper into the wild, their bond is tested, and the film unravels layers of trauma, guilt, and the lengths to which one will go to protect their family. What makes Lobo stand out is not just its narrative, but the emotional depth it manages to convey through minimal dialogue, evocative landscapes, and moments of introspective silence.
The cinematography in Lobo utilizes the rugged natural environment to mirror the psychological terrain the characters traverse. The vastness of the wilderness contrasts sharply with the brothers’ intense, confined emotional states. The lighting is consistent, often casting a moody, almost ethereal glow that feels both isolating and intimate, fitting for a story about two brothers forced to confront their inner demons while trying to evade external danger. Each shot is carefully composed to emphasize the emotional distance between the brothers, especially in the early parts of the film when their connection feels strained.
Sound design plays a pivotal role in creating the atmosphere of tension and dread that pervades the film. The near silence of certain moments, like when the brothers sit by the campfire, draws the viewer in, making every subtle sound—from the crackle of the flames to the rustling leaves—carry weight. This quietude contrasts well with the chaos of their initial flight, where the sound of police sirens and heavy breathing creates a palpable sense of panic. There’s a moment early on where the diegetic sound fades as the mother speaks, a deliberate choice that underscores the disconnect between the characters and their tragic reality.
The performances of João Nunes Monteiro and Diogo Martins as the two brothers are both nuanced and raw. Monteiro, as the older brother, exudes a quiet stoicism, burdened by the responsibility he feels for his younger sibling. His protective instincts are immediately apparent, even as his inner turmoil simmers just beneath the surface. Martins, playing the younger brother, gives a more layered performance, balancing vulnerability with moments of intense anger, particularly as the truth of what happened to their father comes to light. The chemistry between the two actors sells the emotional core of the film—while they are brothers, they are also strangers in many ways, trying to reconnect after years of separation.
Lobo is about survival—not just in the physical sense, but emotionally. The brothers’ journey into the wilderness forces them to face the turbulent events of their past, and the deeper they venture into the wild, the more reality begins to blur. The twist that reveals the younger brother as the one who actually killed their father adds a layer of complexity to the narrative. It reframes the entire story, turning it from a simple tale of evasion into a meditation on guilt and sacrifice. The fact that the older brother attempts to take the blame only heightens the emotional stakes, making his eventual decision to turn himself in all the more devastating when the truth is revealed.
Though the plot may not be groundbreaking—some viewers may anticipate the twist—the film’s emotional depth and the way it handles the theme of brotherhood are its true strengths. The dynamic between the brothers is the beating heart of the film, and Connolly’s direction ensures that their relationship feels authentic and deeply affecting. Even as the narrative heads toward its inevitable conclusion, the emotional resonance remains strong, leaving the audience to reflect on the weight of familial bonds and the sacrifices we make for those we love.
The film does occasionally lean into familiar tropes, particularly in its depiction of the older brother as the stoic protector and the younger as the more impulsive, guilt-ridden character. While these archetypes are effective, they could have been fleshed out further to add more depth to their individual personalities. Additionally, I find the pacing of the film slow at times, particularly during the quieter, more reflective moments. However, this deliberate pacing allows the tension to build gradually, leading to an emotionally charged climax that feels earned.
Lobo is an emotionally gripping film that blends the tension of a thriller with the intimacy of a family drama. Its cinematography, strong performances, and deeply felt themes make it a compelling watch. Audiences who appreciate films that delve into the psychological and emotional complexities of familial relationships, set against a backdrop of tension and uncertainty, will find much to admire in Lobo. It is a film that lingers long after the credits roll, reminding us that sometimes the greatest battles we face are not against the world, but within our own family.
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.
