Every year, the Academy Awards celebrate the biggest achievements in cinema, yet some of the most daring storytelling can be found in the smallest packages. The short film categories often serve as a playground for filmmakers experimenting with bold ideas, unconventional narratives, and visual styles that might never make it into a feature-length production.
The fifteen nominees across the animated, live action, and documentary categories offer a remarkable cross-section of contemporary filmmaking. Some lean into heartfelt human drama, others embrace absurd comedy, and a few push the boundaries of what a short film can be altogether. From deeply personal reflections on grief to playful parodies of period romance, the range of tone and subject matter this year is particularly striking.
Taken together, these films travel across the globe and through vastly different experiences. A survivor of Auschwitz finds resilience through sport, a barroom singing contest becomes an unexpected moment of connection, activists silently hold photographs of children lost to war, and a trio of wandering donkeys contemplate humanity’s quest to study the cosmos.
Short films may not receive the same mainstream attention as their feature counterparts, but they remain one of cinema’s most exciting creative spaces. The 2026 Oscar nominees once again prove that powerful storytelling does not require a long runtime, only a compelling idea and the courage to explore it.
BEST ANIMATED SHORT FILM
Animation once again proves its limitless storytelling potential with this year’s nominees. The five films range from painterly historical biography to whimsical moral fables and absurd romantic rivalries. Some embrace traditional hand-drawn techniques while others experiment with distinctive visual textures, but each demonstrates the expressive power of animation as an art form.
Butterfly
Set against the shifting tides of the early twentieth century, Butterfly tells the extraordinary true story of Alfred Nakache, a Jewish French-Algerian swimmer whose life was shaped by both triumph and unimaginable tragedy. The 15-minute animated short begins in North Africa, where Nakache develops a profound connection to water as a child. Swimming quickly becomes more than just a pastime, revealing a natural athletic ability that propels him toward the international stage.
As Nakache grows into one of the world’s most accomplished swimmers, his career unfolds during a period of immense political upheaval. He competes at the 1936 Berlin Olympic Games while Nazi ideology looms over Europe, and his life soon becomes entangled with the horrors of war. Stripped of his citizenship under the Vichy regime and targeted because of his Jewish heritage, Nakache is arrested by the Gestapo and deported to Auschwitz. Against all odds, he survives the camp and a brutal death march, eventually returning to the sport that once defined him and competing again at the 1948 London Olympics.
Director Florence Miailhe approaches this remarkable life with a striking hand-painted animation style that immediately distinguishes Butterfly from many of its contemporaries. Each frame feels like a living canvas, with brushstrokes that swirl and transform as the story moves through time. The images often bleed into one another in fluid transitions, mimicking the motion of water and reinforcing the central motif that runs throughout the film. It is an inspired aesthetic choice, one that allows the animation to capture both the beauty of Nakache’s early life and the darkness of the world that eventually engulfs him.
The visual design also mirrors the fragmented nature of memory. Moments from Nakache’s childhood, athletic achievements, and wartime suffering blend in painterly layers, creating the sense that his life is unfolding through recollection rather than strict chronology. Water becomes a powerful recurring symbol, representing freedom, survival, and ultimately a refuge from trauma. Even in the film’s bleakest passages, the imagery retains a delicate sense of movement and grace.
What makes Butterfly particularly impressive is how effectively it condenses such an expansive life story into a brief runtime without feeling rushed. The film moves briskly through major historical events, yet it never loses sight of the emotional core of Nakache’s journey. The final moments, which show him returning to the Olympic pool after everything he endured, land with quiet but undeniable power.
In just fifteen minutes, Butterfly delivers a poignant meditation on resilience and remembrance. It serves not only as a tribute to an extraordinary athlete but also as a reminder that even in the darkest chapters of history, the human spirit can find ways to endure and, remarkably, rise again.
Forevergreen
Set deep within a quiet forest, Forevergreen tells a gentle fable about companionship, growth, and the complicated path toward maturity. The short follows a young orphaned bear cub who finds unexpected refuge beside a towering evergreen tree that becomes both shelter and silent guardian. As the cub grows beneath its protective branches, the tree serves as a constant presence, offering shade, safety, and a steady home within the wilderness.
