Drama
The Call – Film Review
WARNING! This review contains SPOILERS!
Death may be the only certainty in this world, yet we are never truly prepared for it. And sometimes, the loss we feel isn’t from death at all, but from the silence that grows between people who once shared everything. That silence — filled with words we never said, gestures we never made, and wounds we never mended — can haunt us for years. But what if, just what if, you could talk to that person one last time? What would you say? Would you finally let them know what they meant to you? Apologize for the hurt? Or just say the things you never could before?
That’s the aching “what if” at the heart of The Call, a short film directed by Rebeca Casagrande and Fabio Medeiros. The premise is hauntingly simple: in the middle of the desert, there’s a phone booth where the living can speak to the dead. No ghostly figures, no elaborate rules — just a quiet connection point where time seems to stop, and two worlds can touch for a moment.
“John” (Shay Michael) arrives at this remote spot with the kind of heavy anticipation that only comes from unfinished business. On the other end of the line is his father (Peter de Mark), a man whose absence has shaped John’s life in ways neither can easily put into words. Jennifer Teague’s “Kate” provides a steadying presence, reminding us that while the call may be extraordinary, the emotions behind it are painfully familiar.
The directors’ choice to leave the “how” unexplained is a wise one. The booth isn’t about mechanics — it’s a symbol for the conversations that never happened, the relationships left in limbo. Casagrande and Medeiros lean into restraint, letting silences and hesitation carry as much weight as the dialogue. When John finally speaks to his father, the exchange is not about neat resolutions, but about the fragile, imperfect attempt to bridge a gulf that has existed for years.
That said, the film’s emotional intention doesn’t always come through as strongly as it could. Across the performances, the emotional tone remains largely the same from beginning to end, which limits the impact of key story beats — from John’s arrival, to the realization he’s hearing his father’s voice, to the chance to finally express his hurt. A greater range of emotional shifts could make these moments more powerful. The same is true on the other end of the line; a deeper variety in vocal tone could help convey the father’s own complexity and history.
Visually, the film keeps a consistent look but relies heavily on medium and wide shots, placing much of the storytelling weight on the actors alone. Incorporating a wider range of angles — from tighter close-ups to extreme wides or even angled shots — could help emphasize the characters’ inner states and the emotional undercurrents of each scene. Similarly, the sound design feels unusually clean, with little ambient texture inside the house or around the phone booth. Even subtle background elements — a faint hum, the movement of air, the desert’s natural life — could add depth and make the world feel more lived-in.
Still, there are moments where the simplicity works — a pause here, a small shift in tone there — and the concept itself remains compelling. The Call doesn’t try to erase the past, and it doesn’t force a perfect reconciliation. Instead, it leaves you with the idea that sometimes the best we can do is meet each other halfway, even if only for a few minutes. And in that space — that suspended, delicate moment — there can be just enough truth to change how we carry the weight of what’s been left unsaid.
Lovely film. Well done.
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.
