As a filmmaker myself, I appreciate the execution of experimental filmmaking. Crafting and producing a film–any film–is no easy task and is a feat in and of itself. Even if it’s challenging to enjoy every aspect of experimental films, you can often find some appreciation whether it’s the brilliant cinematography, vibrant colors, interesting sound design, or bizarre acting. While experimental films aren’t usually my favorite kind of film as a member of the audience, I certainly found beauty in Celia Rowlson-Hall‘s acclaimed indie drama, Ma, which played at this year’s Sun Valley Film Festival.

Ma opens with a gorgeous silhouette of a desert landscape. Our lead (played by Hall) is found wandering the desert with nothing more than a long, ratty tee-shirt, and a pair of bright red cowboy boots she may have stolen from Teddy “West-Side” Mosby. Eventually, this woman emerges from the desert to a road and is met by Daniel (Andrew Pastides)—who stops for her. She climbs atop his hood and the two drive to a dumpy motor lodge where “Ma” is raped while her driver sleeps in the car. The next morning, the two continue to drive—this time with our leading lady riding in the car with the driver. The two then travel without a destination and spend their nights in a new motor lodge. We are faced with great metaphoric imagery—sand pouring out of paintings and sink faucets—and some wonderful choreography from the writer/director/lead Celia Rowlson-Hall.

Ma is absolutely beautiful. The sound design used in the film is incredible considering it contains almost no dialog. As an experimental film, it knocks it out of the park in many ways. With its slow pacing, difficult narrative, and often confusing visuals, the film may be a bit too surreal for the average movie-goer. As a piece of art and a specimen of visual poetry, Ma is a welcomed addition to the cannon of the medium.

The title Christmas, Again says it all, really. In Charles Poekel’s directorial debut, Christmas is less of a joyous holiday and more of a hurdle to jump over. At least that’s what it’s like for Noel (Kentucker Audley), a Christmas tree salesman in New York City working the night shift. Poekel isn’t cheery or sentimental in his approach, but he also doesn’t make his film an exercise in misery. With a low-key, melancholy tone throughout, Christmas, Again pleasantly goes against expectations, winding up as a minor, well-observed character study.

Poekel, who also wrote and produced, actually spent several years working the same dead-end job as Noel, living in a trailer during the Christmas season in the middle of New York. Poekel’s own experiences add an autobiographical element to the film, giving it a specificity that picks up the narrative slack. Most of Christmas, Again unfolds with very little plot, opting to follow Noel around as he sells trees, goes swimming at the YMCA and makes tree deliveries across the city. Little is known about Noel aside from a few key details: he lives upstate, coming into the city every Christmas to work, and he’s still getting over a recent break-up (his ex-girlfriend would work with him every year, making this Christmas an especially lonely one). To make matters worse, a young couple works the day shift, their presence a constant reminder to Noel of what he used to have.

The monotony of Noel’s job takes a turn for him when he finds Lydia (Hannah Gross) passed out on a bench near his work. After letting her sleep in his trailer, she vanishes the next morning, only to return again days later. Noel and Lydia strike up a sort of casual friendship, one more out of necessity than by choice. Both of them have similar issues, and their isolation only draws them closer together. Poekel ends up taking their relationship in an unexpected direction by the end, one that’s surprisingly satisfying considering its lack of a clear resolution.

And while Poekel’s naturalistic, semi-adapted experiences help him get away with making such a plotless film (some scenes feel like they must have been lifted directly from Poekel’s life), it’s Kentucker Audley’s performance that keeps everything in place. Audley gives the kind of performance bound to get unfairly ignored. Noel barely says a word unless he has to, so Audley must express everything through mannerisms and expressions. Audley perfectly balances the distanced, solitary traits of Noel with the sense of a deep inner turmoil lurking right underneath the surface. It’s the kind of performance that never calls attention to itself, yet remains a captivating force throughout.

By the end of Christmas, Again’s brief runtime, Poekel’s preference of little to no narrative momentum begins to wear things down, but not enough to cause any serious damage. For the most part, the listless tone helps establish the film as a refreshing take on the Christmas movie. It doesn’t like to think big or provide a neat character arc, preferring to act as a brief snapshot into one person’s wistful existence during the holidays. It may not be the most exciting thing to watch, but it provides something unique, relatable and ultimately worthwhile.

