Sundance Film Festival is infamous for its celebration of independent film and for bringing undiscovered talent to the center stage. It has kicked off the careers of major names in film such as Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson and many more. An anticipatory buzz lingers in the air as people brave the cold temperatures to see the newest in film each year before it hits the mainstream. 

I attended this year’s festival with K-UTE Radio, seeing six films in total while also attending events such as Acura’s ASCAP Music Cafe. In this collection of reviews, I dive into the films that I got the chance to see and my thoughts about them: what worked, what didn’t, and what made each one special in a celebration of independent cinema. 

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Director Amy Berg’s latest film examines the life and death of America’s sweetheart Jeff Buckley. Berg is no stranger to the world of music documentaries: her 2015 film Janis: Little Girl Blue examined Janis Joplin’s story. 

Similar to Joplin, Buckley died much too soon and has left grieving loved ones and fans in his wake since his tragic death in 1997. The film includes a vast amount of never-before-seen footage courtesy of his mother Mary Guibert, who makes several appearances in the film. Berg overlays photos of Buckley at a young age with lyrics such as “Oh, it’s my time coming, I’m not afraid / afraid to die”, which provides a stark contrast. With lovers, friends, bandmates and those who knew him best sharing their fondest memories through vulnerable interviews, the film feels as if it’s lending the audience a hushed glimpse into the world of the beloved musician. 

Berg deftly takes us through the early days of the musician and his unique rise to fame. Best known for his debut album Grace, Buckley got his start through his very first public performance: a tribute concert for his father at St. Ann’s Church in 1991. While Jeff and his father Tim Buckley had a complicated relationship– to say the least– the young boy’s choice to perform his emotional tribute shocked many attending and helped to kickstart a rapid rise to stardom. 

However, Buckley had a complex affair with his newfound fame. Commercial record label Columbia Records put an increasing amount of pressure on his creative processes after his debut album’s success, which resulted in Buckley faltering and beginning to doubt his talent. Combine this with roughly three years of touring, and your result is a light that begins to dim. The film contemplates the fact that Buckley suspected he was manic depressive – what we would now call bipolar disorder – and its potential influence on the fragile balance within the artist. Happy moments within the film have a certain weight to them because we all know how this story ends. The topic of Buckley’s tragic death is explored with great care.

The story “It’s Never Over” doesn’t necessarily expose any new information to those who have been long-time fans of the singer, but I would argue that this doesn’t dull the documentary’s story. The never-before-seen footage and candid interviews help the film’s path to feel new yet cohesive, filling in any potential gaps that superfans may have left behind in their many discussions. 

Berg makes you feel as if you know Jeff Buckley, then takes him away from you. A particularly emotional final scene feels as if she is twisting the knife deep within. Overall the film paints a delicate picture of the artist that feels both comprehensive and emotionally rich, being sure to do justice to his enduring legacy. This emotional tribute fills a hole in the hearts of both young and old fans, being sure to leave a departing message upon its viewers: Jeff Buckley was well-loved.

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Amalia Ulman’s second feature film “Magic Farm” follows the escapades of a provocative American journalist crew who mistakenly travel to the wrong Latin American country in search of an eccentric musician seen in videos circulating online. 

This biting satire feels all too relevant to the current exploitative state of American journalism (think Vice). And perhaps for the media and entertainment industries as a whole. As our characters realize they are in the San Cristóbal of rural Argentina and not of the San Cristóbal in which their desired singer resides, they become panicked and desperate. The team’s head Edna (Chloë Sevigny) needs a viral story as her prestige is on unsteady footing due to potential lawsuits being brought against her partner. Thus, the team decides to fake a hot trend amongst the locals of the town. 

As the film progresses, unlikely connections blossom. Joe Apollonio, who plays a quintessential rich-kid Bushwick type, has a budding romance with the crew’s bumbling hotel receptionist. Camila del Campo in a standout performance plays the daughter of a town seamstress who has agreed to help the crew in their misguided mission. Her path crosses with a member of the film crew who, for lack of a better term, can’t keep it in his pants.

So caught up in their fabricated scheme, the group remains blithely unaware of the real story worth reporting right under their noses: the use of Roundup on vital crops in South America. The use of these chemicals affect the town’s residents in terrible ways, ranging from respiratory issues to birth defects. Ulman makes the audience aware of this in skilled, subtle ways.

