Whether you believe in aliens or not, the idea of communicating with another species remains a compelling prospect for many. For storytellers in particular, narratives about alien contact continue to hold enduring appeal for a range of reasons – whether as a way to explore humanity’s place in the universe or as a mirror reflecting contemporary society. The challenge, as always with such well-trodden territory, is finding a way to tell the story without it feeling stale or derivative. It’s a challenge taken on by filmmaker Adebukola Bodunrin, whose background in experimental animation helped shape her SXSW short We Are Not Alone.

“We Are Not Alone is a lo-fi sci-fi parable about connection and expectation, but underneath it’s about the false promise of the American Dream”

“Post-Covid, I found myself thinking about isolation and the quiet humiliation of feeling left behind”, Bodunrin reveals as we discuss why she wanted to bring Ezra Claytan Daniels’ short comic (of the same name) to the screen. Adapting that original story into what the director describes as a “lo-fi sci-fi parable about connection and expectation”, We Are Not Alone stands out as one of the more original pieces of recent science-fiction filmmaking we’ve encountered, taking a somewhat familiar premise and transforming it into something unexpected and memorable.

That sense of distinctiveness is largely rooted in Bodunrin’s aesthetic approach. Shooting on Kodak Ektachrome 16mm, the filmmaker incorporated the short’s animated elements directly onto the film stock – painting, scratching, printing, and etching onto its surface. Yet this visual strategy is far from a gimmick; it serves a clear expressive purpose. The 16mm format lends the film a timeless quality, reinforcing the mysterious tone of the narrative (the alien presence is never explained). Meanwhile, the animation gives that presence a tangible dimension, almost as if the extraterrestrials are communicating through the screen itself. As Bodunrin explains:

“I wasn’t interested in abandoning my animation practice. I wanted to contaminate the live-action world with it. The goal was to create a hybrid form where the handmade marks felt like an emotional undercurrent, almost like the characters’ inner language bleeding onto the film itself . . . I was interested in creating a parallel visual language, something like hieroglyphics running beside the narrative. The marks aren’t decorative. They function as a second voice, one that feels ancient, mechanical, and slightly alien.”

“I wanted to challenge myself to direct a live-action narrative while still working through an analog, tactile process. I wasn’t interested in abandoning my animation practice,” Bodunrin discussing her production

As a science-fiction fan, I was especially taken with Bodunrin’s spin on the first-contact narrative. The film’s use of language – both the imagined language of the aliens and the visual language of cinema itself – felt inventive, playful, and genuinely engaging. In that sense, We Are Not Alone brought to mind Arrival by Denis Villeneuve. The two films are, of course, very (VERY) different in scale and approach, but honestly I can’t think of higher praise to give this short or its director.

Looking ahead, Bodunrin has more exciting projects ahead. Next on the horizon is a new experimental short that will continue her exploration of “direct intervention on film as both image and object,” pushing the technique toward “more intricate, layered mark-making and abstraction”. She’s also developing another short alongside writer Ezra Claytan Daniels, which the filmmakers describe as focusing on “the psychology and performance of online email scams.” If We Are Not Alone is any indication of what to expect, both projects are definitely ones to keep on the radar.

Conversations within the film industry frequently invoke the language of community and ecosystem. These terms suggest a dynamic network of artists, institutions, and intermediaries working in dialogue with one another. Yet when examined more closely, the reality can feel considerably more fragmented. In our experience as online programmers, the short-film landscape in which we work often operates in distinct silos. Festivals provide spaces where filmmakers meet other filmmakers, exchange ideas, and build relationships. But what of the journalists, distributors, and programmers who also shape the industry? Outside of the occasional panel discussion, these figures can feel noticeably less present – or at least less accessible – within the same spaces.

If such divisions exist, the question becomes: who might address them? What would it look like if these different roles within the industry were brought into closer and more sustained dialogue? And what might that mean for the broader health of the film ecosystem?

One organisation attempting to explore these questions is the Ouray International Film Festival. Building on the intimate, community-focused ethos that has come to define the festival, its organisers have launched the Ouray Film Sabbatical – an initiative designed to bring together filmmakers, critics, programmers, and other industry participants in a shared space of reflection and exchange. Conceived as an extension of the festival’s broader values, the sabbatical seeks to foster a slower, more deliberate environment for conversation: one in which creative practice, critical thought, and professional development can intersect.

