dir. Lulu Liu

In BDSM, a submissive may appear to surrender control to a dominant partner—but in reality, they are the ones calling the shots. This exchange of power takes place in a consensually negotiated framework of safety and mutual desire; a sub actively shapes any scene. Though BDSM plays a largely symbolic role in Cherry On Top (2025), Lulu Liu’s dark comedy short uses it to consider a similar paradox of sexual agency: in a culture that simultaneously fetishizes adolescent girls and denies that they have their own autonomous desires, how can teens take their power back? 

Cherry On Top follows two sisters, Lily and Rose, held captive in a basement by their mother, a religious fanatic. When one of them discovers a vintage BDSM magazine, it inspires not only her sexual awakening, but the sisters’ escape. Calling back to Carrie (1976), Ginger Snaps (2000), Jennifer’s Body (2009), and other classic films about the horrors of girlhood, Cherry On Top is a stylistic powerhouse. The short cleverly and playfully invokes y2k-era pop culture as both an homage to its teen movie influences and an expansion on its themes. Celebrity magazines—which aim to court and control teen desire—function as the girls’ sole connection to the outside world and a marker of time passing during their imprisonment. A thinly veiled version of the Jonas Brothers catalyzes their fantasies: even good-girl Rose keeps a purity ring out of devotion to boy band member Nick Johnson. 

Each shot is immersive and rich with symbolic details, often masterfully walking the line between sensual and disgusting. Liu and her team have a knack for striking cinematography and tableaus that will stick with you after the film ends, but it’s not just about aesthetics—the visuals also carry many of the film’s core ideas. In the opening scene, Lily and Rose sing a hymn in a candlelit basement (next to them, an urn labeled “DAD” in bright pink block letters gives you a preview of the short’s campy, irreverent humor). As the girls repeat the line “He’s coming again,” Lily slides her finger obscenely into the spine of the hymnal she’s holding and the camera cuts to a rivulet of wax spilling over the side of a candle. Lily lets her voice go flat, lending an eerie dissonance to the scene. In another shot, Rose plucks maraschino cherries from the jar and eats them messily in bed, leaving a trail of spilled syrup that portends blood. The sequences evoke sex, but they’re not sexy—they’re disconcerting. 

Beyond the visual, the short uses all available sensory resources to gesture towards a decontextualized, abject erotic. The film’s sonic details are especially impactful: the wet squish of a cherry pressed into a thickly frosted cake, a body dragged through its own slick blood, and a fork squelching into a container of tinned fish are some of the nauseating, evocative, and weirdly horny sounds that make Cherry On Top a deliciously unsettling sensory experience. 

If Jennifer’s Body is about the double bind that results when the only power girls are afforded is their sexuality—after all, the monster is just a girl who knows how to use that currency for her own gain—then Cherry On Top draws attention to the underlying cultural forces that seek to define and control this sexuality in the first place. By untangling the sisters’ desires from the audience’s gaze and subverting common objectifying visual tropes, the short makes space for adolescent girls’ sexual agency while critiquing the way broader culture sexualizes them. 

In Cherry On Top, BDSM operates as a visual and conceptual anchor, not an actual practice. It is important to make that distinction in a media landscape that still frequently conflates kink with violence. Liu seems to know this, even referencing the “safe, sane, and consensual” framework of kink throughout the girls’ bloody, climactic escape. Still, it seems an apt motif in a film that asks what’s more deviant—female sexuality or a culture obsessed with repressing it?

dir. Shelly Findlay

Donations begins with the sound of disembodied voices. Over a black background that gradually brightens to a bloody shade of rust, the viewer hears a gentle voice read corporate taglines, “Sanguis Mobile: Give of yourself, we’ll give you the world” and “100 gigs for only 1.25 litres.” Through this brief introductory exposition, the audience comes to learn that traditional means of currency have lost all meaning and that blood is the new gold. 

Directed by Shelly Findlay, Donations manages to pack corporate vampirism, existential dread, depression, and heartbreak into a film less than eight minutes long. Our protagonist J.C., played by Tejay McDonald, wakes up from an alcohol-induced stupor in a dreary studio apartment, boxed in by an urban exterior covered in late-season snow. When he tries to scroll through pictures of his mysterious ex, Hannah—his first action after recovering from drinking—he’s prompted to “donate” via a mechanism that drains his blood through the back of his phone. As the realities of his previous relationship become apparent online, he must make a decision about how much he can sacrifice in order to see her social media feed (in this case, an app cleverly called “Dripfeed”). 

