VSFF '25 Reviews | Queen of the Underworld, Mum, Body Varial

June 13–15 is the weekend to watch inspiring up-and-coming directors shine at the Vancouver Short Film Festival. I had the pleasure of getting early access to three of the short films screening this weekend. These films range from 8 to 15 minutes in length—these brief windows of storytelling come with both limitations and creative opportunity. With so little time, it’s a challenge to convey emotional depth, character development, and narrative arc. So, did the three I watched deliver? Let’s take a look.

Queen of the Underworld

Directed by Stephanie Izsak

The film opens with a visibly distressed young woman named Kate, seated across from her therapist in what appears to be the eeriest, most abandoned restaurant in the city. The total absence of background characters immediately threw me off. Was this a deliberate stylistic choice to emphasize Kate’s isolation or a logistical oversight? Either way, it lent the opening scene an uncanny, almost liminal quality that set an appropriately disoriented tone.

Kate begins rambling about Greek mythology with the energy of someone who just fell down a Wikipedia rabbit hole and hasn’t slept since. Just as abruptly, she pivots to casual small talk, leaving both the therapist and the audience mildly perplexed. I’ll admit, the film lost me for a bit until it pulled me back in with its visual style and fragmented sense of logic that mirrors Kate’s mental unravelling. The narrative centers on her struggle with grief and addiction following the death of her partner. She experiences sleep paralysis, nightmares, and increasing emotional volatility. After being unceremoniously dismissed by an unhelpful doctor (sadly, a scenario many will recognize), Kate turns to hallucinogens as a form of self-administered therapy. Eventually, she reconnects with her deceased partner in a dream, a metaphor for confronting her trauma, and by the end of the film, she finds the strength to move forward.

That’s the idea, at least. The problem is that the film’s resolution arrives far too conveniently. The emotionally climactic moment, her partner telling her she’s “ready to move on,” is intended to be cathartic, but instead it comes off as superficial. It felt less like a genuine emotional breakthrough and more like a line borrowed from a grief recovery pamphlet. For a film aiming to explore the raw complexities of loss and healing, the final message felt disappointingly streamlined.

This is particularly frustrating because, technically, the film is exceptional. The cinematography is atmospheric and intentional, with lighting choices that effectively convey Kate’s internal chaos. The editing is tight and stylized, making use of surreal transitions and visual dissonance to keep the viewer emotionally unsteady. Visually, Queen of the Underworld is a triumph.

Morgan Taylor, who plays Kate, is easily the strongest element of the film. Her performance is emotionally layered and entirely convincing. She brings a sense of depth and vulnerability to the role that elevates the entire piece. Her portrayal of a woman on the brink, grappling with trauma, fury, and loneliness, is both restrained and explosive in all the right ways. It’s unfortunate that the script doesn’t always meet her at that level.

In the end, Queen of the Underworld is a film with great ambition and even greater aesthetic control, but its narrative arc doesn’t quite reach the emotional depth it strives for. It’s a well-crafted meditation on grief that stumbles in its attempt to resolve that grief too cleanly, as if the story were taken from a book called "How to Grieve 101" instead of an actual experience. Still, if you’re drawn to moody, psychological storytelling with a visually rich palette and a commanding lead performance, it’s absolutely worth the short runtime. Just don’t expect an emotional epiphany; you may leave more impressed than moved.

3/5

Mum

Directed by Kimber Wesley

Mum is a documentary short that sets out to tell a deeply emotional story, a young woman reflecting on her own childhood while navigating the trials of motherhood, all while coming to terms with the fact that she’s breaking a cycle of generational trauma. On paper, it’s a powerful premise, intimate, emotionally charged, and potentially resonant for many viewers. But in execution, it stumbles.

At just under eight minutes, the film wastes no time diving into the heart of its subject matter. Unfortunately, the shift from soft nostalgia to disturbing abuse is jarringly abrupt. While sudden tonal pivots can be used intentionally to unsettle the viewer or reflect emotional whiplash, I didn’t get the sense that this was an intentional stylistic choice here. Instead, it felt more like a structural misstep, an emotional bait-and-switch that didn’t give the viewer enough time to settle into the story before it asked them to feel something intense.

The documentary opens with the mother recalling a seemingly sweet memory of telling her mom, “Mommy, I love you so much,” followed by both women tearfully reminiscing. It’s a touching moment, or at least, it wants to be. But before we can sit with that warmth, we’re quickly thrown into a story of abuse, and the emotional foundation hasn’t been laid strongly enough for that transition to land. I found myself intellectually registering what I was being told, but emotionally? I just wasn’t there yet.

The film is peppered with static shots of police reports and frequent shifts in interview framing. This could’ve been visually engaging or thematically meaningful if there were a clear stylistic rationale, but instead it comes across as disjointed, almost like the camera operator couldn’t decide on a shot and just included all of them. The result is a viewing experience that’s not only emotionally confusing but physically disorienting at times.