The first edition of the sabbatical took place in the mountain town of Ouray in early March 2026. Speaking with the organisers, facilitators, and fellows who participated, it becomes clear that the initiative is motivated by a broader concern about the structural pressures currently shaping the film industry – and by a desire to imagine alternative ways of relating to both the work and the people who make it.

Filmmakers, film writers and film programmers gathered in the town of Ouray, for the first ever Ouray Film Sabbatical.

Rethinking Roles Within the Film Ecosystem

A central idea behind the sabbatical is the belief that the industry often undervalues the interconnected nature of its different roles. Jake Abell, co-founder of the Ouray International Film Festival and one of the programme’s hosts, argues that the separation between creative and critical labour is frequently taken for granted. “We mistakenly think that’s inevitable,” he explains. For Abell and the sabbatical team, an important starting point was the recognition that the various participants who shape the life of a film – not only those who make it, but also those who write about, programme, and circulate it – contribute meaningfully to the cultural conversation surrounding cinema.

This perspective was echoed by fellow sabbatical host Ben Wiessner – a producer we’ve featured regularly on Short of the Week and co-creator of the Short to Feature lab with Jim Cummings – who describes early conversations about how the initiative might encourage participants to begin “having one conversation about the ecosystem with multiple different stakeholders.” In other words, the goal was not simply to gather people from different professional backgrounds, but to place them in a setting where those distinctions could temporarily soften, allowing participants to engage with one another more openly.

“What are we good at? What do we not see? What are we hearing people need?”

For the organisers behind the Sabbatical, it was clear from the outset that they wanted to develop something within the educational sphere that might help reimagine what a filmmaking community could look like. However, the project also emerged from a broader reflection on what contemporary filmmakers and industry workers appear to need. As Wiessner puts it, the organisers asked themselves a series of guiding questions: “What are we good at? What do we not see? What are we hearing people need?” These questions ultimately shaped the ethos of the sabbatical.

Among the inspirations behind the initiative were filmmaking duo the Daniels, long associated with a collaborative ethos that emphasises mutual support within creative communities. Reflecting on their influence, Wiessner notes that their example helped crystallise a key principle for the programme: that those who gain experience within the industry have a responsibility to “send the ladder back down” to others coming up behind them.

The organisers were also conscious of the wider social and political context in which cultural work now takes place. Facilitator Dr. Sabeen Ahmed emphasises that one of the sabbatical’s aims was to create an environment where participants felt “safe, cared for, and genuinely seen – not simply as filmmakers or industry members, but as creatives and storytellers navigating a ruthlessly atomized, brutally capitalist, and deeply alienating world.” Within such a context, Ahmed suggests, the opportunity to encounter others with “curiosity, generosity, and a sense of shared purpose,” can itself become a meaningful intervention.

Hosts, facilitators & fellows gather at the table of the sabbatical house in Ouray. Photo by festival co-founder and sabbatical host Jared LaCroix

Rest as a Creative Resource

Underlying the initiative is a simple but often overlooked premise: that film professionals require not only opportunity and visibility, but also community, support, and rest in order to sustain meaningful creative work. Of these three principles, it was the final one – rest – that the organisers ultimately felt was most urgently needed.

“Nobody’s talking about rest, apart from as a cry for help,” Abell observes. In response, the sabbatical deliberately resists the productivity-driven logic that often governs the film industry. Rather than prioritising measurable output or project development, the programme encourages participants to step away from the constant momentum of festival submissions, networking obligations, and production timelines.

Filmmaker and attendee Hannah Schierbeek echoes this sentiment, noting that “rest and reflection are essential for artists.” While sabbatical fellow and S/W alum Kayla Abuda Galang praised the initiative for providing “moments to step back, listen, laugh, and simply be.” She added that the space carried a lot of “heart and humanity”- qualities that can easily be lost amid “the grind and endless strategic planning required to get your stuff made.”

In practice, this philosophy shapes the rhythm of the sabbatical itself. Time in Ouray is structured around slower activities: visiting the local hot springs, speaking with students at the town’s school, walking through the surrounding landscape, or engaging in small creative exercises.