Findlay and her team have done a stellar job at creating an austere mood with a limited budget. For example, when J.C. wakes up at the beginning of the short, the viewer is introduced to a dull, late-afternoon sky in winter—the perfect dreary backdrop for a film about a soulless vampire corporation. Findlay also uses colour and lighting to effectively switch between timelines and memories; J.C.’s fond memories are bathed in warm, golden tones, while his empty apartment and social media discoveries are cloaked in shades of grey and blue. 

Despite its short run time, Findlay presents the viewer with a chilling concept that rivals any Black Mirror episode. Not only is this a film about corporate bloodlust and late-stage capitalism, but it also explores themes about loneliness and the strange places we’re encouraged to find relief and connection with others. While the ending of Donations is ambiguous—just how much does J.C. choose to give?—it’s clear to viewers that this is a character who has been completely drained.

dir. Michelle Godoy Priske

Motherhood, daughterhood—name a more tangled web (we’ll wait). It’s Halloween night, and Lena Hatcher (Tanis Dolman) is holding court at her front door, managing the candy distribution system like a pro with little reason to expect visitors beyond trick-or-treaters in princess gowns and masks. But all is not (is it ever?) as it seems. 

When young, tentative Sadie (Corey Woods) appears at Lena’s door with the intent of confronting her birth mother, she might think she’s prepared for the gamut of possible outcomes. But there’s no primer for what happens next, and her visible anxiety mirrors the audience’s tension as she enters Lena’s territory and discovers that the older woman is firmly in control of the reins. 

What comes next is a swift descent into controlled chaos: eerie synchronicities and revelations that yield more terror than clarity. File this family dynamic under “Worst Case Scenarios” and enjoy the ride.  

dir. Victoria Long

Echo by Victoria Long is a short film about the relationship between desire and transformation. The desire to resist transformation. The transformation that results in giving in to desire. 

The protagonist, Ava, happily greets her partner, Liam, when he returns from an unsuccessful attempt at identifying the wreckage of an ocean crash site. Early on, we know something is odd about their relationship. Ava receives a call from an unknown user, and tells them, “What if I try to talk to him? What if I try to explain to him what’s been happening and then maybe–” only to be cut off. While eating breakfast together, Liam contorts his face as if in some indescribable pain. Ava notices but says nothing. 

Later, they walk together in the woods holding hands, and Liam confesses he wants to have a child with Ava. They have sex. That evening, Liam transforms—while his bodily form remains intact, his mind is evidently controlled by some other source. He does not remember who Ava is and threatens to shoot her. He is taken out by a task force that is working with Ava to capture him. We are told he died two years prior, and he has been back ten times before. 

In Cruel Optimism, affect theorist Lauren Berlant explains that desirable objects embody a cluster of promises. In this film, Liam (the desirable object) represents love, affection, and stability for Ava. When Liam returns home, he is no longer himself–we are told that he is a dangerous creature (referred to as “it”) targeted by the military. At the end of the film, a military agent says, “You know Liam was buried two years ago, after his helicopter went down. Whoever that is, it’s not Liam.” This provides neither solace nor comfort for a conflicted Ava. 

Sometimes we desire objects that are bad for us; Berlant calls this ‘cruel optimism’: “the condition of maintaining an attachment to a significantly problematic object.”¹ We can take Liam’s transformation to be literal–perhaps he is an evil creature that poses a threat to humanity. Despite rationally understanding Liam’s transformation, Ava is still unable to perceive him as a monster. She is internally struggling between the reality of Liam and the promise of Liam, and in the end, her desire for his past self outweighs her knowledge of his present self. Ava’s inability to resist desire may result in a transformed risk. It is unclear what this monster-Liam may pass on to his offspring. In this case, the possibility of their child represents a future threat, unknown to the military. 

When the military agent reminds Ava of Liam’s death, she challenges this assumption: “That’s what you say, but what do you know?” Perhaps Liam did not literally die while on the mission. Liam exists as a metaphor for those transformed by PTSD. He is “lost” while on a mission and comes back with an altered identity. He continues to be haunted and terrorized by the military even in his own home. Through this lens, the possibility of their child is a desire for a family unit, an attempt to resist Liam’s transformation and return to structure and normalcy. 

In the final shot of the film, Ava stands with her back to the camera, watching Liam’s body burn. Although his body is gone, the agent hints that he will come again. How will Ava face her cruel optimism next time? Echo provides no answer, and yet, the power of the film is rooted in this ambiguity. Whether or not Liam’s character represents a monster, a psychological response, or some combination of both, his echoes are resounding.

¹ Lauren, Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011), 23.

dir. Hira Vin

“Release me from these mortal bonds, this instrument that frames me.”