Several of the film’s shots include our film crew listlessly wandering around the town in designer fashions such as Maison Margiela, resulting in a stark contrast between the odd Americans and their surroundings. At times, the film can feel directionless and lost – but is that the intention? Ulman makes clear the absurd nature of the Americans’ presence within the town, but much of the comedy to achieve this sentiment feels too forced and at times cliché. The balance between humor and social critique is delicate, and on occasion becomes disjointed. Alex Wolff’s character is a prime example of this: the blundering, dramatic comedy relief, feels more like a distracting hyperbole than an actual person.

In terms of color, “Magic Farm” is a departure from Ulman’s first film “El Planeta” which was shot in black and white. The use of color within the film feels cohesive with the lively culture of Argentina and helps to breathe life into its scenes. The artist has a clear and clever talent for exploring complex issues such as the ethics of exploitation found here. But with such a talented cast the comedy could be sharper to utilize their skills to the most effective degree. 

Despite this, “Magic Farm” succeeds. Through its use of unique filmography and a vibrant color palette underscored by playful cumbia, this film feels like a meandering hot summer day.

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There is an unfortunate pattern in history in which the credit is often stripped from those most deserving, and such is the same with the story of house music. Within this film, director Elegance Bratton uncovers the pioneers of house and finally gives them a voice. Up until now, these figures remained largely unknown to the public despite their impressive contributions. 

Disco can be attributed to the title of “the father of house”, but disco’s popularity was swiftly squashed due to racial backlash against its inclusive nature and rising dominance in the charts. As rock’s music prominence began to fall – a scary thought to the white rockers of Chicago – an oppositional movement against disco began to take form. This was spearheaded by controversial radio DJ Steve Dahl, who was the mastermind behind the infamous 1979 Disco Demolition Night. This event, which was done with the intention to symbolically “ kill” disco within the eyes of the mainstream, quickly turned into a riot. White interviewees within the film say that this event was not racially motivated, but those targeted have a different perspective. While the event was viewed as a success, it only led directly to the creation of house music as an underground form of resistance bubbling under the surface.

House was born in the suburbs of Chicago thanks to black kids such as Vince Lawrence, Frankie Knuckles, and Jesse Saunders. The film is largely centered around Lawrence, as he was an outstanding producer and distributor. He and Saunders can be credited with the creation of the first house music record. Lawrence’s tenacity, classic underdog story and undeniable influence on the genre leaves the viewer with a feeling of hope in times of tension as he carved out a safe space for black queer people in a racially tense Chicago. There is a clear emphasis on the fact that house music is not just a genre, but a cultural movement.

The film seems to build to a crescendo that never comes – yet this doesn’t necessarily take away from its point. Bratton’s inclusion of controversial characters such as Rachael Cain, the self-proclaimed “queen of house music”, feels extremely critical to the film’s message and arguably saves it. Cain’s character illustrates how white musicians of the time actively resisted the rise of house music, yet now seek to claim credit for the very success they once opposed.

House music is more than the industry that seeks to profit. It is at its core a form of resistance and community. House music is queer music, and Bratton makes this clear to the audience. The genre of Electronic Dance Music (EDM) has now skyrocketed in popularity around the world, with DJs such as FISHER and Calvin Harris garnering a cumulative 80,090,188 monthly listeners. With the genre more known than ever, it becomes increasingly urgent to give credit where credit is long overdue. “Move Ya Body: The Birth of House” is celebratory and reflective, ensuring that those who deserve recognition get time to share their story. 

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Directed and written by Hailey Gates, this film won the Grand Jury Prize in the U.S. Dramatic Competition at Sundance this year. Taking place in a fake town meant to simulate the combat conditions military soldiers would find themselves in overseas, this film’s sparkling premise is fantastically ambitious. 

The film’s titular town, Atropia, is a mock Middle Eastern village designed to replicate the environment most commonly found in the Iraq War. Those who live within the town are hired actors with given roles such as an insurgent or a mustard gas scientist. While all of the town’s actors are playing Iraqi citizens, most of them are actually Hispanic – and only in it for the money.