“Permission to make mistakes and not take a creative task too seriously helps you get out of your head”

The latter was something facilitator and filmmaker Anna Baumgarten felt particularly strongly about, seeing tactile crafts as an important reminder of “how important it is to play.” In an industry so often governed by deadlines and pressure, Baumgarten suggests that the freedom to “not take a creative task too seriously helps you get out of your head.” As she notes, film projects can take years to complete, so being able to create something in a few hours – and experience a sense of creative accomplishment – can be genuinely rejuvenating.

In many ways, the most productive moments of the sabbatical occur precisely when productivity is not the primary goal. Conversations about work and the state of the industry often emerge organically – during a walk through the mountains or while sitting together making bead lizards in the sabbatical house. These low-pressure environments allow participants to articulate doubts, uncertainties, and aspirations that can be difficult to voice in more professional contexts, making these conversations not only possible, but productive.

Hosts, facilitators & fellows pose in front of the ‘Switzerland of America’ lookout sign in Ouray. Photo by festival co-founder and sabbatical host Jared LaCroix

A Different Kind of Industry Gathering

Most professional gatherings in the film world are oriented toward a specific objective – pitching a project, developing a feature, or networking for career advancement. The Ouray Film Sabbatical, however, takes a different approach. Rather than centring on productivity, it provides both physical and mental space to reflect and recharge between projects. The hope behind this alternative model is twofold: to help prevent burnout and to foster open, honest conversations about the industry – how it can thrive, and how we can take care of the people who make it run.

Filmmaker Sam Osborn, who attended the programme with his creative partner Alejandra Vasquez, notes that the sabbatical differs significantly from typical industry environments. “We didn’t each go into the sabbatical with a film to workshop,” he explains. In contrast to the atmosphere on set or at festivals – where professionals often feel pressure to project competence and confidence – the residential format allowed participants to step away from what he describes as the “self-mythologizing” that can accompany creative careers.

Within this setting, Osborn says participants could “set aside those worries and feel free to ask dumb questions, talk about day jobs, or even just spend an entire day not talking about movies at all.” For him, some of the most meaningful conversations that took place were ones he had not previously allowed himself to have.

It’s this rarity of a retreat-based model that makes the Ouray Film Sabbatical stand out. Facilitator Baumgarten points out that spaces like this are few and far between – but precisely because of that, they are vital. She highlights the “expansive conversations and creative problem-solving” that such an environment provokes, describing them as essential not only for the attendees themselves but for the future of the film industry and the “dynamic conversations” surrounding it.

“Spaces to break down the silos between different practitioners in the industry must urgently continue to be nurtured!”

Another key element of the sabbatical is its multidisciplinary approach. Bringing together professionals from across the industry in one space for four days encourages participants to reconsider the boundaries between their respective roles. Sabbatical fellow Elizabeth Rao notes that these distinctions are often more artificial than they appear, and that spaces which “break down the silos” of the industry must “urgently continue to be nurtured”.

For many of the sabbatical’s first fellows, the sense of community that emerges from this format is particularly significant. Filmmaker Hannah Schierbeek describes the experience as a reminder that moments of uncertainty within creative careers – which can often “feel isolating” – are widely shared, prompting an important reflection: “we are not alone”.

The hosts & facilitators of the Ouray Film Sabbatical gather for a picture in the snowy landscapes surrounding town. Photo by Kayla Abuda Galang

Small Experiments, Larger Possibilities

Following a series of crises in recent years, the film industry continues to exist in a state of flux, with debates about how to sustain and reshape it showing little sign of slowing. Many of the proposed solutions emphasise the need for change at every level of the ecosystem, which is precisely why initiatives like the Ouray Film Sabbatical feel increasingly significant. The filmmakers and practitioners who take part are not yet at the peak of their careers, and so the conversations and values developed in spaces like this have the potential to travel with them – informing their work and, in time, being passed on to others throughout their professional lives. Of course, Ouray is a small town and the sabbatical operates with limited resources, which naturally places limits on what it can achieve on its own.

For that reason, the organisers hope the model itself might prove influential. Abell openly describes the decision to launch the initiative as a “wager”, acknowledging the risks involved. At the same time, he believes that other “festivals, organisations, labs, [and] similar organisations” could adopt a comparable approach – bringing people together across professional boundaries as a way to foster conversation and help move the industry in a healthier direction. Abell also remains optimistic about the sabbatical’s own future, expressing excitement about welcoming more industry professionals to Ouray while also looking to “sustain the relationships built over this initial gathering”.

