In this quietly humorous and emotionally layered short, a shy Japanese newcomer in Vancouver places all her faith in an unusual superstition: the belief that rubbing her leg brings good luck. Framed through the lens of a cheerful social media vlogger, Lucky Leg begins as a casual interview but slowly drifts into something more tender, strange, and quietly transformative.

Shot in lo-fi black and white the observational style film explores themes of migration, perception, and understated power. As Hina prepares for a job interview, with her documentarian in tow, her calm conviction gently reframes the skepticism around her.

With minimal exposition and a gentle resistance to stereotype, Lucky Leg explores migration, isolation, and self-belief, not through spectacle, but through someone who doesn’t need to be explained to be understood.

I’m Flying is a lyrical and deeply intimate short film that explores a profound emotional bond between two men, unfolding through a collection of personal emails. At its heart, the film is a meditation on platonic love, vulnerability, and the emotional depth of male friendship. These are relationships that are rarely portrayed with such candor and complexity on screen.

Through a poetic blend of 1960s Super 8 cine film and found footage, I’m Flying evokes a powerful sense of nostalgia and memory. The imagery, grainy, flickering, and fragile, mirrors the elusive nature of the past and honors the visual language of home movies from a time when capturing personal moments on film was an act of quiet preservation. These visuals serve both as emotional resonators and as a metaphor for the fragmented, nonlinear way memories of love and loss often return.

The film is shaped by a one-way correspondence: a series of raw, introspective emails from a man named Mike, written in moments of longing, reflection, and emotional struggle. His words, candid and unfiltered, trace a journey through addiction, mental illness, and solitude, but also reveal a deep, sustaining affection for the person he is writing to. The intimacy of his letters echoes the emotional core of The Sorrows of Young Werther, Goethe’s classic epistolary novel, where written words serve as lifelines and confessions.

Influenced by works such as Patrick Keiller’s London, Kelly Reichardt’s Old Joy, Kim Ki-duk’s Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring, and Call Me by Your Name by Luca Guadagnino, I’m Flying joins a cinematic tradition that gently probes the boundaries of male intimacy. It examines those elusive spaces where love exists without clear labels, where emotional closeness can carry the weight of romantic connection, yet remain undefined.

The story also gestures toward lived experience, of friendship forged in a foreign city, of navigating both bureaucratic systems and nightlife, of late-night conversations, shared joys, and personal darknesses. Through Mike’s voice, a world is quietly rebuilt, not one of linear narrative or dramatic events, but one of emotional resonance, where moments of comfort, desire, and pain sit side by side.

I’m Flying is not a film about resolution or transformation. It is an elegy for a friendship that defied convention, a cinematic portrait of a man expressing his truth through words, and the invisible thread that connects two people across distance, time, and silence. In celebrating emotional honesty and the beauty of male vulnerability, the film offers a rare and poignant look into the connections that shape us, sustain us, and sometimes quietly save us.

We’re All Just Passing Through is a haunting meditation on the meaning of home, composed entirely from meticulously sourced and carefully matched archival footage paired with a new narrative voice. This short film reframes forgotten North American imagery to evoke deeply personal yet universally resonant emotional terrain. Trains cut across vast landscapes. Families gather in moments both tender and tense. Layered with analogue hiss and crackle, the sound design conjures a warm, imperfect past that exists outside of time.

Rather than mining personal recordings, the film explores home as something broader, something elusive. It reflects the experience of someone who once had a loving family home but later had to reconstruct that idea entirely when traveling alone through unfamiliar places. In the absence of literal documentation, archival fragments become vessels for memory and emotion, carrying within them all the contradictions of what home can be, comfort and loss, transition and belonging, silence and noise.

The narrative unfolds through a carefully crafted voice that feels like an audio diary uncovered decades after it was recorded, one that refuses to anchor itself to any one identity. Instead, it speaks on behalf of anyone who has ever built a home, lost one, or carried it within themselves like a secret.

