Homelessness is a somewhat overlooked issue in America. While citizens seem to be completely knowledgeable about the overwhelming percentage of homeless people in foreign countries, many seem to have their blinders on in our own backyards. The feature debut of director Clay Riley Hassler, Homeless, explores this issue with a heartbreaking honesty.

After his father is sent to jail and his grandmother passes away, teenager Gosh (Michael McDowell) is unable to pay rent, and forced out on the streets. With only the clothes on his back and his iPod, Gosh checks himself into a local shelter. Far and away the youngest resident, the teenager isn’t exactly embraced with open arms by the other men in the facility, and his attempts to make amends with his incarcerated father fall flat. After befriending a middle-aged mother, Tina (Julie Dunagan), who helps him get a job at the Chinese restaurant she works at, things begin looking up for Gosh. But as many of us can attest, life can be horribly cruel, and Gosh is forced to learn some truly disturbing facts about the depressing nature of humanity.

Almost documentary-like in its realism and technical approach, Homeless is a real slice-of-life movie. Utilizing naturalistic dialogue and non-actors, Hassler provides a truly accurate depiction of not only homelessness, but also of the Winston Salem area of North Carolina. Many filmmakers completely fumble while trying to depict life in the south. But here Hassler succeeds. The characters feel authentic, and certainly southern, but nobody talks like Foghorn Leghorn, or participates in outdated, stereotypical pastimes.

Technically sound while still maintaining a DIY vibe, the filmmakers cast actual homeless people and filmed inside of an actual homeless shelter to achieve a sense of realism. As one would expect, it works phenomenally. You truly get a sense of what living in a shelter is like, as opposed to the somewhat romanticized portrayal in other films with a similar subject matter. There are rules, there are problems, and there’s even more of a soul-crushing aesthetic than you might expect. Early on, Homeless feels as much like a movie about life in jail than on the streets due to the sense of pseudo-isolation and hopelessness. With wintry, cool cinematography, and sullen environments, Homeless has a look and feel that really drags you into the world in which it is set, whether you’re comfortable there or not.

As a non-actor in his first film role, Michael McDowell delivers an unbelievably sharp performance as a reserved teenager whose once vibrant goals have been crushed by the harsh reality of his predicament. Despite having relatively little dialogue, McDowell brings Gosh to life in the subtlest of ways, and it’s absolutely fascinating to see the actor (and it’s completely appropriate to call him that) go to work. Similarly, Julie Dunagan feels like a true and honest resident of the American southeast; a kindhearted mother who is forced to make difficult decisions in a time of struggle. And all the characters are that complex. They’re generally good people who are placed in situations that compel them to commit evil, and that’s where some of the best dramatic moments of all are born.

Despite its extremely on-the-nose title, Homeless provides a dark, honest look at the life of homeless, without feeling cheesy or preachy. If this were a Hallmark production, we know it’d end with a family of rich, kindhearted socialites adopting the needy teenager. But Homeless isn’t a Hallmark production. It’s unflinchingly bleak, but still manages to avoid becoming a tale of cynicism, as we stay hesitantly hopeful for the future from start to finish. Fans of dark dramas, character pieces, and mumblecore-style films are sure to be enamored by Homeless; a successful debut from a director to watch in Clay Hassler.

Musician Sufjan Stevens creates serene melodies that float along like the rippling of a rock over water. It’s only when listening closely to his lyrics that his love for working out the complex dualities of imperfect relationships with family and lovers becomes apparent. There probably couldn’t be a more fitting song than Steven’s “Futile Devices” to open up Echo Lake, a quiet and introspective character study of 30-year-old Will Baxter (Sam Zvibleman), whose personal relationships have become not unlike unstable towers of Jenga blocks—one bad move away from utter collapse.

Will’s reached the point where hitting the play button on his voicemail is physically exhausting. Although it’s never fully explained, he’s hit a wall with his long-time girlfriend (Christine Weatherup), who in the film’s early quarter utters those famous last words: “I can’t do this anymore”). His young brother, in a slightly condescending tone, badgers him to follow up on signing paperwork regarding a cabin on Echo Lake, a family vacation home left to him in his father’s will. For his part, Will’s solution to dealing with the death of a parent he’s had a conflicted past with is to not deal with it all. As more of an avoidance mechanism than anything, Will decides to head up to the cabin. The miles it takes to make the drive feel like as much of an escape as the bottles of booze he’s consuming in steady intervals. When Will gets to the lake, nature, time and silence begin to heal him in that way only nature, time and silence can.

Echo Lake marks the directorial debut of Jody McVeigh-Schultz and Zvibleman’s acting debut. Both ease into their roles as if the story is their own. McVeigh-Schultz also supplies the script, and it’s a winner. The film has a way with dialogue—Will’s chats with man-child friends who still drink on weeknights, half-hearted, flirty quips from a girlfriend who has probably become more of a friend, and funny if not slightly tragic negative self-talk sound natural and relatable.

McVeigh-Schultz lets cinematographer Andy Rydzewski and composer Joe Minadeo set the mood, with a complete indulgence in beautiful, soft, de-saturated long shots of nature, allowing us to feel as immersed in Will’s retreat as he does. The music is wandering and glimmering, urging thoughts to simmer as Will takes walks up hills and wades through brushy terrain.

