Tag Archives: Independent film

CAPSULE: CITY WIDE FEVER (2026)

DIRECTED BY: Josh Heaps

FEATURING: Diletta Giuglielmi, Nancy Kimball, Hugo Alexander-Rose, Angelica Kim

PLOT: A film student discovers evidence of a forgotten Italian director and, in the course of making a documentary about him, gradually loses touch with reality.

Still from City Wide Fever (2026)

 

COMMENTS: Initial reports on City Wide Fever described it variously as a , a giallo tribute, and definitely not a giallo nor a tribute. The film’s strange tone must account for this confusion. IMDB classifies it as a horror comedy; though if there’s humor here, I suspect I’m not interpreting it as the director intended. The script attempts to walk the line between genuinely engaging with giallo tropes and simultaneously condemning them for offending contemporary sensibilities. Whether City Wide Fever is a send-up of the giallo resurgence or an honest homage (or both), it liberally takes from the genre its trademark ambiguity, stylization, and mood.

While wandering around New York City, Sam happens upon a USB drive in a gutter. She takes it home and finds a trove of files relating to Saturnino Barresi, who just happens to have directed a slew of giallo films, one of her favorite genres. Barresi apparently went missing, or stopped making films, under mysterious circumstances in the 1970s. His final film, City Wide Fever, was never completed. Though she’s never heard of him before, nor actually seen any of his movies, Sam decides to track him down and make a documentary about her search (a very film student thing to do, as the movie self-reflexively acknowledges).

Her quest takes her to the home of a creepy film professor, a creepy Times Square porn shop (where appears in a brief cameo), and a creepy Gowanus warehouse filled with mannequins (what else?), until she reaches the creepy house of a former giallo actress, before it all culminates in—her mother’s uptown apartment (?). Along the way, a masked knife-wielding killer (who else?) shows up to off Sam’s contacts and friends. Or is she just having nightmares, having succumbed to “the fever”?

The killer wears a variety of masks, many of them knit ski masks in bright colors, similar to Pussy Riot, also recalling masked serial killers from classic horror films. Red and blue lighting appears whenever Sam’s delusions and reality merge or fracture. Despite this, City Wide Fever never gets really weird. Even though Sam may be hallucinating some of the events depicted, they never stray too far from typical giallo violence, and only a few frames are outright surreal.

Perhaps it’s weirdest feature is the portrayal of Sam by two different actors, for reasons that remain unclear; this conceit could use the aid of more character development. All we know about Sam is her obsession with giallo. So, is she an American who imagines herself as Italian due to her fixation? Is she an Italian who imagines herself in the role of the amateur investigator, who is often a foreigner in Italian films? Or is this simply emblematic of the lack of narrative logic that’s repeatedly emphasized as a defining characteristic of these films (or maybe a nod to )?

Obviously limited by a low budget, the scenes shot with a cell phone actually look higher quality than the rest, which is shot on video. The documentary aspect of the narrative makes the visuals somewhat excusable. It looks exactly like the type of student film it purports to be.

Similar films from earlier in the century, like The Strange Color of Your Body’s Tears and Berberian Sound Studio, interrogated giallo’s complexities through sophisticated dissections of imagery and sound. For those interested in a very 2020s take on the giallo, City Wide Fever may do the trick, though it really can’t compare to those earlier films. As other reviewers have noted, ‘s producer credit seems to be more an endorsement of Heaps’ directorial potential than anything else. Here’s hoping Heaps gets thrown more money for his next picture, and keeps heading off the beaten path.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…a real oddity. On the surface, it’s a small DIY thriller that looks shot on the cheap, which already narrows down its appeal. But if you get on its wavelength over the course of its very brief 70 minutes (sans credits), you might even start to feel a small twinge of nostalgia. . . this movie tries to go for a surreal, artsy vibe that makes the protagonist question her own reality, though the attempt is hampered by a limited budget. “–Ernesto Zelaya Miñano, Screen Anarchy (contemporaneous)

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CAPSULE: THE FEELING THAT THE TIME FOR DOING SOMETHING HAS PASSED (2023)

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The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something is Gone is available to purchase or rent on-demand.