“More opportunities is not something solved by just money”

For fellow organiser Wiessner, the initiative also reflects a broader belief that expanding opportunities in the film industry is not simply a matter of funding. As he puts it, “more opportunities is not something solved by just money.” Instead, Wiessner argues that it is possible to “create a sense of abundance from very little” – provided that those who have already progressed within the industry recognise a responsibility to support those coming up behind them. His suggestion is to “be demanding” of those who have climbed the ladder, ensuring they actively help foster the next generation of filmmakers. It is a perspective that resonates strongly with us at Short of the Week, where we not only acknowledge our alumni as part of our continued success, but credit them with making the platform possible in the first place.

Ultimately, spaces like the Ouray Film Sabbatical matter because they offer something many of us risk losing when we become absorbed in our work: a reminder of the importance of people. Spending time with others who care deeply about filmmaking – and who are willing to speak honestly about the challenges of sustaining that passion – can itself be restorative. If the film industry often describes itself as an ecosystem, initiatives like this suggest that maintaining its health may require more than simply producing new work. It may also require cultivating the conditions in which the people behind that work can connect, reflect, and occasionally pause long enough to rediscover why they fell in love with filmmaking in the first place.

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Submissions for the 2027 Ouray Film Sabbatical will open later in 2026, if you want to submit your film to the Ouray International Film Festival you have until March 21st.

There is something about the locker – or changing – room that consistently proves fertile ground for storytelling. Perhaps it is a space defined by vulnerability, both physical and psychological, where social dynamics are heightened and identities are negotiated. In Ce qui appartient à César (English title: Changing Rooms), the César-nominated short by Violette Gitton, this environment becomes both a site where toxic masculinity festers and a space in which its young protagonist begins to process his emotions and mature.

Changing Rooms immediately immerses the viewer in its world, opening within the charged atmosphere of a fencing class. Our first clear encounter with 12-year-old César, the film’s lead character, sees him strutting towards the camera wearing only trousers and a chest protector designed for female fencers. As one of the boys is encouraged to “strip off,” César introduces the so-called “dick-o-meter,” a ruler used to measure the body part referenced in the device’s name, signalling early on the film’s engagement with performative masculinity and peer pressure.

Billie Blain (L) and Marius Plard stars as siblings in Changing Rooms

While this burgeoning toxic masculinity dominates the film’s opening moments and helps establish César’s social environment, Gitton soon shifts tone. A more vulnerable version of the boy is soon revealed as he addresses a video camera, marking a pivotal transition. From this point – particularly following the disclosure of his sister’s assault – the film develops into a layered exploration of adolescence, responsibility, and emotional confusion.

Gitton has stated that she hoped the film would interrogate “the way boys are confronted with violence and expectations about masculinity,” and this intention is clearly reflected in her narrative approach. By presenting the story through César’s perspective, she avoids depicting the assault itself, instead focusing on the internal turmoil of a young boy grappling with how to respond. This choice not only lends the film a distinctive perspective but arguably results in a more resonant and considered portrayal than a more direct representation might have achieved.

“I could see that something intense and confusing was happening inside him”

As is often the case with stories of this nature, the film is, unfortunately, rooted in personal experience. “I was sexually assaulted when I was 14, and I was struck by the reaction of my younger brother,” Gitton explains. “I could see that something intense and confusing was happening inside him.” Reflecting on later conversations, she notes that he described it as “strange” to grow up as a boy while also recognising that “men (like he was) could also represent a threat.”

Despite this traumatic event behind the film’s conception, Changing Rooms ultimately adopts a constructive and forward-looking perspective. Gitton emphasises that her intention was not to recreate the trauma itself, but to tell a story “that could feel useful for today’s younger generations,” adding that she wanted to “create something that young people could recognize themselves in, without simplifying their emotions or their contradictions.” An intention that’s especially significant in the context of adolescence, offering a nuanced reflection on the complex and often conflicting emotions young people must navigate as they grow.