What does it mean to find love, or affection, or simply sex? What does it take? The short  film He, directed by Hira Vin, takes a stab at these questions.

Walk down a crowded street, and you might hear someone’s phone erupt with notifications. Hinge, Tinder, Bumble, Grindr—we’ve long surpassed the era where unconventional dating methods are frowned upon. Love is online. Sex is a phone call. Relationships are video chats. Affairs are AI models. Humans adapt to their conditions or force their conditions to adapt to us.

In the beginning, we see our protagonist, played by Nic Altobelli, donning lilac lingerie, surrounded by trash—a discarded pizza box, forgotten sauces, empty to-go containers. She speaks into her phone, and a man’s voice answers.

She insists that only he—this voice—can put up with her. “I love every part of you, Nancy,” the voice says. She lies on her bed, and the frame reveals the mess of clothes on her floor.

“Would a garden of lilies look weird against a white dress?” she asks. The voice returns, inquiring about a honeymoon, making promises. It’s more than a sex hotline—the thing, the voice, the creature seems interested in Nancy and their shared future. She pleasures herself to the idea of a future, something tangible that she can see, feel, and hold.

Then, she’s in a waiting room. A disheveled woman emerges, hair knotted, tucking her shirt back into her skirt. Think Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac: Vol. II, as Joe waits for her masochistic punishment. Yet, Hira Vin’s short film is depraved in a different way. It’s not just about sex, it’s about science.

Nancy is guided to a room; she’s an experiment, flipping through a contract and waiving her rights for whatever is about to happen. She’s blindfolded and literally blinded, as to not see the experience, but to feel it. The scientists conjure an entity—the man, the voice in her phone—to fornicate with her. He emerges from a black goo, and he’s perfect for Nancy. The only problem is that she cannot see him. When she tries, the horror begins.

He is a masterclass in mis-en-scène. Vin displays stunning, sterile fluorescence and juxtaposes it with the fallible human habitat—discarded pizza boxes and all. The shots are professional, the set design is fitting, and Nic Altobelli offers a stunning performance.

Still, I craved deeper exploration of the human desire for connection. There is much to say about why we seek affection in the modern age of technology and the lengths that we will go to find it. We were once imaginative at The Beatles’ concerts—the original fanfiction, going to lengths to picture ourselves beside John, Paul, George, or Ringo. Then, we surfed websites like Farmers Only and Christian Mingle. And with the advent of social media came dating apps and “Love Island.” Now, you can ask ChatGPT to love you and only you, and it will reply with a resounding “I love you, too.”

It’s not supernatural—an incantation or symbols drawn on walls—it’s very real. And while it may be true that some of the more spiritually inclined are forming connections with otherworldly entities, most of us are in love with the phone in our hands.

Like Nancy, we search desperately for a cure to our loneliness, across algorithms and applications. Vin recognizes our despair. We want love. We crave it. And we are so obsessed with the idea that we abandon ourselves.

dir. Annie Wren

A film seemingly birthed from the smeared lipstick of Divine and the teenage bedrooms of Gregg Araki, Steal My Life is a candy-apple painted surreal crash-out.

Iris, a stylish young artist, filmmaker, musician, party-goer, pancake-lover and overall “cool girl” is confident in her personal style and individuality. Until she drops her lipstick in a pile of dog crap and her signature shade, Red40 is sold out on ITgirlcosmetics.com. It’s all downhill from there, as Iris starts noticing her acquaintances, friends, and even strangers on the street copying her “look”—turning Iris’ identity into some Body Snatchers costume for zombies and sending her spiraling. All while Iris is crashing-out, she’s in her bedroom taking selfies, sharing videos, or making goodbye posts on social media. In this day and age, her self-indulgent need to record her own breakdown is all too familiar. 

Annie Wren blends dark, wry humor, with kaleidoscopic visuals to craft a story that feels both surreal and unexpectedly close to home. Her vibrant DIY aesthetic—part house-show fever dream, part body-horror, tech-glitch nightmare—pairs with deliciously cringe dialogue to peel back the skin of an “influenced” generation. It’s a combination that makes me super excited to watch her career as a new director. With its clever mix of camp sensibilities, bold style, and brutally honest (painfully relatable) emotions, Steal My Life lands as a pop-art time capsule of modern psychosis.

dir. Ilana Zackon

To watch Grain, the 2025 short animated film written, directed, and produced by Ilana Zackon, is to consume and be consumed. This short is a beautifully crafted and chilling story about the harm of a young woman’s binge eating disorder, as it transforms her into a ravenous creature threatening a whole town. 

