This year’s Slamdance Film Festival, which took place February 20th – 26th, was packed with incredible films. I didn’t catch everything, but there wasn’t a single film that I saw and disliked. In fact, many of the movies I saw stand as a testament to the future of microbudget and independent cinema.
Here are some highlights from the 2025 edition of Slamdance:
Foul Evil Deeds
From the moment the opening title card appeared—an empty theater, jazz drums rattling in the background, and bold, thick sans-serif font spelling out Foul Evil Deeds—I knew Richard Hunter’s directorial debut was made for my sensibilities. And it did not disappoint.
Foul Evil Deeds unfolds as a series of vignettes, each exploring different shades of human negligence, sociopathy, conflict avoidance, and other unbecoming traits. The camera remains at a distance throughout, often holding long, static takes, offering an unflinching view of humanity at its most inhumane. But there’s no overt judgment in the film—just observation. It forces the audience to bring their own experiences, biases, and sense of justice to what unfolds on screen.
The film shifts between acts of cruelty both overt and insidious—ranging from a reckless prank that leaves someone seriously injured to the quiet, normalized exploitation of a worker whose job demands that they take advantage of people daily in the name of capitalism. That same worker, burdened by the moral weight of their profession, finds solace in BDSM—a consensual and deeply personal reprieve that society deems deviant, despite accepting the far greater horrors of everyday economic exploitation.
Visually, Foul Evil Deeds appears to be shot on video, giving it a raw, unvarnished quality that serves the film’s detached, observational style. The static long takes with disturbing images evoke early Yorgos Lanthimos, but the film follows its own rhythm and logic—it never feels derivative.
This film blew me away. It was my favorite of the festival, and I can’t wait to revisit it. More than that, I can’t wait to see what Richard Hunter does next—this film feels like the arrival of a major cinematic voice.
Banr
After 40 years of marriage, a husband dies of a heart attack, while his wife, suffering from Alzheimer’s, struggles to hold onto reality. The film mirrors her mental decline, adopting a fragmented structure where time and place blur, disorienting both the audience and the characters. It’s a harrowing yet deeply moving experience, capturing the couple’s desperate search for each other across fading memories.
Directed, written, and edited by Chinese actress Erica Xia-Hou in her debut feature which, Banr is an electrifying piece of cinema. It’s a film full of care, desperation, horror, and beauty. The performances are raw and affecting, while the cinematography feels kinetic—echoing the handheld immediacy of Thomas Vinterberg and Lars von Trier’s Dogme 95 films.
Banr is a reminder of the power of low-budget filmmaking, proving that constraint often breeds the most emotionally resonant and inventive storytelling.
Alice-Heart
Alice-Heart is a captivating exploration of young adulthood that feels both timeless and refreshingly current. Premiering at this year’s Slamdance Film Festival, the film follows Alice—a seemingly aimless college student in Philadelphia with dreams of becoming a famous writer—who impulsively drops out of school during her final semester. Suddenly estranged from her disappointed Filipino mother and left by her studious boyfriend, Alice is forced to confront the realities of self-sufficiency and the challenges of paying her own bills for the first time.
In the midst of this upheaval, Alice finds an unexpected lifeline in her neighbor Tony, a self-assured freelance photographer whose steady encouragement helps her rediscover her passions and nurture her friendships. As she navigates the rocky terrain of emerging adulthood—even while facing pointed “adult baby” allegations—Alice embarks on a journey of self-discovery, resilience, and reinvention.
Directed and written by Mike Macera, Alice-Heart channels the DIY spirit and understated charm of early ’90s indie cinema and mid-2000s mumblecore, all while injecting a distinct Gen Z perspective that feels both fresh and invigorating. This artful blend not only pays homage to a rich cinematic past but also instills hope by affirming that a new generation of filmmakers remains devoted to telling low-key, honest stories. Embracing the aesthetics of black-and-white cinematography and the ethos of independent film, Alice-Heart is a heartfelt celebration of cinema as an art form.
Watching this film transported me back to the days just after film school—when I discovered gems like Funny Ha Ha, Hannah Takes the Stairs, and The Puffy Chair.Those films not only proved that beautiful stories could be told with minimal resources, but also sparked my love for narratives about people striving to connect and navigate the complexities of life.
Featuring a talented ensemble cast including Lissa Carandang-Sweeney, Tony McCall, Adam McAlonie, Kelsey O’Keefe, Gabriel W. Elmore, Lauren Serafica, and Will Bricca, Alice-Heart shines brightest thanks to Lissa Carandang-Sweeney’s exceptional performance. She embodies the vulnerability, determination, and quirky charm of Alice with unforgettable depth.
Alice-Heart is a poignant reminder that, even in a rapidly changing world, the pursuit of authentic, human stories endures—a testament to the enduring power of indie filmmaking.