In March 2020, during the first month of COVID-19 lockdowns, Greece’s SOS Line 15900 – a national service supporting those affected by gender-based violence – recorded 325 calls, a 370% increase from the 69 calls received in the same month the previous year. Confronted by this sharp rise in violence in her home country, Greek writer-director Markela Kontaratou turned to filmmaking as a means of processing and expressing her response. The result is Scorched Earth, a London Film School graduation project that went on to screen at the Locarno Film Festival.

“The film was conceived as a Neo-Noir/Giallo that subverts the trope of a male voyeur”

Drawing on the visual and tonal traditions of Neo-Noir and Giallo, Scorched Earth is set in a sun-drenched Greek seaside town. It follows Stela, who returns home to focus on her studies, only to find herself increasingly disturbed by the presence of her abusive neighbour. As his violence towards his partner escalates, Stela becomes entangled in a possible crime, prompting her to take action seek out the truth.

Kontaratou’s intention with Scorched Earth is not only to foreground the ongoing realities of gender-based violence, but also to interrogate the ways in which such incidents are often mediated and sensationalised. As she suggests, the film critiques how violence is transformed into a “serialized, grotesque sensation” within media culture. To explore this, she turns to genre, incorporating elements of horror and thriller in order to “create a world that reflects the way in which femininities are treated in real life and in film.”

“Artificial was also our choice of purple moonlight, creating a surreal, mysterious atmosphere, connecting to the character of Vicky who also wears purple”, director Kontaratou discussing the production

With regards to production, the film adopts a distinctive aesthetic. Shot on 16mm, with a pronounced purple hue in its night sequences, Scorched Earth embraces a stylised visual language that introduces a layer of artificiality to an otherwise grounded subject. For Kontaratou, this is a deliberate strategy: “I tried to portray the female experience of the male gaze by putting the audience in the place of being conscious that they are watching something constructed.” Techniques such as “dirty” point-of-view shots, zooms, and expressive camera movements work to unsettle the viewer, continually suggesting the presence of something hidden within the frame.

The result is a deliberately voyeuristic experience, in which both the protagonist and the audience occupy a position of uneasy spectatorship. Kontaratou acknowledges that the film resists narrative closure, offering more questions than answers. As she explains, the intention is for viewers to recognise that these narrative decisions were “plot points rather than plot holes,” inviting reflection rather than resolution. The core takeaway from Scorched Earth is a persistent and troubling question: “why we are all so often silent onlookers when faced with situations of gendered violence?”

As children, our parents can feel like the centre of our world – figures of stability and/or authority who are easily placed on a pedestal. Inevitably, however, there comes a moment when that perception begins to shift, and we start to recognise them as flawed, complex individuals, no less uncertain than we are. It is this quiet but profound transition that Dovydas Drakšas captures with sensitivity and restraint in his London Film School short, Praeis (It’ll Pass) – a film that had its World Premiere in the La Cinef section of Cannes in 2025.

A film focused on perception – how we see ourselves, how we interpret others, and how we are, in turn, perceived – Praeis unfolds with a contemplative rhythm, anchored by two finely judged performances. Ieva Kaniušaitė plays Ada, a daughter beginning to reassess both her father and her place in the world, while Šarūnas Puidokas brings a quiet vulnerability to the role of her father. At 27-minutes long, the film sits at the longer end of the short film spectrum, yet its duration feels justified, largely due to the emotional authenticity these performances sustain throughout.

Šarūnas Puidokas stars as a cigarette smuggler and father at a crossroads in his life.

This extended runtime affords the film the space to observe rather than follow its character, allowing the audience to gradually become immersed in their emotional terrain. While strained parent–child relationships are a familiar narrative framework, Drakšas approaches the material with a notable degree of empathy and nuance. Rather than privileging one perspective over the other, he presents both father and daughter as fully realized individuals, each navigating their own limitations, expectations, and emotional blind spots. The result is a relationship that feels lived-in and recognizably human, avoiding the reductive tendencies that often accompany such stories.

From a programming perspective, articulating precisely what distinguishes a film can sometimes prove elusive. While Praeis may not immediately announce itself through high-concept storytelling or formal experimentation, there is a quiet assurance in Drakšas’ direction that suggests a filmmaker with a clear and confident voice. This quality – subtle, but pervasive – manifests in the film’s pacing, its performances, and its willingness to sit with emotional ambiguity. It is, perhaps, less about what the film does, and more about how assuredly it does it.