Our main character is Fayruz (Alia Shawkat), an aspiring actress who struggles with being pigeonholed due to her ethnicity and – unlike most of her coworkers – takes her role in Atropia extremely seriously despite familial disapproval. Fayruz has a handful of secrets under her belt: despite being Iraqi herself, she has never been to the country. She is an easily likable character, one which Shawkat plays with extreme precision. The audience can’t help but root for her as she makes desperate bids for fame by recording acting reels on smuggled DVDs in the middle of the desert. 

However, her goals take a slot on the backburner plot-wise once an unlikely romance emerges between her and a returned soldier-turned-acting insurgent named Abu Dice (Callum Turner). Unlike Fayruz, Abu has been to Iraq firsthand and Gates layers real-world footage of military invasions amongst the counterfeit city, helping to ground the film in reality amidst the literal theatre and performance of war. The romance between the two is marketed as a plot complication, but in reality adds little complexity to the story.

The film’s humor is both its strength and its weakness. At times the story feels more focused on cracking one-liners rather than producing engaging commentary on a subject greatly underrepresented within Hollywood. The satire’s relentless gags sometimes get lost within the environment of the film, giving rise to superficial political observations rather than insightful ones. Flip-flopping from idiotic to somber, the tone of this work can leave audiences confused about how they should react. 

That being said, the film’s absurdity is absolutely necessary because these fake towns are exactly that: absurd. The inclusion of a particularly excellent metaphor about a protected desert tortoise species native to the military area bolsters the film’s critiques of America’s desire to both protect and destroy.

I was surprised to find that these towns such as the one found in the film are real: they are called Military Operations in Urban Terrain (MOUT) towns. Now, actors in these towns speak Russian to mimic our current international tensions. This knowledge made me view the film in a whole new light, considering the nature of the relationship between the entertainment industry and the military. Despite “Atropia’s” moments when it falters, it remains impressively strong.

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Katarina Zhu’s directorial debut, in which she also stars as the lead character Rebecca, follows a young Chinese-American sex worker in New York City whose interactions with screens often outweigh her connections with the people around her. The film thoughtfully examines the relationships between identity, solitude and connection – something that feels more and more relevant to consider when positioned in the increasingly digital age we find ourselves in today.

The viewer spends much of the film watching Rebecca float aimlessly through her days. “Bunnylovr’s” title card needle drop is fitted to “detonate” by Charli xcx, whose lyrics feel strikingly relevant to the film: “Hurt me, know you won’t hurt me / I’m about to detonate / Pull you close and then, I’ll be gone”. Becca seems to be most comfortable in front of the camera, as she tells her audience “I’m happy because I’m with you guys.” At the heart of the story is Becca’s increasingly toxic relationship with one of her clients: a Pennsylvania businessman whose name we later learn is John. His persistent, demanding nature and large amounts of cash to spend on the young girl pique her interest, and thus the boundaries between her online life and her real life become blurred. 

This online relationship is presented in contrast with her real-life connections such as those with her bratty best friend (Rachel Sennott) and her previously absent father (Perry Yung). Sennot plays a privileged painter who isn’t afraid to mince words with Becca which gives the film some much-needed comedy. The dynamic between Becca and her father, who is revealed to be terminally ill, adds a much-needed aspect of depth to the film as well. 

Despite her loved ones’ attempts to connect with her, Becca seems to not be fully mentally present in these interactions. These real-world complexities help to explain the reasons why Becca seeks the online validation that she does.

Zhu seems to have strength in making the audience feel what her characters feel in a moment – some particularly uncomfortable scenes including a bunny gifted to Becca by John come to mind. This is aided by the use of an extremely close-up and cropped filming style, which helps viewers feel as trapped as she does in these moments. Becca’s character is intriguing and leaves the audience wanting more, but much of her emotional development in the film seems to be done offscreen as the plotlines trail off underdeveloped. The film ends in much the same place it began, leaving the audience to feel lost in a way that mirrors our main character as questions are left unanswered. 

While at times “Bunnylovr” can feel as if it is missing the final puzzle piece to achieve cohesion, Zhu’s first film is strong. The film highlights the strange ways in which intimacy becomes transactional to those in sex work professions, as well as how the effects of this work roll over into one’s personal life. In a post-COVID world mediated by screens, these digital relationships are important to be explored, and Zhu does it well.