The first writing assignment in the MWFF Critics Lab is the capsule review challenge. Our cohort of emerging critics are given the task of writing a 200-word review of a short film, capturing the essence of the film and their perspective in a short-form piece.

Lean In

Olivia Jones

In a period of ever-increasing job insecurity and skyrocketing costs-of-living, Lucy Coleman’s latest short, Lean In, makes a timely entrance.

Rach (Kartanya Maynard), a vibrant comedian with a penchant for social justice, is rejected by her dream agent after defending her feminist skits. Looking to drown her sorrows, she hits the town with her brother Benny (Jack Scott). Through the bustling menagerie of inner-city bars, a stranger emerges with a lucrative job offer for Rach. But, of course, there’s a catch: she must first prove herself. The film’s previously languid pace warps into something altogether more frantic as Rach grapples with what she’s willing to do for a shot at success.

Coleman’s unflinchingly witty dialogue shines, bolstered by a captivating performance from Maynard. The effect is a fully fleshed-out protagonist, brimming with charming familiarity. These affections only serve to magnify a stomach-churning unease as we later bear witness to Rach’s fall from grace by her own hand.

Lean In gradually peels back its comedic veil to probe at the malleable nature of ethics and identity in pursuit of success. Its sobering conclusion hits like a smack in the face – it might leave you sore, but it’s not to be missed.

Stonewall

Michelle Huang

Making peace with death may seem like an impossibility. Back in her regional hometown, a young woman (Claire Riverland) wanders through rural landscapes and her childhood home at the death of her mother. Her voice-over retraces her memories amid uncovering the alienation she felt during their rocky relationship. A direct voice-over that speaks to an audience can sometimes be a short-cut to tugging at the heartstrings; however, the film proves that it has earnt this tool and applied it delicately. Riverland charges her voice and portrayal with subtle heartbreak as her character navigates the complexities of her maternal estrangement.

*Stonewall* (Lily Lunder and Koko Crozier, 2024)

Stuck in time, the ghost town’s vastness sets the backdrop with an isolating and unforgiving tone. The film’s poetic reflections coupled with vivid locations confront the audience. They, along with the young woman, must swallow the cold truth of losing a beloved mother but also one that could not be understood. Thomas Law’s score lays the film’s unbreakable foundation. The sombre strings occasionally borrow brighter tones to signify reconnection, teetering on the possibility of acceptance, but ultimately create silences at the point of catharsis. This short is a sensitive meditation on stifled love, on which Lunder and Crozier ponders: must healing begin with death?

Bottle Money

Amelia Leonard

A coin jar on a young boy’s desk, the words “rainbow’s end” scrawled on its side, holds a faint promise of hope in an otherwise bleak portrait of family dysfunction. Set in a small suburban town in New Zealand, 16-year-old Nelson struggles to keep it together, caught in the turbulence of his alcoholic mother’s neglect and left to shoulder the burden of caring for his younger siblings. Trapped in a loop of anger and isolation, he desperately aches for normalcy.

Sparsely scripted and driven by restrained performances, writer-director Rebekah Tyler shapes an intimate atmosphere where unspoken tensions simmer beneath the surface – until all becomes too much. The mundanity of everyday life is punctuated by lingering shots of unkempt backyards and overgrown vacant lots, her muted colour palette reinforcing a claustrophobic monotony akin to kitchen-sink realism auteurs like Andrea Arnold and Ken Loach.

Though rather sombre, the film refrains from moralising. Instead, it focuses on the corrosive effects of a home without love. With quiet compassion, Tyler crafts a delicate story for anyone who has had to bear the weight of responsibility too soon.

A Fox and A Sun

Eina Tubadeza

In Liubov’s Korpusova’s stop-motion film A Fox and A Sun (2023), a rainstorm confines a vibrant-red felt fox to his drab city apartment. In turn, Fox clings to an inanimate paper sun toy and bathes under its pretend heat, while listening to blues on a lounge chair. But as the toy continuously falls to the floor, his tolerance falters.

Korpusova’s rustic set becomes claustrophobic as this balmy summer fantasy collapses around the furry protagonist, leaving only the pale-blue apartment and monotonous city – it’s as if the rain has washed away all colours from the world, and hence Fox’s life.

Meanwhile, the apartment’s silence oppresses. Korpusova reminds both her protagonist and the viewer that, in this rainstorm, there’s no chance of connecting with others, and thus, the withering isolation will ensue. Our unease grows alongside Fox’s aimless anger – we can only wish he will somehow find intimacy in an impossible situation.

The Fox and a Sun’s frames are minimal, but there’s lots to love about this simplicity. Each frame breathes life into Fox, both his hope and despair, as he raises his eyebrows, or claps his felt paws. Though initially quite dreary, the film builds to a tender ending, reminding us that the light of connection can pierce through the rain.

MWFF Critics Lab 2025: Capsule Reviews

We Were Dangerous

MWFF Critics Lab 2025