Over time, however, the curious bear begins to wander farther from the forest’s natural rhythms. Drawn toward the strange allure of human leftovers, particularly sugary junk food discarded by careless visitors, the cub develops habits that place him in danger. What begins as innocent curiosity gradually spirals into reckless behaviour, forcing the bear to confront the consequences of his choices while testing the quiet bond he shares with the tree that raised him.
Directors Nathan Engelhardt and Jeremy Spears present this story without a single line of dialogue, relying entirely on expressive animation and music to communicate the emotional beats. The absence of spoken words proves to be one of the film’s most effective storytelling tools. Character emotions are conveyed through subtle body language and carefully staged moments of interaction, allowing the audience to intuit the evolving relationship between the cub and the tree. The result is a short that feels almost universally accessible, its themes easily understood across cultures and age groups.
Visually, Forevergreen boasts a distinctive style that sets it apart from more polished, glossy computer animation. The characters and environments carry a tactile quality that resembles hand-carved wooden figures or handcrafted toys placed within a storybook forest. The textures of bark, foliage, and earth are rendered with warmth and depth, creating a world that feels inviting and intimate. Seasonal changes within the forest are particularly striking, with shifts in colour and lighting quietly marking the passage of time as the cub matures.
The film’s central message about temptation and responsibility lands with emotional sincerity, especially in its later moments when the consequences of the bear’s actions become impossible to ignore. There is a bittersweet quality to the narrative that echoes classic moral fables, reminding viewers that growth often comes with mistakes and that love sometimes involves sacrifice.
At times, however, the story leans a little too heavily on familiar territory. The relationship between the bear and the tree invites clear comparisons to other well-known tales about selfless guardianship, and some of the narrative turns feel predictable once the central metaphor becomes apparent. Because the runtime is so brief, the film occasionally moves through its emotional developments quite quickly, leaving certain moments that might have benefited from additional breathing room.
Even so, Forevergreen remains a heartfelt and visually charming piece of animation. In a little over a dozen minutes, it manages to craft a touching story about growing up, the pull of temptation, and the enduring power of unconditional care.
The Girl Who Cried Pearls
Set in a shadowy corner of early twentieth-century Montreal, The Girl Who Cried Pearls unfolds like a dark fairy tale passed down through generations. The story centres on a young boy growing up in poverty who encounters a mysterious girl with a remarkable and unsettling gift. Whenever she cries, her tears transform into luminous pearls. At first, the phenomenon feels almost magical, a strange curiosity that seems capable of changing both of their fortunes.
Seeing an opportunity to escape his difficult circumstances, the boy begins collecting the pearls and selling them to a greedy pawnbroker who quickly becomes obsessed with their value. What begins as a fragile arrangement slowly evolves into something more troubling, as the demand for pearls grows and the emotional cost of producing them becomes impossible to ignore. The boy soon finds himself confronting an uncomfortable moral dilemma, forced to decide whether wealth is worth the suffering that fuels it.
Directors Chris Lavis and Maciek Szczerbowski bring this eerie fable to life through exquisitely crafted stop-motion animation that immediately captures the eye. The film’s miniature sets and puppets possess a rich, tactile quality that feels lovingly handmade, with narrow streets, dimly lit interiors, and icy waterfronts creating an atmospheric portrait of the city. Every surface appears textured and tangible, giving the world a storybook quality that perfectly complements the film’s mythic tone.
Particularly striking are the pearls themselves, which shimmer against the film’s darker palette like small bursts of fragile beauty. Their luminous glow contrasts sharply with the grim environments surrounding the characters, reinforcing the film’s central theme about the seductive power of wealth. The filmmakers also make excellent use of lighting and shadow, creating an atmosphere that feels both whimsical and faintly unsettling.
Narratively, the short unfolds through a layered storytelling structure that frames the tale as a story passed down between generations. This device lends the film an added sense of mystery, blurring the line between legend and memory while inviting the audience to reflect on how stories themselves shape the meaning we assign to events.
At times, however, the film’s narrative ambitions slightly outpace its runtime. The framing device and late developments introduce intriguing ideas but can feel somewhat compressed within the short’s limited duration. Similarly, the deliberately stylised puppet designs, with their rigid expressions and haunting eyes, may strike some viewers as more eerie than enchanting.
Even with these minor limitations, The Girl Who Cried Pearls remains a haunting and visually captivating piece of animation. Blending gothic fairy-tale sensibilities with thoughtful moral reflection, the film offers a quietly powerful meditation on greed, innocence, and the emotional price of turning suffering into treasure.
