As a lover of storytelling, it is sometimes valuable to be reminded of the enduring power of a well-told yarn. For director Jonathan Pickett (Chicken Stories), that reminder came when he met (then) 75-year-old cowboy singer Johnny Bencomo – a man with an 18-string guitar named Gracie, a movie-star quality and the story of a highly unusual gig – the inspiration for his short film, Deep in My Heart is a Song.

Given that Pickett’s two previous short films were documentaries, it was a natural inclination for him to consider capturing Bencomo on screen with a similar approach. However, after hearing the singer recount the story of this unique and memorable performance, Pickett instead proposed adapting it into a scripted work, with Bencomo playing himself.

“After we finished reading it together, I looked up and saw tears in his big eyes”

“He’d never acted before,” Pickett notes of his lead actor and co-writer, adding that he had “never [even] been on a film set.” Nevertheless, after receiving the script by mail, Bencomo – by Pickett’s account – “took a leap,” prompting the filmmaker to travel to Tombstone, Arizona, where the singer resides, just a few days later. “After we finished reading it together, I looked up and saw tears in his big eyes. He said, ‘My friend, what a tear-jerker we’ve got on our hands,’” Pickett recalls.

With his recent short films rooted in nonfiction, Pickett admits he was “excited by the challenge of bringing that skillset to scripted filmmaking,” ultimately finding that the differences in process were not as pronounced as one might expect. His guiding principle? “Working to create conditions under which magic might be able to unfold: train your camera on fascinating people, frame them in beautiful places, and work with talented and committed collaborators.”

Lindsay Burdge stars as a daughter trying to give her dying mother one last taste of Country music

There is a timeless quality to Deep in My Heart is a Song, enhanced by the textured aesthetic of shooting on Super 16mm, which lends the film a dreamlike, almost ethereal atmosphere. Yet, despite this slightly fantastical feel, the short remains grounded in its performances and emotional core. Its central trio – Bencomo, Lindsay Burdge (star of S/W favourite Fill Your Heart with French Fries) and Annalee Jefferies – bringing a warmth and sincerity that anchor the film.

It is ultimately this human element that proves most compelling. The film could easily veer into something sombre or even morbid, yet instead it feels life-affirming – marked by generosity and compassion. At its core, it is a film about people, a point Pickett himself underscores when reflecting on his intentions:

“Having a professional creative career seems to have all these formalized definitions and metrics of success, but the true value and fulfillment come from the moments of ineffable connection that the art facilitates. That’s what makes filmmaking worth it to me, and I’m so thankful to Johnny for teaching me that.”

It’s just another late night for Joaquin, a high school janitor. Unable to find someone to look after him, he roams the halls of the school with his son – until he hears a noise coming from the gym. Sam Cutler-Kreutz and David Cutler-Kreutz (A Lien, Flounder) are back on S/W with their latest short Trapped. Masters at crafting genuine and effective tension, the directing duo once again creates a complex situation, rich with nuance and layers that make it all the more compelling and thought provoking.

“In this film we try to unpack the questions surrounding generational privilege”

“We are the children of teachers, and the complex balance between students, faculty and administrators was a constant dinner table conversation throughout our childhood”, the filmmakers shared when asked about the inspiration behind Trapped. While, on the surface, the film presents an obvious portrait of inequality, the writer/directors infuse the screenplay with so much more depth. “In this film we try to unpack the questions surrounding generational privilege, which feel integral to the story of Americans and the idea of the American dream”, they explained. Through their story they depict a cycle of inequality, cleverly exploring how wealth and privilege can affect and perpetrate certain problematic and selfish behaviors.

While the power dynamic between the characters is clearly established, and we are never in doubt that it will shift, the filmmakers nevertheless sustain an effective, mounting tension through a series of powerful confrontations and interactions. Narratively, the film unfolds with compelling twists and turns that increasingly encourage empathy for the protagonist as the night progresses. The title of the film is powerful in more ways than one, effectively trapping both Joaquin and the audience. Drawing on the tools of genre, the filmmakers deliver a drama that also operates with the pacing and intensity of a thriller.

Javier Molina excels as Joaquin in trapped

DP Gabriel Crawford Connelly (Sirena) and editor Caitlin Carr (who also worked as editor on the directors’ previous short, A Lien) contribute significantly to that tension, enhancing the screenplay and effectively translating Joaquin’s state of mind to the screen. The rhythm of the film, along with its framing, takes us on the wild ride that this night will turn out to be for Joaquin – moving through stress, urgency, fear, anger, and ultimately relief. Some shots are truly striking, especially those in the gym filled with all the traps. And before you ask – no, they were not AI-generated (it was 2023, after all); the filmmakers explain that they used a mix of real traps and custom-printed images on thick paper.