At its core, the film is about searching. The editing process mirrors this, finding rhythm not in plot but in feeling. The footage is carefully curated, sometimes sampled from controversial events, sometimes from mundane family memories to elicit moments of recognition. A mother’s kiss. A sibling’s glance. A child shrinking from a camera’s gaze. These gestures, though belonging to strangers, feel familiar. Their emotional clarity transcends context.

By the end, the film doesn’t offer a fixed definition of home. Instead, it leaves behind an atmosphere a lingering sense that home is not a destination but a condition. It can be fragile. It can be rebuilt. And sometimes, it exists only in transit.

We’re All Just Passing Through is a quietly powerful work of memory and imagination, where the past is not merely preserved but reanimated, and where stories not lived firsthand can still speak to the essence of our shared human condition.

Isabella, a twenty-something Brazilian woman, has recently emigrated to Canada to pursue her university studies. Living alone in a small, modest bedsit near campus, she navigates the challenges of her new life far from the comforts of home. Each evening, after her classes, Isabella sits at an old typewriter, a cherished gift from her mother, Iris, and writes letters home.

In her letters, Isabella reflects on the stark contrasts between the vibrant, familiar countryside of Brazil and the cold, expansive landscapes of Canada. She writes of her newfound independence, her moments of loneliness, and the strength she is discovering in herself as she adapts to life abroad.

Meanwhile, Iris writes back from Brazil, her letters filled with both practical motherly advice and the aching vulnerability of a woman coping with her daughter’s absence. Having recently lost her own mother, Iris faces the dual weight of grief and the bittersweet pride of seeing Isabella become the first in their family to attend university and travel abroad.

As Christmas approaches, the distance feels heavier for both women. For Isabella, it is the first holiday spent away from her family, a painful reminder of the sacrifices made in pursuit of her dreams. For Iris, the season underscores the changes in their family’s dynamic, marking a poignant shift as her daughter steps fully into adulthood.

Told through Isabella’s letters and Iris’s replies, Letters Home is a tender exploration of love, loss, and the courage it takes to embrace change. The film delicately balances the joy of personal growth with the sadness of separation, offering a moving portrait of a mother and daughter’s enduring bond across continents and the uncharted emotional terrain of letting go.

Burnaby Mountain is a contemplative short film set on a snowy ridge overlooking a distant city. From this single location, the story unfolds through the eyes of Frank, a quiet observer whose routine visit to a familiar lookout becomes subtly disrupted by an unexpected phone call.

At first, the film moves with a patient rhythm. Children sled in the background, families laugh in the snow, and the camera lingers on the distant skyline. The city, shimmering in the winter haze, feels unreachable, an emblem of work, structure, and detachment. Shot entirely on an iPhone and rendered in alternating resolutions, the visuals shift between crystal clarity and grainy abstraction, mirroring Frank’s drifting state of mind.

As day turns to dusk, the film blends observational imagery with a formalist approach to time and space. Abstracted pixelated interludes punctuate the edit, evoking internal thoughts and moments of dissociation. The quiet is broken only by ambient sounds, train horns, footsteps, birds, and eventually, the ringing of a phone. The call changes everything. What had seemed observational becomes deeply personal, as the perspective abruptly shifts from first-person to third, pulling the viewer away from Frank’s gaze and placing him within the frame for the first time.

From that point on, Burnaby Mountain explores what it means to witness life as it unfolds around us, especially in moments when the world continues turning despite personal upheaval. There is no grand reveal, no expository dialogue, just a subtle accumulation of contrasts: stillness and movement, noise and silence, joy and uncertainty.

Visually minimal but emotionally resonant, the film offers a quiet reflection on disconnection, longing, and the unexpected weight of ordinary days. Through its layered sound design and restrained cinematography, Burnaby Mountain becomes a meditation on perspective, how we look at the world, and what happens when the world suddenly looks back.

The Great Indoors is a reflective coming-of-age short set in the now-defunct Imperial Oil Company township, a planned community built for workers and their families. Told through the eyes of a boy growing up there in the 1970s or 80s, the film gently explores the rhythms of family life, childhood solitude, and the quiet rituals that bind us to those we love.

