Drama
The Vacuum Salesman
Warning – This review may contain spoilers.
When I watched The Vacuum Salesman, I immediately felt a sense of unease and tension building from the first scene. The film, directed by Ty Pierson, introduces us to a vacuum salesman named Cody, played brilliantly by John Salandria. Cody attempts to sell a vacuum cleaner to Logan, a high school acquaintance (played by Mark Valeriano), and what starts as an awkward sales pitch quickly spirals into a tense and emotionally charged encounter. As we watch Cody unravel, it becomes clear that the missing vacuum part isn’t the real issue; instead, it’s a symbol of something much deeper that’s broken in his life.
One thing that struck me about the film was how effectively the technical elements supported the story. The cinematography is deliberate, with framing and color choices that highlight Cody’s mental state. The shots with the rearview mirror and the potted yellow flowers are particularly striking, using soft hues of yellow and blurring to symbolize the fragility of Cody’s grasp on reality. These moments, combined with subtle lighting and a well-paced score, set a mood that kept me on edge the entire time. The sound design, especially, plays a crucial role in underscoring Cody’s emotional breakdown—there’s an intensity that builds quietly in the background and explodes in key moments.
What I found fascinating is how the film plays on the idea of old grudges, even though Logan doesn’t seem to remember Cody or any prior grievances. The lack of explanation about their past creates this palpable tension that leaves a lot to the viewer’s imagination. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between these two characters in high school, but at the same time, I appreciated that the film didn’t spoon-feed that information. Instead, it allows Cody’s emotional state and erratic behavior to tell the story. The presence of Logan’s child serves as a turning point, stopping Cody from whatever misguided form of revenge he may have been contemplating and grounding him in the reality of what truly matters.
The film does a great job of conveying universal themes like failure, desperation, and comparison. Logan, with his perfect family life (symbolized by the neat little pot of flowers), serves as a stark contrast to Cody’s chaotic life, reflected in the broken vacuum. It’s a relatable feeling—comparing ourselves to others, especially those we knew from the past—and this relatability is why I think audiences will connect with this film. Even though Cody’s actions are extreme, his sense of inadequacy and frustration are emotions that many of us have likely felt at one point or another.
There were minor technical flaws, such as a couple of strange camera angles and a few moments where the editing seemed off, but they didn’t detract too much from my overall experience. In fact, they added a raw, almost unpolished feel to the film, which worked well with the chaotic headspace Cody is in. The performances from Salandria and Valeriano were fantastic, with both actors embodying their characters fully and bringing a sense of authenticity to their interactions. Salandria, in particular, really sold the desperation of a man who feels like his life has spiraled out of control.
By the end of The Vacuum Salesman, I was left thinking about the weight of the past and how unresolved emotions can bubble to the surface in unexpected ways. Pierson crafted a story that is both entertaining and thought-provoking, mixing dark comedy with drama and tension in a way that keeps you engaged. It’s the kind of film that may be short in length but leaves a lasting impression.
Ultimately, The Vacuum Salesman is a tightly crafted narrative that explores themes of regret, failure, and the haunting effects of comparison. While the story is straightforward, its deeper emotional layers make it a film that resonates beyond its surface. I believe audiences will enjoy this film not only for its technical prowess but also for its relatable and human story.
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.