Under the Burning Sun
Sundrenched deserts, swirling dust, old rusty cars, and a society regressing on basic human rights—these could easily describe a dystopian sci-fi film set in a bleak future. But in Under the Burning Sun, they paint a chillingly real picture of what it’s like to be a woman in the present.
When Mowanza encounters relentless obstacles in her attempt to get an abortion in her home country, she sets off on a desperate journey across borders in search of a doctor who will perform the procedure. Armed with nothing but a beat-up car and a dwindling supply of water, she embarks on a harrowing odyssey. A film like this could have easily leaned too heavily into its message, sacrificing storytelling for polemic, but thanks to its measured editing, Yun Xie’s assured direction, and a tender yet raw performance from Stephanie Parsi, Under the Burning Sun is nothing short of transcendent. Every setback, every moment of desperation, is deeply felt, making an impassioned plea for women’s bodily autonomy while also serving as a stark warning about the trajectory of countries like the United States.
From a filmmaking standpoint, Under the Burning Sun is an impressive feat. I suspect it didn’t have a massive budget, but the filmmakers made every resource count. The landscapes, the performances, and the stark, lived-in locations coalesce into a visually arresting and emotionally devastating debut from Yun Xie. See it as soon as you get the chance.
Portal to Hell
I’ll be honest—when I first started Portal to Hell, the Slamdance film directed by Woody Bess, I expected a high-concept indie whose ambitions far outpaced its resources. I was wrong. What I found instead was a horror-comedy that was not only genuinely funny and scary but also brimming with grief, exploring what it means to lose one’s humanity while searching for forgiveness.
At the center of the film is Dunn—his name itself a running joke that never gets old. A debt collector weighed down by the moral consequences of his job, Dunn is struggling with direction in his life while mourning the loss of someone close to him. One night, he stumbles upon a portal to hell in a laundromat, leading him to a demon with a chilling ultimatum: his terminally ill friend can be saved, but only if Dunn is willing to sacrifice his own humanity. What unfolds is a Devil and Daniel Webster-esque moral dilemma, forcing Dunn to confront what it truly means to be a good person.
Portal to Hell is surprisingly patient in its storytelling, allowing the emotional weight of its themes to settle. The performances are solid, but where the film truly shines is in its script—wrestling with regret, grief, and the unintended harm we cause others. I genuinely loved this movie, and I hope you get the chance to see it.
Confesiones Chin Chin
Confesiones Chin Chin, directed by Carolina Perelman, is an energetic and electric film that immerses us in a lively Madrid bar, where an eclectic mix of artists, actors, and wanderers lose themselves in conversation. As drinks flow and music pulses through the night, we catch fleeting glimpses into their lives—moments of passion, humor, and raw honesty.
The film is short, punchy, and effortlessly engaging, channeling the feeling of late nights spent deep in conversation, much like the ones I had as a young filmmaker exploring Denver’s artsy enclaves. Some vignettes resonate more than others, but the film’s freewheeling energy keeps it consistently compelling.
Visually, Confesiones Chin Chin bursts with life—its kinetic cinematography and sharp editing mirror the restless energy of the bar. The script is loose and natural, and the performances feel lived-in, as if we’re eavesdropping on real people rather than watching actors.
This is the kind of indie film that thrives on spontaneity and atmosphere—a true crowd-pleaser. If you get the chance to see it, don’t miss it. Then, afterward, grab a drink with friends and get lost in conversation.
Twin Fences
Yana Osman’s documentary Twin Fences begins as an exploration of the ubiquitous concrete fences with geometric designs found across Eastern Europe. As someone who loves design and finds beauty in the mundane, I was more than content with a film about that. But Twin Fences quickly reveals itself to be something much deeper—an inquiry into the places we call home and the unseen forces that shape both our physical and emotional landscapes.
Blending essay, observation, and conversation, the film uses fences not just as design elements but as both literal and metaphorical symbols of the barriers in our lives. It doesn’t establish a clear thesis from the outset, and that works in its favor. Instead, it unfolds organically, weaving through dozens of ideas on how to make sense of its subject—even experimenting with multiple title cards and synopses throughout.
Beyond its artistic and intellectual ambitions, Twin Fences also feels like a warning—a canary in the coal mine. Watching it, I couldn’t help but think about the United States and the creeping rise of authoritarianism, with no clear roadmap on how to resist it. In that way, the film serves as both a reflection and a call to action, reminding us of the importance of community, art, and hope in the face of oppression and division.
Twin Fences is a film I can’t wait to revisit, knowing it will reveal new layers with time. It’s an incredible achievement and a testament to the power of artistic, unconventional approaches to non-fiction—offering new ways to contextualize the world we live in. I only wish films like this were the mainstream. Hopefully, one day, they will be.
