Flora Lau’s ‘Luz’ is a film that dares to exist in the liminal spaces between fractured relationships, cultural divides, and even the boundaries of reality itself.
Lau crafts a diptych, two essentially disparate narratives separated by continents, yet echoing each other in their exploration of family, connection and isolation. On one side, a gangster in the underbelly of China wants to connects estranged daughter, a camgirl lost in the internet. Her world of pixelated gamified parasocial intimacy, stands in stark contrast to the gangster’s world, of violence and newfound wealth.”
Simultaneously, in France, a young woman navigates the delicate dance of duty and resentment as she attempts to re engage with her ailing stepmother, an artist, a woman who turns her back on conventional treatments, choosing instead to embrace the fleeting beauty of her remaining days with a fierce, almost defiant joy.
Lau weaves these narratives together with a third thread – a foray into the ethereal realm of virtual reality. VR is a metaphor for the elusive nature of human connection, and also, perhaps a shimmering escape hatch from reality’s harsh constraints
The visual language Lau employs is breathtaking. And the performances are nuanced, affecting, reflecting the complexities of human relationships.
“‘Luz’ is undeniably an art film, one that demands patience. Early reactions at Sundance were mixed, perhaps because audiences anticipated a more conventional narrative. It’s a film that lingers, that prompts contemplation, and is indifferent to familiar plot structures and character arcs.
Lau’s second feature solidifies her as a director with a singular vision, a filmmaker unafraid to challenge conventions and explore the deeper currents of the human experience. ‘Luz’ may not be a masterpiece, but it’s a beautiful, and thought-provoking work that deserves to be seen and discussed.
Step behind the velvet rope of Sundance 2025, virtually, where the short film program isn’t just on screen—it’s online and ready for you. Let’s dive into Shorts Program 1.
First up, Debaters, from Alex Heller. Imagine a world where the gilded halls of an affluent high school echo with the passionate, if naive, arguments for and against raising the minimum wage. Heller crafts a poignant narrative where well-meaning but clueless adults orbit a group of adolescents who, despite being pitted against each other, fiercely defend their own. It’s a delicate dance between privilege and genuine empathy, all set against the backdrop of youthful idealism.
Daisy Friedman’s Unholy plunges us into a Passover Seder, but not one you’ve seen before. Our protagonist, a young woman with a feeding tube, navigates a landscape of forbidden delicacies and pushy relatives, each more oblivious than the last. Friedman masterfully captures the specific, often overlooked intersections of experience, blending the awkward and the comic with a deft hand. The film’s conclusion is heartfelt and very well composed. Keep an eye out for Friedman’s future work.
Hoops, Hopes and Dreams, a documentary short by Glenn Kaino, is a slam dunk into the unexpected intersections of basketball, leadership, and the civil rights movement. Hear Andrew Young’s firsthand account of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s prowess on the court—a vivid reminder that even in the heat of battle for a better future, the spirit finds solace and connection in play. This isn’t just history; it’s a testament to the human spirit’s enduring need for joy and camaraderie, even amidst the most arduous struggles.
(Transition to a clip or still from “A Round of Applause for Death”)
Stephen Irwin’s A Round of Applause for Death is a mesmerizing ballet of abstraction, a symphony of repetition and variation that manages to be both a profound formal exercise and a surprisingly delightful romp. It’s a comedic study in the unexpected, a reminder that even in the face of the inevitable, there’s room for wit and whimsy.
(Transition to a clip or still from “Susana”)
In Gerardo Coello Escalante’s Susana, we follow a middle-aged, middle-American tourist on an unplanned solo adventure through the vibrant labyrinth of Mexico City after her daughter abandons their vacation plans. Escalante paints a compassionate portrait of a woman adrift, juxtaposed against the very real indignities inflicted upon locals in the name of tourism. It’s a nuanced exploration of cultural collision, handled with a sensitivity that elevates the narrative beyond mere observation.
Lennert Madou’s UPPER unfolds like a visual poem, as two young protagonists engage in an increasingly bizarre series of antics, all under the watchful gaze of an impending asteroid. Formal and austere, yet beautifully composed, the film captures the strange, suspended reality of waiting for the inevitable, and the peculiar rituals we create to fill the void.
Finally, Sweetheart, directed by Luke Wintour, transports us to 1723, where young Thomas Nevile, fleeing peril, stumbles into the warm embrace of a hidden queer community within a Molly House. This historical gem shines a light on the resilience and creativity of marginalized groups, who, in defiance of societal condemnation, forge their own “unlawful weddings and rites.” It’s an inspiring glimpse into a past that still resonates with power and defiance.
And there you have it—a whirlwind tour of Sundance 2025’s Shorts Program 1. These are not just films; they are windows into other worlds. What’s your favorite?