This review was originally published as part of our coverage for the 2015 New Directors/New Films festival.

Movies are sometimes easiest to explain in terms of personality. You have your strong, silent types. Your deep and profound types. Your clever and witty types. And of course, unfortunately, the excruciatingly socially awkward types. If Funny Bunny were a person they’d be that guy you avoid desperately at parties. They’d be the person you’d be incredibly tempted to be pulled into an argument with, but know that it’s a fruitless endeavor. Funny Bunny is that person who prides themselves on being as idiosyncratic as possible while simultaneously believing they stand for deep and moral issues. Funny Bunny thinks it’s both complex and interesting. Spoiler alert: it’s neither.

Alison Bagnall now has three films under her directorial belt with Funny Bunny, and having written all three herself—not to mention a fourth, her screenwriting debut Buffalo ’66—it’s easy to decipher her preferred storytelling technique. Which is to create the most unusual people possible, throw them together, add a dash of drama and see what happens. It may boil down to how much weird you can personally handle, or finding bits and pieces of these strange characters to identify with, but, at least in the case of Funny Bunny, it all forms a rather frustrating, incomplete, and just plain gawky viewing experience.

The film begins with quirky character #1, Gene (Kentucker Audley), a divorcee and door-to-door activist raising awareness of the childhood obesity epidemic. During his daily crusading he comes to the house/mini-mansion of quirky character #2, Titty (Olly Alexander), who invites Gene in, runs away giggling and then awkwardly invites him to a sleepover. Gene has enough sense to find that strange, but when his ex-wife and her new man kick Gene out of their house for good, Gene decides to take Titty up on that sleepover offer. Titty is happy to take him in with nary a word about being complete strangers to one another. Titty shows Gene his computer where a girl in a wig, holding a bunny, cries into the camera that she doesn’t have the funds to cover medical expenses for her poor rabbit. Titty eagerly pulls out his credit card and types in the numbers. The girl perks up, thanking him over and over.

Turns out Titty is a trust fund kid who sued his parents and now lives alone, emotionally stunted and harboring some blatant mommy-issues. The girl on the computer screen is quirky character #3, Ginger (Joslyn Jensen), an animal rights activist who spends quite a bit of time in front of her online audience. Titty has developed quite the crush on Ginger and when he tells Gene about his feelings they decide the only logical thing to do is go see her. The two of them jump into Gene’s beat up old van the next day, buy Ginger a new bike, and show up at her back door bright-eyed and eager to make friends. She threatens them with a knife, declaring how creepy their actions are. It’s probably the most true-to-life reaction of the entire film.

Soon enough she comes around and invites the two of them to camp out in her backyard. She introduces them to the animal rights activist she follows and Gene and Titty are privy to a plan to set pigs free from a local farm in protest—though before that a member of the activist group did oddly offer to murder a toddler in the name of the cause. Afterward, Titty, Gene, and Ginger get drunk together and Ginger dances for them in what is a painfully long and puzzling scene.

From here out the script tries to develop some sort of love triangle between Titty, Gene, and Ginger. Each guy gets some alone time with Ginger, and each time she portrays intense signs of trauma and possible former physical abuse when she rejects their physical advances. The film seems as though it may pick up speed when the pig-freeing caper goes wrong for one of the group, but it figures itself out easily enough and the film ends almost without notice.

Bagnall makes some interesting artistic decisions with Funny Bunny, choosing to linger quite long on her subjects. She seems to pride herself on what most would consider painfully extensive scenes of emotional reactions. With so little backstory and such eccentric characteristics defining these characters, it’s almost impossible to understand the depth of these emotional reactions and feel any sympathy. Combined with the in-and-out of focus panning of the camera lens, dark lighting, and lack of music the film is mostly baffling with hardly much to commend it. Jensen is put on the line most, acting Ginger’s passionate and troubled outbursts for extended periods and maintaining the most credibility of these three excessively strange characters.