Recommended

The fourth installment in the “Pete’s Perverted Pix” series.

DIRECTED BY: Joanna Arnow

FEATURING: Joanna Arnow, , Babak Tafti

PLOT: Ann, a middle-aged single woman, has an unsatisfied lust for dominant men, but most of the men in her life are dispassionate duds.

Still from The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something Has Passed (2023)

COMMENTS: The Feeling That the Time for Doing Something Has Passed ties with Your Vice is a Locked Door and Only I Have the Key for the film I have reviewed with the most cumbersome title. “TFTtTfDSHP” will serve as the abbreviation.

TFTtTfDSHP is a deadpan comedy and a character study that’s almost too candid in dissecting the mind of the frustrated kinkster in the wild, driven to settle for the nearest thing to warmth in a cold world. Can a film be considered weird based on one performance? Writer/director/lead actress Joanna Arnow bares all in a story that’s at least a bit autobiographical (right down to having her real-life parents play her parents), while acting out a study in frustrated feminine sexuality. Her performance is so fearlessly open that it’s nothing less than heroic. This is one of the most honest portrayals not only of real-life alternative lifestyles and sexual expressions, but of 21st-century cultural frustrations in general. At the same time, Arnow, even while casually fingering herself while naked at the breakfast table or costumed as a pig-slave, keeps a firm grasp on her character’s humanity and dignity. She makes it clear that her Ann is actively the agent in her own world, seeking something better for herself. Her definition of better just happens to be different from most of ours.

For those of you who wonder “why do people want BDSM in the first place?”, films like this and Secretary provide clear answers. Secretary’s Lee has a psychologically damaged background and deals with it by engaging in thrilling, edgy fantasies so spicy that an ordinary relationship won’t cut it. In TFTtTfDSHP, Ann lives in a millennial-gray world of trivial humiliations and disrespect. She’s the black sheep of her family, her coworkers take sadistic joy in making her work life miserable, and she lives a lonely, friendless existence in a threadbare apartment in an indifferent city. A couple of hours of bedroom role-play is her only chance to feel like a whole person, to be the focus of somebody else’s attention for awhile. Her character comes off as a whiff anhedonic, hitting like MTV’s Daria all grown up to discover that adult life is just as miserable and unfulfilling as she expected it to be. Feeling intentionally humiliated, degraded, or objectified at least gives her the chance to feel something.

Even in gratifying this small pleasure, Ann is frustrated. We start with her ongoing nine-years-long relationship that amounts to being the booty call for Allen (Scott Cohen), an aloof, uncaring galoot who treats her like a piece of furniture. She’s desperate to mold Allen’s indifference into deliberate sadistic intent, but Allen is a man so devoid of imagination that he can’t even think up good scenarios when Continue reading CAPSULE: THE FEELING THAT THE TIME FOR DOING SOMETHING HAS PASSED (2023)

CAPSULE: TOUCH ME (2025)

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DIRECTED BY:

FEATURING: Olivia Taylor Dudley, Jordan Gavaris, , Marlene Forte

PLOT: 27-year old underachiever Joey and her troubled trust-fund baby pal Craig spend time at the retreat of an alien, becoming addicted to the heroin-like touch of his tentacles.