What if the scars of history could manifest as a creature of unimaginable destruction? Godzilla, the original kaiju, is far more than just a monster; it’s a cultural artifact, a constantly evolving reflection of deep fears and anxieties. Over seven decades and across 38 films—33 from Japan and 5 from America—this iconic kaiju has been reborn, reimagined, and rebooted, each time offering a new lens through which to examine its era.
The original 1954 Gojira is a masterpiece, a somber, black-and-white elegy that birthed not only the kaiju genre but also Tokusatsu, the Japanese filmmaking tradition celebrated for its mesmerizing practical effects. The film opens with an eerie silence, shattered by the chilling disappearance of a freighter at sea. This wasn’t mere fiction; it was a haunting echo of the real-life tragedy of the Daigo Fukuryū Maru, a Japanese fishing boat caught in the fallout of an American hydrogen bomb test just months prior to film’s production. Godzilla, an unstoppable, city-leveling force of nature, emerges from the depths, powered by, and a symbol of, the very atomic energy that devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki less than a decade earlier.
But I’d argue the metaphor runs deeper. Godzilla isn’t just a symbol of atomic power; it embodies the specter of America itself—the sleeping giant that Japan, through its own actions, brought upon its shores. This complex relationship perhaps explains the creature’s evolution in subsequent films, transitioning from a terrifying antagonist to a reluctant, if formidable, protector.
Following the original, the Godzilla franchise became a chameleon, adapting to the shifting tides of popular culture. Spy movie tropes, far-out science fiction elements, a bewilderingly cute offspring designed to broaden the films appeal to female audiences—nothing was off-limits if it promised box office success. These sequels, driven by commercial interests rather than thematic depth, eventually led to franchise fatigue.
Then came 1984’s The Return of Godzilla, a bold reboot that severed ties with 15 increasingly outlandish sequels, returning Godzilla to its terrifying roots. This film, launching the darker Heisei era, traded the WWII trauma for cold war anxieties and the looming threat of global annihilation. A rampaging monster attacking one city was no longer the primary concern; the real terror lay in the potential for this creature’s existence to ignite a nuclear conflict between the superpowers, ending everything, everywhere, all at once.
This cycle of reinvention continued, but let’s focus on a few iterations that offer particularly compelling thematic insights.
Godzilla Minus One, a recent and critically acclaimed retelling, transports us to the immediate aftermath of World War II. While the creature’s design is undeniably terrifying, the film’s heart lies in the human drama. We witness traumatized veterans grappling with the psychological scars of war. Kamikaze pilot Shikishima, for instance, wrestles with survivors guilt, having fabricated technical issues to avoid his suicide mission.
Narratively, this is compelling.
However, the film’s core theme—veterans uniting to defend a helpless Japan against political inaction—is deeply problematic. Japanese militarists were responsible for plotting coups, terrorizing moderates, killing politicians and dragging their nation into a devastating war, where the Imperial Japanese Army committed horrific atrocities.
In 1947, the very year Godzilla Minus One depicts a defenseless Japan, 30,000 Chinese civilians perished due to plagues weaponized by Japanese scientists and unleashed by the war criminals of Unit 731 after Japan’s surrender. Beyond the incredibly tone-deaf portrayal of Japanese veterans as saviors against a backdrop of political apathy, the reality is that Japan was occupied by half a million Allied troops at this time. Any response to a kaiju threat would have undoubtedly fallen to these forces, not a makeshift militia of recently disarmed and demobilized individuals following an unconditional surrender.
In stark contrast, 2001’s Godzilla, Mothra and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack reimagines Godzilla not merely as a mutated dinosaur but as a supernatural entity—a vengeful manifestation of the souls lost to the Imperial Japanese Army’s brutality in the Pacific War.
Perhaps the most intriguing reimagining is 2016’s Shin Godzilla. Set in the modern era, the ever-evolving monster becomes a metaphor for the Fukushima nuclear disaster. The film’s true focus, however, is a razor-sharp, often hilarious satire of Japan’s aging, bureaucratic government and its paralyzing inability to confront a crisis. You might come for the giant lizard, but you’ll stay for the scenes of politicians endlessly adjourning meetings, only to reconvene in identical configurations, simply to avoid making any actual decisions.The 70th anniversary of the original Godzilla has just passed. The original film, along with the 84′ reboot Return of Godzilla, are readily available on the Criterion Channel, alongside a wealth of other films from their respective eras. Shin Godzilla can be found on Blu-ray and occasionally surfaces on streaming platforms. As for Godzilla Minus One, it’s currently streaming on Netflix, and Toho has announced that a sequel is in the works.
Optimistic Indie Roleplaying 