It isn’t necessarily Bagnall’s attraction to outliers and weirdos in her stories that ultimately hinders Funny Bunny, it’s the alienation that occurs when viewers are asked to empathize and care about the emotional bursts of these strange people simply because they are dramatic. The people of this film may be outlandish, but its plot is so thin that the overall effect is distinctly dull. Somehow, I think even animal rights activists, rich teenagers, and childhood obesity advocates would balk at the proceedings of Funny Bunny, which makes one wonder who out there is this film intended for?

Recently, the staff here at Way Too Indie put together a list of independent films we thought Alfred Hitchcock might have made if The Master of Suspense had come up in the Kickstarter Era. There were some great choices, including Mulholland Dr. and Stoker, while my pick was The Usual Suspects. It’s too bad that assignment came before I had the chance to screen Queen of Earth. The psychological drama not only invokes Hitch, it screams Hitch.

Catherine (Elisabeth Moss) is a young woman on the ropes, having recently lost her father and been dumped by her boyfriend. Reeling from these impactful events, she looks to get away from it all by spending a week with Ginny (Katherine Waterston), an old and dear friend whose parents have a gorgeous and secluded lakeside vacation home. The retreat, however, proves less than helpful. Memories of happier times at the vacation home—times when Catherine’s (now-ex) boyfriend James (Kentucker Audley) was also a guest—surface to wrack Catherine’s conscience. Agitating things further are Ginny’s passive/aggressive behavior towards Catherine and the perpetual presence of Ginny’s neighbor/plaything Rich (Patrick Fugit), who takes a peculiar antagonistic approach when dealing with Catherine. Difficult memories and constant defensiveness take a grinding toll on Catherine’s already frail psyche, driving her deeper into despair and paranoia.

Queen of Earth is far more than just an exercise in observing one woman’s psyche slowly unravel, although it’s certainly that. The film opens at Catherine’s emotional Ground Zero; dismissed by a cheating boyfriend while reeling from the loss of her father. Writer/director Alex Ross Perry’s extreme close-ups on Moss are startling, revealing bloodshot eyes and a reddened nose and makeup ruined beyond repair, all from a recent (and clearly heavy) crying jag.

From here, Perry avoids the worn path of a woman making bad decisions while in an emotional fog. He also avoids presenting a woman who attempts to find herself after a lifetime of being defined by men. Instead, the filmmaker skillfully presents Catherine’s gradual decline within the framework of a larger, but quite intricate, story about friendship and the wages of the sin of pride. The relationship between Catherine and Ginny is strong and certainly has positive roots, but there is something more going on between them.

In addition to a terrific story, the film has many technical strengths, beginning with pop-up flashbacks that vanish almost as quickly as they appear. These brief scenes are critical to establishing the story’s foundation, even as it builds upon itself. It isn’t necessarily parallel storytelling, more a form of context to the present-day action. With masterful editing by Robert Greene and Peter Levinto, these flashbacks take the story between present day and about a year prior. It’s an unsettling technique, but it’s through these glimpses into the past—moments seen through both Catherine and Ginny’s eyes—that we’re allowed a comparison and contrast of how the two friends have changed in a year, and how their core attitudes have not.

Gloriously filmed in 16mm by cinematographer Sean Price Williams and set to a bare, haunting score by Keegan DeWitt, Queen of Earth channels the psychological dramas of the ’60s and ’70s, right down to spot-on title cards in soft pink cursive that mark each day that passes in the week-long story.

The presentation and aesthetics of the film fire on all cylinders, and at the heart of the film is a pair of performances simultaneously different yet complementary. Both are so very good.

As Catherine, Moss is turned loose, her confidence as an actress affording her the luxury of fearlessness. She manages the varying aspects of Catherine expertly, playing a woman freshly scorned and wearing every emotion on her tear-drenched sleeve; playing coy but paranoid conducting mysterious phone calls at random times during the day; and at other times a socially awkward introvert disarmed by an unexpected party. Moss delivers in amazing ways. Conversely, Waterston, as Ginny, is incredibly restrained. Her calm hostess to Moss’s unhinged basket case is at all times cool, almost aloof, with something of a sinister passive/aggressive treatment of Catherine that is captivating.

The tale ends with a devilish ending. To say more would be criminal, but I will add that a second watch of the film—with a full understanding of the ending—is highly recommended, providing a chance to catch the little clues that may be missed during a first watch.