In the lead role, Javier Molina’s performance as Joaquin is remarkably sincere, raw, and layered. He makes what remains unspoken more powerful than his dialogue, letting the importance of each interaction sink in and enabling the audience to grasp the multifaceted forms of disrespect at play. He is caught between his pride, his role as a father, and his job; all of these responsibilities factor in every decision he makes. Molina consistently brings this depth to each frame he appears in, with the close-ups proving particularly compelling, which in turn makes the ending all the more satisfying and lends the film a sense of relief.

Modern life is pretty divorced from nature. For a city-dweller like myself, I can vividly recount – and treasure – my rare encounters with animals that, unlike our urban neighbors, the pigeons and squirrels, “don’t belong”: the badger who surprised me out of a tree in Berkeley, or the hawk who liked to rest on my fire escape in Queens. Driving up the 5 in California, I once even stopped my truck along the highway to get out and meet a zebra amidst a field of cows.

These moments feel like small ruptures in the routine, flashes of something wilder just beneath the surface. But their magic depends on distance. Spend enough time with these “visitors,” and the wonder has a way of fading. We will turn a lone interloper into a celebrity, but scale the encounter up, make it constant, and the mood shifts closer to something like the uneasy coexistence of Nuisance Bear.

Callie Barlow‘s short documentary, Our Neighbors, the Peacocks, is a portrait of what happens when that distance is non-existent. Set in Arcadia, California, the film follows a suburban community where history and tradition have contrived to place hundreds of wild peafowl in an otherwise nondescript neighborhood bordering Los Angeles. The peacocks provide a majestic, fleeting experience for visitors, but for residents, they are a daily fact of life – one that oscillates between enchantment and exasperation.

“Most alarming, was the cacophony of screeching that can only be described as a yee-awh akin to the yell of a thousand dying cats”

Barlow was first drawn to the neighborhood as a tourist, enticed by the legend of the peacocks, and came away captivated, describing a scene as “…so dizzying that I could not get it out of my mind. There were hundreds of wild peafowl taking over a few neighborhood blocks – they grouped together on lawns, in full feather displays, vying for a chance to mate; peahens darted across the street, dodging cars, looking for the best offering of worms and flowers; peacocks flew into trees by the dozens, and leapt roof to roof. Most alarming, was the cacophony of screeching that can only be described as a yee-awh akin to the yell of a thousand dying cats.”

Barlow returned with a camera, and what follows is less a conventional narrative than a carefully structured mosaic of perspectives. Residents speak with a mix of reverence and frustration – some see the peacocks as a daily miracle, a direct line to the natural world; others are kept awake at night, their roofs damaged, their patience worn thin. Every few years, the conflict spills into civic life, with calls for relocation programs clashing against a vocal contingent determined to protect the birds at all costs.

“You can easily get beyond the noise and roof damage and find a deeper appreciation for the natural world, right in your front yard,” Barlow explaining what the people of Arcadia taught her

Barlow comes to the film after more than a decade producing high-profile documentary work, including the pioneering brand storytelling project, The Avant Garde Diaries, and roles at Future of Film, RYOT, and Nat Geo. That experience is evident in Our Neighbors, the Peacocks, her directing debut. Formally, the film operates in a polished, public-television register that we sometimes look askance at – cleanly shot interviews, tidy thematic organization, a steady rhythm of anecdote and observation. But here, that clarity works to its advantage. Without a singular dramatic hook, the film instead builds momentum through accumulation, toggling between human testimony and the hypnotic, often absurd spectacle of the peafowl themselves. The result is a piece that, while not reaching for formal fireworks, remains consistently engaging; its construction across 20-minutes is tight enough that the material never overstays its welcome.

If there is a limitation to the approach, it is a certain repetitiveness in its coverage, as there are only so many variations on “they’re beautiful but loud” that the film can cycle through. Yet even this speaks to the underlying reality it depicts: a stalemate, a loop, a community perpetually negotiating the same question without resolution. In that sense, the film’s structure mirrors its subject.

Barlow’s allegiances are not hard to discern, but Our Neighbors the Peacocks resists the urge to resolve the tension it so clearly lays out. Instead, it leans into a modest but resonant idea articulated by its director that living alongside these animals might require “putting aside your own discomforts to find a deeper meaning in nature.” It’s not a radical thesis, but within the context of a culture that increasingly experiences nature at a remove, it lands with quiet force.