As the film progresses, the mother discusses her ongoing struggle to process her trauma. It’s raw material with enormous potential, grief, guilt, healing, and motherhood, but the documentary format doesn't seem to know how to elevate it. It reiterates her pain without deepening it, and for a story this powerful, that feels like a disservice. There’s so much weight to the subject, but the film handles it with a strangely flat affect, like it’s checking boxes rather than allowing the story to breathe and evolve. By the end, the film circles back to its original warmth, the mother reflects on how her experiences have helped her become a more present, loving parent, repeating the same sweet quote from the beginning. It’s a neat emotional loop, and I appreciated the attempt at thematic closure. But it felt like too little, too late. The emotional resonance never fully took root.

What frustrated me most is that Mum clearly has something to say. The story it tells deserves space, complexity, and sensitivity. But rather than using the documentary medium to explore the nuance and gravity of that experience, through structure, pacing, or even voice, the film falls back on formulaic storytelling. It plays out more like a dramatic PSA than an evocative piece of nonfiction filmmaking.

Ultimately, Mum is a documentary with a vital narrative but a lacklustre delivery. The sincerity is there, the emotion is present, but the craftsmanship never quite catches up. It's a reminder that even the most powerful personal stories need thoughtful storytelling to resonate truly.

2.5/5

Body Varial

Directed by Audrey Kerridge

I was genuinely and pleasantly surprised by Body Varial. While the film might not dazzle with polished cinematography or hyper-refined technical elements, it more than makes up for that with a heartfelt, deeply personal story. At its core, this short film explores the post-surgery experience of transitioning, specifically through the lens of one young transmasculine person, Remy, as they navigate family, friendships, identity, and healing. The subject matter is inherently moving, and despite not being my lived experience, many moments struck an emotional chord.

Remy’s journey unfolds in an understated yet powerful way. We follow them during a recovery period, where something as seemingly simple as not being able to skateboard, one of their biggest passions, becomes a poignant symbol of the temporary limitations that come with affirming one’s identity. It’s sad watching them on the sidelines, distanced from the activity that shaped his sense of self and connection with friends. It’s a subtle but effective way of showing how identity and physicality are intertwined.

One of the film’s strongest elements is Remy’s relationship with their mother. It’s refreshingly honest—no melodramatic estrangement, no one-note idealization. Just a realistically supportive mom who’s loving, involved, and, like many moms, occasionally overbearing. She helps them with daily tasks post-surgery, checks in constantly, and offers gentle, and sometimes not-so-gentle, nudges toward rest and recovery. Their dynamic isn’t perfect; there’s clear tension, moments that feel like unresolved arguments simmering beneath the surface, but their bond remains unshaken. It’s evident they care for each other deeply, and watching them navigate the blurry line between support and smothering is tender, even when it gets prickly. I also appreciated the depiction of Remy’s friendships. Too often, trans narratives lean heavily on trauma, isolation, rejection, and bullying. But Body Varial subverts that by centring a community that’s supportive, relaxed, and, dare I say, normal. Friends joke around, hang out, and express concern in a way that doesn’t feel performative.

One standout moment that struck me was a club scene where Remy, in a burst of curiosity and maybe a touch of insecurity, asks a stranger if they might be considered a twink. The stranger replies that Remy is “a little too feminine” for that label. In many films, this moment would cue an identity crisis, a montage of emotional unravelling, maybe a dramatic rain scene. But not here. Remy shrugs it off and moves on. There’s an unspoken confidence in that response, a quiet self-acceptance that feels far more powerful than any overt declaration of identity.

That said, the film isn’t without its flaws. The dialogue at times veers into clunky or overly expository territory. There are moments when characters speak in ways that feel less like actual conversation and more like they’re reading off a script. When Body Varial lets its characters just talk, about anything, not just gender or transition, the story breathes easier and feels more authentic. Some of the best scenes are the ones where the subtext is doing the heavy lifting, not the script itself.

Still, despite the occasional awkward phrasing or unrefined delivery, Body Varial ended up being the short I enjoyed the most. It’s a testament to the power of story over spectacle. When a filmmaker speaks from lived experience with honesty and care, the imperfections in technique become secondary. I’d much rather watch a film like this, intimate, raw, and quietly moving, than a glossy production with nothing genuine to say.

Audrey Kerridge has created something that feels deeply personal yet widely resonant. As conversations around LGBTQ+ identity continue to evolve, films like Body Varial remind us that there’s room for stories that aren’t about trauma alone, but about recovery, community, and quiet resilience. I hope she continues documenting this journey; there’s something beautiful unfolding here.

4/5

For more information on the VSFF, check this link: https://vsff.eventive.org/schedule