Still from Touch Me (2025)

COMMENTS: I don’t think Gen-Z’ers are really afraid of, or attracted to, alien tentacle sex. What the characters in Touch Me are deeply afraid of is a life devoid of purpose, or even of a reasonable infrastructure to be able to pursue their dreams. Joey is unable to advance her journalistic career, a slave to student debt and just-over-minimum-wage barrista and bartender gigs. Craig’s privileged background and philosophy degree put him no closer to finding dreams; in fact, they’ve left him depressed and unemployable. Meaningless sex, drinking, New Age-y spiritual exercises, and, eventually, the blissful, numbing touch only an alien can deliver offer them relief from their anxieties. Heck, even procrastinating alien Brian can’t get his act together to either take over the world, or to save it from itself. As the characters struggle to find a place in society, the alien’s euphoric touch serves a metaphor for the distractions and temptations of co-dependent romantic relationships and, more explicitly, drug addiction.

The acting is remarkable for a low-budget indie horror. Olivia Taylor Dudley is a revelation: dreamy in a languid, damaged way, remaining likable even when engaging in vile drug-seeking behaviors. She begins the film with an 8-minute monologue about her first meeting with a track-suited, environmentally responsible alien with hair that’s the “good kind of wet.” It’s not quite a tour-de-force, but it is the kind of thing that makes you sit up and jot down the actress’ name. Veteran character actor Pucci is also sexy as the complicated, hip-hop dancing alien who might be a cosmic narcissist or might be a well-meaning but clueless visitor who can’t comprehend human relationships. Gavaris is believable, if mostly relegated to comic relief (although his friendship with Joey plays a crucial role in the movie’s emotional makeup), and Forte puts in fine work as Brian’s unappreciated human assistant resenting the presence of younger and more attractive visitors.

On the other hand, director Addison Heinmann’s tonal shifts and unnecessary stylizations can pose a challenge. Joey’s panic attacks are accompanied by swarms of picture-in-picture popups, and a flashback is done as a Japanese silent movie but with spoken dialogue. These bits sometimes aren’t deployed purposefully, taking us out of the story. Furthermore, the attempts at comedy don’t always arise cleanly out of the more serious themes. Henimann throws a lot of absurdity at the screen, and not all of it works (one thing that does work are Brian’s dance scenes, which are both fun to watch and endearingly quirky). The hazy, neon-lit interspecies sex scenes are also a blast; they’re almost tasteful.

Because of the undisciplined approach, this is an odd movie, as well as a weird one. That said, Touch Me is nowhere near as alienating as its miserable current 4.8 IMDb rating would suggest. Most of the negative sentiments seem to come from people who were hoping for a more straightforward live-action hentai sci-fi horror, and are along the lines of “this was a little too out there for me.” Regular readers of this site will likely find this on the low-to-average end of the weird scale, and uneven, but far from boring. You’re invited to Touch Me: you might enjoy it.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“The cherry on top of this admittedly weird cocktail is a strong streak of genuine sensuality – if it’s your first encounter with tentacle sex on screen, you might be surprised how appealing Heimann and his cast have managed to make it seem.”–Catherine Bray, The Guardian (contemporaneous)

CAPSULE: FRESH KILL (1994)

DIRECTED BY: Shu Lea Cheang

FEATURING: Sarita Choudhury, Erin McMurtry, Abraham Lim, Jose Zuniga

PLOT: When their daughter disappears after developing green-glowing hands, her moms begin to suspect a mega-corporation involved in a tainted cat food scandal.

COMMENTS: Claire and Shareen are just trying to get by. Shareen works as a trash picker. Claire waits tables at a trendy sushi joint called “Naga Saki,” whose only perk is the free sushi she brings home to their daughter. Honey, one of those unusual four year olds who prefers raw fish and wasabi to mac n’ cheese, can’t get enough of Naga Saki’s specialty roll, “kissing fish,” a variety with obscenely red lips. When the little girl starts intermittently glowing green—a phenomenon her mothers never directly witness—they take her to various specialists. A pediatrician, a child psychologist, and a fortune-teller all fail to figure out the cause of the “green.” Honey then mysteriously vanishes, as stories about glowing cats begin to take over the news.Fresh Kill innovatively conveys its central mystery through endless streams of information. News reports, radio broadcasts, snippets from talk shows, and commercials regularly interrupt the narrative, adding clues to the overarching plot. Accounts of the real-life debacle with the infamous garbage barge alternate with fictional news items, like the corporate takeover of a major television news station by “GX,” a conglomerate that over the course of the film also buys up pet food products. The GX slogan, “because ‘We Care’” ominously repeats amid stories of a stray hydrogen bomb “harmlessly” dissolving in the ocean and a recall of GX’s recently acquired cat food brand.