The story centers around the boy’s relationship with his parents, particularly his father, who shares his love for books, baseball, and quiet moments spent indoors. While other children play outside, he finds joy in reading and analyzing stats from the MLB, bonding with his dad over weekly bets and predictions. Their Friday night routine, poring over the sports pages with a soda and a notepad, becomes the emotional heartbeat of the film.

The setting is modest and warm, grounded in domestic textures: a humble home, a blue sedan, TV static, and kitchen-table wisdom. The father, full of warmth and dry wit, often jokes, “Why bother with the Great Outdoors? We’ve got the Great Indoors right here,” a phrase that becomes both comforting and haunting as time passes.

As the boy grows older, the tone shifts subtly, moving from childhood nostalgia to early maturity. Moments of loss are portrayed through understatement and silence, allowing the audience to sit with the emotional weight rather than being told what to feel. Through economic hardship and emotional upheaval, the boy assumes greater responsibility in the home, all while preserving the memory of the small joys he once shared with his dad.

Anchored by intimate narration and a strong sense of place, The Great Indoors is a film about memory, resilience, and the inner life of a boy who preferred the quiet comfort of the indoors and the people who made that space feel like home.

Silenzioso e Forte (Melba) is a lyrical, experimental short that fuses AI-generated imagery with a crackling 1926 recording of Nellie Melba performing Clair de Lune. Lasting just under two minutes, the film unfolds as an abstract meditation on resilience, memory, and the quiet power of women, framed by the haunting textures of an archival operatic performance.

Drawing on AI to reinterpret historical photographs, the film assembles a series of ethereal, period-inflected images, predominantly of women, creating a dreamlike, nostalgic atmosphere. The visuals, delicate yet grounded, evoke the texture of a working-class past while hovering between the uncanny and the familiar. The structure is deliberately abstract, looping and layering imagery to mirror the fragmented, ephemeral nature of memory itself.

Opening and closing with intertitles reminiscent of silent films, the text reinforces the film’s subtle emotional arc: “In the silence of your deeds your strength will be known” and “Your strength is greater than their words.” These cards frame the experimental visuals, offering a quiet meditation on perseverance, inner power, and the ways personal resilience persists beyond the gaze of others.

Through the interplay of sound and image, Silenzioso e Forte (Melba) transforms a historical musical performance into a contemporary reflection on strength, introspection, and subtle empowerment. The piece invites viewers into a brief, poetic experience where nostalgia, abstraction, and lyrical music converge, leaving an impression of beauty, melancholy, and enduring human fortitude.

Downbeat is a short, reflective film that pairs thrifted 8mm family footage with a mournful jazz composition originally created in 1996. The music, composed from loops of found vinyl samples, lay unresolved for nearly three decades until a serendipitous discovery of digitized home movies brought it back to life. The footage, depicting the everyday rhythms of a British family’s life from the late 1960s to early 1980s, includes scenes of children growing up, weddings, vacations, and quiet domestic moments. Though the material is not biographical, it resonates with a powerful emotional charge that feels deeply familiar. Through careful, intuitive editing, these anonymous memories become personally meaningful and emotionally embedded within the filmmaker’s own experience.

The work is an exploration of nostalgia in its purest form, evoking not just longing for a specific time or place, but a wistful recognition of impermanence. It touches on the Japanese aesthetic concept of mono no aware—a gentle, melancholic awareness of the transience of all things. The piece lingers in moments that are seemingly mundane but deeply evocative, inviting viewers to contemplate the beauty found in the ordinary and the quiet sadness that comes with knowing those moments are gone.

Presented for gallery installation or online streaming, Downbeat is both a meditation and a memory collage. It reflects on how media, when found and re-contextualized, can become vessels for emotional truth. This is not a documentary of a specific life, but a shared reverie, shaped by time, chance, and the fragile connections between sound, image, and memory. The film invites viewers to consider how we relate to histories not our own, and how art can preserve the feeling of something that was never fully ours to begin with.