What makes Queen of Earth so Hitchcockian isn’t Catherine’s plummet into madness, but rather how her spiral starts and how it accelerates. Setting it within the company of friends and against a placid backdrop reminds me of something Hitch would do as well, as comfortable surroundings only make the discomfort of psychological drama that much more uncomfortable. As for the roots of Catherine’s madness, I won’t say they are MacGuffins, but the loss of her father and end of a romance are clearly little more than starting points for something much more subtle and far more interesting.

“My life is a fucking nightmare.” Those are the first words we hear in Felt from Amy (Amy Everson), the traumatized artist at the centre of Jason Banker’s latest film. As she dons an animal costume and wanders the streets of her neighborhood, she talks vaguely about an incident that still haunts her. The specifics of what happened to Amy never get revealed, but the implication of a sexual assault and/or rape is clear. Banker and Everson’s refusal to divulge what Amy went through is part of the film’s detached yet highly subjective mode; this is a story told through Amy’s perspective, and Banker respects that some areas are too difficult to deal with.

Part of that choice might have to do with Felt being a blend of documentary and fiction. Much like Toad Road—Banker’s highly underrated sophomore feature from 2013—Felt gradually weaves a narrative around documentary footage. Banker met Everson at a bar, and as he learned more about her he eventually asked if she wanted to make a film with him (the film has no screenplay, but Everson shares a story credit with Banker). While watching Everson, it’s easy to understand why Banker felt she was a compelling subject; she has a magnetic presence, and the film is as much of a showcase of her as it is of her art. Everson creates costumes and art pieces that can range from the perversely funny (a painting of the infamous Goatse image on a dinner plate) to the downright creepy (a series of unsettling masks, skin-coloured outfits, and underwear with genitalia sewn on it). The costumes are both a reaction and an outlet for Everson; they’re creations inspired by her own experience with sexuality and violence, and by wearing her outfits it gives her a sense of control.

Despite a short 80-minute runtime, Banker takes his time before establishing a narrative. With the help of her roommate, Amy tries to get out of her depression by going to parties, bars and checking out potential dates on OKCupid. Most of Amy’s attempts turn out to be disastrous, like when one of her dates drunkenly explains that roofies are a myth, and most of her interactions only heighten her feelings of living in a hostile, male-dominated environment. Things start changing for the better once Amy meets Roxanne (Roxanne Lauren Knouse) and Kenny (Kentucker Audley). Kenny and Amy start dating, and Roxanne quickly becomes one of Amy’s closest friends.

The docu-fiction approach Banker employs is, for all intents and purposes, a mixed bag. In Toad Road, the blending of real and fake material created a strange, transfixing atmosphere that made the film’s thematic power all the more resonant once it transformed into a more straightforward genre film. In Felt, the style only works intermittently. The set-up, which I presume is made up of most of the nonfiction material, is the strongest part of the film because of how Banker effectively uses the underlying tension of not knowing what’s fact or fiction to emphasize Amy’s feelings of fear and anxiety. And not to knock down Kentucker Audley—I’m a fan of his, and he does a fine job here—but once he shows up the authenticity of Banker’s footage goes away. He arrives around a third of the way in, and his attempts to blend in with the cast of nonprofessionals tends to be stilted. It’s a risk that doesn’t pay off, making it difficult to look at Amy’s relationship to him as anything but suspicious.

But Banker is a filmmaker who, with only two fiction features under his belt, takes plenty of risks. Felt’s finale, a swift and violent one that’s more tragically inevitable than clichéd or predictable, shows just how intelligent of a director Banker is. Yes, the climax delivers on the unspoken promise of blood and gore that “slow burns” tend to give, but Banker deliberately avoids providing a clear motive or explanation for what happens. That choice puts the focus back on Amy, her own experiences, and the cycle of violence that she’s been involuntarily thrown into. If Felt expounded on those themes more successfully, it could have easily become a film more powerful than it is admirable. Early on, there’s a sequence where Amy’s roommate takes her out to a bar with her boyfriend and a potential date for Amy. Amy’s behaviour clearly grates on the two men, and at one point they stare her down with a look of pure anger. In a film filled with disturbing imagery of inhuman masks and costumes, it’s the moments where Banker communicates the real, pervasive threat of misogynistic abuse that provide the most chills.