Along with the many communication technologies on display—from televisions, to radios, to Web 1.0—the diverse cast speak a variety of languages, often code-switching in the middle of a sentence. Despite an unconventional makeup, family remains the anchor of the narrative, even as it spins off into various directions. While searching for Honey, Claire and Shareen interact with the residents of a neighborhood homeless enclave, their friends, and their own difficult parents. Claire’s mother is the diva-like talk show host of a program on public access who refers to Shareen as “Shirley.” Shareen’s father is a retired cop whose wife left him because he could never be off-duty, and who hasn’t caught on that his daughter isn’t straight. Supporting characters represent such various voices as the queer community, Wall Street, the homeless, computer hackers, immigrants, and environmental activists, contributing to the channel-surfing aesthetic.

The owner of Naga Saki rushes to buy the last of the kissing fish stock, just as her customers, too, begin glowing green. One night,  a friend of the sushi chef/hacker Jiannbin sees the kissing fish glowing, but no one else does, and so they remain skeptical. Eventually, Claire puts two and two together, insisting the contaminated fish must have infected Honey. She convinces Jiannbin to hack into the GX website to see what he can find.

Director Shu Lea Cheang pioneered the use of what we called “new media” back in the ’90s. Primarily known as a visual artist who works with digital technologies, one of her early works comprised a website complete with interactive chat rooms. A similar sense of hypertext and polyphony pervades her first feature film. The messages of corporate news sources contrast with the word on the street. Text scrolls sometimes appear along the bottom of the screen, and -ian intertitles with phrases like “Security = Control” intercept the imagery.

The “green” people’s speech gradually becomes glitched and warped until it’s completely unintelligible. Just as the image modes skip around, the soundtrack features varying styles of music, like a radio set to scan all available channels. A song by Sheila Chandra, who rarely allows her work to be licensed, pairs beautifully with an emotionally charged moment of Claire and Shareen grappling with Honey’s absence.

While the story of a missing kid could easily get dark and depressing, Fresh Kill maintains an ironic sense of black humor. The script consistently plays on the many meanings of the word “green” and its cultural connotations. Everyone gets mocked, from the finance tycoons who speak in corporate buzzwords to people who mindlessly follow the “green” movement by buying into eco-branding.

It’s easy to see why Fresh Kill experienced a resurrection in the 21st century with a 2026 Criterion Collection release. The seeming prescience of its themes demonstrates how these “contemporary agita” were already a part of American cultural discourse thirty years ago. Green may equal “environment,” but Cheang never loses sight of how it also always equals “money.” In the closing scenes, Naga Saki gets re-branded as “Mumbo Gumbo,” now specializing in farm-raised catfish, completely free of toxins!

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“Unfolding as a hallucinatory montage of Marxist critiques, ecofeminist diatribes, and queer, futuristic, dystopian imagery, the multimedia artist’s 1994 feature-length directorial debut is a prescient work of sci-fi agitprop from the early internet era. Think of it as a Godardian cinematic essay restructured for the MTV, channel-surfing age.”–Derek Smith, Slant (Blu-ray)

CAPSULE: THE NAPA BOYS (2025)

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AKA Napa Boys Present: Napa Boys 4: The Sommelier’s Amulet

DIRECTED BY: Nick Corirossi

FEATURING: Armen Weitzman, Nick Corirossi, Sarah Ramos, Jamar Neighbors, Nelson Franklin, Mike Mitchell, , Paul Rust, Vanessa Chester

PLOT: The Napa Boys and a slew of friends and hangers-on assemble for one last wine country adventure in this fourth installment of a franchise whose first three movies were never made.