But the script never hits us over the head with that same sentimentality, much to its credit. As the movie progresses, we feel that Will is crawling out of his negative head space. There aren’t any heartfelt soliloquies or dramatic voiceovers of diary entries here. Rather, we follow the gradual shift in tone of his daydreams: the longer he stays at Echo Lake, the more the focus of his memories shifts from annoyances with his ex-lover to tiny moments of joy they shared. I appreciate a screenplay that doesn’t simply tell you that, but helps you feel it. Getting away to reset your mind and spirit doesn’t ever solves one’s problems; it just gives a person the second wind they need to face the music.

I loved this movie, and I don’t often say that so explicitly in a review. The script captures the humanity of an imperfect character more prone to half-heartedly respond to his life and environment rather than be proactive and engaged in it. Zvibleman never pushes too hard at Will’s emotional baggage and hits the subtle comedic notes on point.

I was surprised to read in the film’s liner notes that McVeigh-Schultz often fielded the criticism that Will should be more likable, because I think Will’s character, thorns and all, is the movie. Is it a douchebag move to lie to your girlfriend about coming home and instead hang out at the bar with the guys? Sure. Should you maybe not jack off to porn on her couch as she sulks in her room with the door closed? Probably not. But Will’s not a callous guy; he’s just in that limbo state we all get in where not dealing at all seems like the less painful option. His gradual acceptance and willingness to get back to living is believable and relatable in the hands of a more than capable lead actor and an ambitious script.

However, as much as I’ll praise the script, both for its subtlety and ease with dialogue, I don’t think its delivery is perfectly executed across the board. I didn’t quite buy into the rhythm of the dialogue between Will and his girlfriend, in both the opening sequences and some of the later flashbacks. She says the right things, but the timing and connection between the two is never quite in the pocket. The scenes with Will’s friends (who clearly miss their frat days) do their job but not much more. However, interactions with a sibling pair of like-minded stoners up in the woods does work, bringing a breath of humor to what could otherwise have been a slow middle section. But Zvibleman is the star here, and since, in true Cast Away fashion, we spend the most time with him, other minor lapses are quickly forgiven.

Echo Lake succeeds in large part thanks to its relatability and willingness not to indulge in storybook endings. Like Will, we all deep down don’t want to be gigantic assholes, but sometimes we need a moment to center ourselves and get things right. For a film about moments, not gigantic belts of emotion, first-time director McVeigh-Schultz should be proud for hitting many of them right on the mark.

Far too often, it seems that the term “drug thriller” is code for “Scarface rip-off,” which follows the decline of a rich, usually Colombian, kingpin in dull, cookie-cutter fashion. Rarely, it seems, do filmmakers take the road less traveled and tell the story from the perspective of a drug addict. Tim McCann’s The Aftermath does precisely that.

After separating from his wife, Sonny (Sam Trammell) turns to drug use to ease the pain. Addicted, but hoping to make amends, Sonny reaches out to all of those close to his wife in hopes of giving her a necklace on their anniversary. Before he has the chance to do so, however, the piece of jewelry is stolen by a violent pimp. With all other purpose in his life gone, Sonny sets forth on a journey through a brutal criminal underbelly in order to retrieve his wife’s necklace—regardless of the consequences.

Thanks to a commanding performance from Sam Trammell (True Blood), The Aftermath does an incredible job of humanizing a lying, cheating drug addict. There’s no debate about it, Sonny isn’t a particularly likable character. He isn’t rotten to his core, but he certainly isn’t a guy you’d want hanging around. McCann takes this anti-hero and unapologetically thrusts viewers into his world. Though the film isn’t ultra-violent, nor does it feature a large body count, there is a genuine sense of danger present throughout The Aftermath. Nobody appears to be invincible; anyone and everyone could be killed off at the drop of a hat. Much like McMann’s highly underrated mystery film The Poker Club, The Aftermath takes an unlikely protagonist and places him in an unfamiliar, crime-filled situation. And just like in The Poker Club, the result is a thoroughly interesting, occasionally suspenseful, and at all times well-crafted thriller.

One of the more unique aspects of The Aftermath is its soundtrack, which includes classic ‘50s-style tunes as well as hypnotic, synth-heavy pop tracks. The music is tonally all over the place, but each selection fits brilliantly with its corresponding scene. The music just serves to up the energy of the wild journey The Aftermath encompasses. Sonny’s quest takes him through vastly different areas over the course of the film’s 83-minute running time, including strip clubs, residential neighborhoods, sleazy motel rooms, crack houses, and desolate streets. He is welcomed nowhere—an especially interesting aspect of his character—and no matter where Sonny’s journey takes him, he is seen as an outsider; a vagrant; a junkie. As a result, The Aftermath is somewhat bleak, as Sonny’s literal struggle for some sense of redemption from past wrongs is brutal and unrelenting.

Warm cinematography from director of photography Alan McIntyre Smith gives the film a hazy, almost sticky aesthetic. Everyone appears to be covered in so much sweat and dirt that you can almost smell the body odor through the screen. If the subject matter isn’t seedy enough, the onscreen images will have you wanting to take a shower after the credits begin to roll. There’s no John Waters-esque dirtiness on display, but the griminess of The Aftermath is truly disgusting at times.

The Aftermath is a truly fascinating little indie movie; a completely different kind of adventure film, and one that certainly holds attention. In a world of cheesy drug thrillers and crime romps, The Aftermath keeps things subtle and serious, mixing a story of the perils of addiction with an almost neo-noir attitude. With a deceptive amount of twists and turns, Tim McMann’s latest movie is a completely effective, completely engrossing time at the cinema.