Every aspect of this film pulls the viewer further into the young woman’s experience. With the repetitive nature of her days, including a few repeated, haunting, and grim phrases, Zackon depicts the cyclical downward spiral of an eating disorder. Animation and art direction by Katherine Stefanska capture a sense of dread throughout the film. Small details grow and multiply, pulling more of our focus, encroaching on the young woman’s space and daily life. The contrast between the young woman and the rest of the town, seen in the vibrancy of other people, their spaces and their food–compared to the muted tones of her room, her food, and her very being–enhances the isolation of her eating disorder and transformation. In the creature’s changing, ever-growing form, there is that sinking sense of something unknown and uncontrollable. The film’s music, by Zach Frampton and Pierre Mendola, with an incessant, increasing tempo, ties it all together, further evoking an out-of-control feeling, capturing both the loud and quiet of such a downward spiral. Even when, arguably, everyone can’t help but notice her, the young woman is somehow apart from others, still on her own. 

Through the short’s seven-minute run-time, Grain swallows its viewers–we are consumed as the young woman is consumed by her eating disorder and her transformation. It’s a short film to watch multiple times, as each time I did, I could find a new layer to the story, art, and music to appreciate. It’s a chilling, emotional, and powerful short–I’d recommend sitting with the young woman and the creature she becomes for as long as you can.

dir. Janet-Rose Nguyen

Remember The Nightmare on Elm Street? Thought you did. Freddy Krueger had to wait for the good-looking youth to fall asleep to haunt them. The monster woman who is terrorizing Katie (Ivy Miller) can sneak up on her as soon as she takes off her glasses.

Do You See Her? opens with a phone call, during which Katie is trying to explain her unfortunate situation to her mother, but quickly gives up her attempt to relay the supernatural. Then, her sexy ex Mia (Kimberly-Ann Troung) comes by to return the last of the stuff she left with her. Mia is hoping to make it a quick visit, but is compelled to listen to her fragile no-longer-lover. The two women are both of Vietnamese descent, sharing a spiritual connection that didn’t fade when the relationship ended. Mia entertains the idea that Katie truly is haunted by some sort of demon, but tragically is too slow to truly believe the wretched girl. Before you know it, the demon takes her life, and body parts are scattered across the floor. Will the demon hurt Katie? Or will she be forced to live with the abominable memories forced upon her?

Ivy Miller’s acting is convincing, entering the skin of a terribly frightened young woman who got no sleep for many long nights. Meanwhile, Troung is a natural in her warmth, sexiness, and hopeless optimism. This is a very short short, hence it’s doubly impressive that good acting comes across. Equal in its importance to acting stands the cinematography of this film. Leaning heavily on focus as a device of storytelling, Director of Photography Ismail Alberto Ali brings forth visual intensity. The result is beautiful, stylised, but not distracting from the plot line. The whole thing is shot hand-held, so forget about relaxation! Although if you saw that monster, you wouldn’t be able to sleep for weeks anyway.

dir. Findlay Ironside

What’s creepier, a delivery man who lingers at the door, or a woman who keeps multiple corpses in her house, trying to bring them back to life? The answer might not be obvious. In First Rites, Martha (Venessa Gonzalez-Egan) is a young, gentle queer who seems to be ordering unusual amounts of raw pig blood from a particular vendor. Uninterested in the flirting attempts of the delivery guy Kirk (Matt Vince)––granted, he was obnoxious and grossly misguided––they turn to their project of passion. After pouring some pig blood into the mouth of a woman’s corpse, comfortably lying in the living room of the candlelit house, Martha recites a spell. Then, you guessed it! The corpse named Jane (Erin Mick) comes back to life. 

Exhilarated, Martha starts interrogating her, desperately trying to collect information about what it’s like on the other side of existence. Awkwardly, dead Jane is not having it whatsoever and quickly goes back to being, well, dead-dead. Have you thought about how the delivery guy felt, Martha? Now you know exactly how it is when you try to force someone to talk to you, and they prefer to focus on… Whatever it is the dead are passionate about. But don’t fret, horror-loving reader! Wasting no time, Martha moved on to the next corpse, ready to go on the carpet.

Findlay Ironside is a promising young director. Coupled with Cinematographer Evdokiya Mazhurina, she created a compelling short that leaves you wanting more. Yet we must address the weak links in the film. Writing spells is not a simple matter. The spell Martha used could be tighter, constructed from stronger language, which could benefit the character of the magic in this work. Another decision I found distracting was filming the whole short right by the front door of the house. Bringing the dead back is something one would prefer doing in the basement, or at least in some back room, isn’t that so? But again, maybe the young generation of witches knows about something the rest of us don’t.