Still from "The Napa Boys" (2025)
Nick Corirossi and Armen Weitzman in THE NAPA BOYS, a Magnolia Pictures release. Photo courtesy of Magnolia Pictures.

COMMENTS: The Napa Boys are, as near as I can tell—having, like everyone else, missed the first three movies—Miles Jr., Jack Jr., and Kevin. And maybe, once upon a time, Stifler? Miles Jr. is a neurotic virgin in his 30s with a dead wife and son (just roll with it). Jack Jr. is a lecherous jackass. Kevin is… well, so forgettable that he disappears without explanation for most of the movie. They are joined in their wine country adventures by fill-in Boy Stifler’s Brother and stowaway Puck, a female fan with a Napa Boys podcast. There’s also affable ally Mitch, owner of Mitch’s Winery, and fascistic enemy Squirm, owner of Squirm’s Winery. Three of the characters acquire love interests, a female drug dealer and a pair of waitresses. Adding to the crowd are unexpected cameos by Jay and Silent Bob and . Not to mention the Milfonator.

All of that sounds like fertile ground for a wacky comedy, but that’s not what’s on the filmmakers’ minds. The high concept here implies that, as the fourth film in a franchise, the blush is fading off the rosé. Thus, the in-universe movie script is desperate for new twists and turns, while continuing to work the formula and deliver bits the in-universe fans have come to expect. That means a lot of apparent references to past events that Napa Boys fans would know about, but we don’t. Corirossi and company are going for clever rather than funny, with the “joke” being ultra-meta. The cast act badly on purpose, delivering their lines in an anti-comedy game of coming as close to a joke as they can possibly get without actually making one. (For example, when Mitch spills wine down his chin, Puck observes that he’s dribbling, and the vintner explains no, he just prefers wine filtered through his beard.) There were about three jokes in the whole thing that made me giggle. I’m sure they were included by accident; no anti-comic can bat a thousand.

A surprising number of critics misdiagnosed the film’s humor because they hadn’t encountered the concept of anti-comedy before. And if professionals are missing the point, you can be sure 99% of the film’s potential audience is, too. (It’s a shame that Rex Reed never lived to see this; the film’s writers would have treasured his dismissive takedown). The Napa Boys was designed to alienate and encourage walkouts; not only is the anti-humor off-putting until (and maybe even after) you get what they’re up to, but they also put the grossest of gross-out scenes relatively early in the first act. Anyone who makes it through Jack Jr.’s desperate encounter with a wine barrel without heading for the exits is in for the long haul.

There are three possible reactions to Napa Boys: you either don’t get it, or you get it, or you get it but conclude it wasn’t worth getting. I vacillate between the last two options. But what kept me watching was the unpredictability. The plot seems road-movie random, but is more structured than it first appears: subplots that appear to have been dropped reappear at unexpected moments. And even after all the plot threads seem to have been wrapped up, the movie keeps going on in a long epilogue, introducing new characters intended to set up the in-universe sequel or a spin-off. And the stop-motion moose surprised me, too. The Merlot may have been foul at times, but I can’t say my trip to wine country was entirely wasted. If you want to go, just be sure to pack a lot of patience.

WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:

“…one of the most surreal comedies in recent memory… this movie tells our nature to eff off, challenging us to flow with its exquisitely honed stupidity and simply laugh at the gross, awkward, un-PC and just-plain-weird moments it presents… The film has the cheery look and tone of a dumbass comedy…. Now cross that with the bizarre disassociation from reality you feel while watching a David Lynch film, and you’ve bullseyed The Napa Boys…”–John Serba, Decider (contemporaneous)

The Napa Boys

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  • Napa Valley
  • wine-sloshed journey

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