The art of the short film sometimes goes unnoticed amidst the monoliths of cinematic expression. Despite being as enthusiastic as one can be about film, I tend to forget that every great filmmaker starts somewhere. And, for many, that somewhere is with the short film. So, while covering the wide array of wonderful feature length films at the New Orleans Film Festival, I wanted to highlight some of the great short films that I was able to watch through the festival’s virtual cinema. I’ve chosen five that I think everyone should keep their eyes on. They range in genre and scope so wildly that the following might not be the best indicator of the kinds of films on schedule at the festival, but they are certainly the ones that caught my attention.

“Virago,” a 2019 Estonian short film, follows the Eastern European village of Virago through a fictional narrative where men lounge around while women embody the traditional roles of providing and caring for the family. Why do men die before 40? When World War II started the men hightailed it off to hide in the woods instead of joining the war effort, because “it wasn’t their war to fight.” The story goes that while in hiding, the Grim Reaper was enraged by their cowardice and cursed the men of Virago to die by their 40th birthday.

The closest approximation I can draw between this film and others of its ilk are two entirely different kinds of films. One is the recent and magnificent recorded performance of David Byrne’s American Utopia. The other, is the documentary of the live performance of the music from Inside Llewyn Davis, titled Another Day, Another Time. Utopia is a recorded performance of a Broadway show, utilizing techniques similar to that of other professionally recorded stage musicals. Time is a full-on concert documentary, similar to Playlist in the way it interweaves artist interviews with live performances. I mention these films because they both capture the same kind of brilliance and energy that Playlist does. You are planted right in front of these world-class musicians and performances, and given the opportunity to watch them do what they do best with no interruption and no hiccups. What could be more exhilarating than that? Fans of either of the aforementioned films should absolutely seek out The Offline Playlist, as it will fill the hole in your heart that only live music can fill.

Simmering beneath the surface of writer/director Gibrey Allen’s debut feature Right Near the Beach is a palpable sense of frustration—a frustration that is felt almost immediately through the intensely internal and reflective framing and direction of the film. To call it poetic would be an understatement, as the camera winds and drifts through it scenes with immense purpose. After star Jamaican sprinter Jeffrey Jacobs is brutally murdered, the pieces of his cut-short life must be picked up by his father. However, the details of Jeffrey’s life that used to be cloaked in secret are coming to the surface. Jeffrey’s father must deal with these compounding hardships, as his pursuit of simply finding justice for his son’s murder is clouded by larger scandals. Beach is a film that deals with emotion and intent in the abstract, rarely using dialogue to codify what is being depicted on screen. Allen opts for a much more visual and subtextual mode of expression; one that allows the viewer to be enveloped in the sadness and frustration of Jeffrey’s father.

The concept of time, as is comparable to our present situations, is up for debate. For instance, the couple arrives at Jake’s parents’ house, as well as their other destinations, suddenly, with no real sense of distance or mention of approach other than Jake’s timely, “Tada!” as if he’s done a magic trick. When we finally meet Jake’s parents, the only point of reference we have of “real time” is the persistent snow storm raging outside their farmhouse, though even this has its surreal moments, after which all regularity is lost.

The world of Paddleton is dull and colorless—not dark, per se, but certainly without luster. Most of the action takes place in drab, neutral colored settings. Lehmann communicates a monotonous existence for these characters, their dull environs acting as a primary vessel for his major theme. Bright and garish lighting also emphasizes the wretched mundanity. The lighting in Andy’s workplace, and in an opening scene at the doctor’s office, for example, evoke the sort of wanting-to-be-elsewhere that comes with too-bright fluorescent lights. This effect, combined with the various settings and color schemes, conjure the sense of awful monotony that flavors Michael and Andy’s lives. The only joy for our protagonists, it seems, derives from their friendship with one another and the game they invented together, called ‘paddleton.’

Guadagnino wants us to make the connection between this facet of Elio’s personality and the music we hear during the film’s more emotional sequences. The piano acts as a window into the stoic teenager. He watches Oliver from afar, and the piano flutters excitedly; he wonders where Oliver ran off to, and it skips around restlessly; Oliver leaves a little note for Elio on his desk, and the piano begins to soar. It served as Elio’s primary source of expression as a teenager. He discovers large parts of himself to the sound of its beautiful chords. Guadagnino’s score provides valuable character insight, and it adds to the fantastical ambiance we get from the film’s visual elements.

Gerwig allows us to rethink our anti-local zeitgeist. She tells a story about a young woman who seeks belonging in a world that doesn’t seem to want her, highlighting the effects of poverty and education on her life, to show us what a home really is and how it can save you.

When you look at something through rose-tinted glasses, red flags happen to look like normal flags. This is the case in Wes Anderson’s 2014 film The Grand Budapest Hotel, wherein a multi-layered narrative reveals a story about a charming hotel concierge, his humble lobby boy, and a murder shrouded in familial mystery.