Retirement Plan
Retirement Plan centres on Ray, an ordinary middle-aged man who spends his working days imagining the life that will finally begin once he retires. While stuck in the routines of his job, he daydreams about all the things he will eventually have time to pursue. The list grows longer and longer, filled with creative ambitions, personal goals, and countless small pleasures that he promises himself will happen once work is no longer standing in the way.
As the years pass, Ray continues adding to this mental catalogue of plans. There will be books to write, skills to learn, projects to complete, and long-deferred dreams finally brought to life. Yet the passage of time slowly reshapes those expectations, forcing Ray to confront the quiet realisation that life does not always unfold according to the schedules we imagine. What begins as a hopeful vision of the future gradually evolves into a gentle meditation on time, ambition, and the delicate balance between planning a life and actually living it.
Director John Kelly approaches this universal idea with admirable simplicity, crafting a short that feels both playful and quietly profound. The film’s animation style is deliberately understated, relying on clean lines and expressive character movement rather than elaborate visual spectacle. This restraint proves surprisingly effective, allowing the audience to focus squarely on Ray’s internal journey as his ambitions and anxieties begin to collide.
The storytelling unfolds almost like a visual essay about the human tendency to postpone joy. Ray’s list of future achievements grows comically ambitious at times, creating moments of humour that many viewers will instantly recognise in their own lives. Who has not created a mental inventory of books to read, hobbies to master, or personal reinventions to attempt once there is finally enough time?
Domhnall Gleeson’s narration plays a crucial role in establishing the film’s emotional tone. His warm, reflective voice strikes a careful balance between gentle comedy and quiet melancholy, guiding the audience through Ray’s shifting perspective as the years move forward. The delivery never feels heavy-handed, instead allowing the film’s deeper reflections about time and mortality to emerge naturally.
If the film has a minor limitation, it lies in the familiarity of its central idea. The notion that life should not be endlessly postponed has appeared in many stories before, and the film does not necessarily reinvent that message. What Retirement Plan does exceptionally well, however, is present that truth with clarity, sincerity, and a touch of wit.
By the time the film reaches its closing moments, it leaves viewers with a simple but resonant reminder. The life we imagine for tomorrow has a habit of quietly slipping into today, and the most meaningful plans are often the ones we begin before the clock runs out.
The Three Sisters
On a tiny, windswept island far removed from the bustle of the outside world, The Three Sisters introduces three elderly women who have spent years living in quiet, predictable harmony. Each sister occupies her own modest home, their daily routines unfolding with comforting familiarity as they pass the time together in gentle isolation. Life on the island moves slowly, shaped by the rhythms of the sea and the companionship the sisters share.
That fragile balance shifts when financial necessity forces them to rent one of their houses to a visiting sailor. The newcomer’s arrival injects an unexpected spark of excitement into their otherwise uneventful lives. What begins as polite curiosity soon transforms into playful competition as each sister finds herself vying for the sailor’s attention. Small gestures grow into increasingly determined attempts to impress their guest, turning the once peaceful household dynamic into a quietly absurd romantic rivalry.
Director Konstantin Bronzit approaches this premise with a light comedic touch that allows the humour to emerge naturally from the characters’ behaviour. Rather than relying on dialogue-heavy exchanges, much of the film’s charm comes from visual storytelling and expressive animation. The sisters’ reactions, awkward flirtations, and occasional moments of jealousy unfold through carefully timed gestures and exaggerated expressions, giving the short a sense of playful physical comedy.
The film’s hand-drawn animation style reinforces this approach beautifully. Bronzit opts for a clean and uncluttered visual design, allowing the characters’ movements and personalities to take centre stage. The island itself is rendered with simple yet appealing details that emphasise the sisters’ isolation, making the arrival of an outsider feel all the more disruptive. There is a warmth to the animation that complements the film’s gentle humour, creating an atmosphere that feels both cosy and faintly mischievous.
One of the short’s most enjoyable qualities is its willingness to find comedy in unexpected places. Romantic rivalry is typically the domain of younger characters in storytelling, yet The Three Sisters embraces the absurdity of late-life infatuation with affectionate humour. Watching the women rediscover a sense of competitiveness and vanity in pursuit of the sailor adds an amusing twist to the familiar trope of love triangles.
The film’s simplicity, however, may leave some viewers wishing for slightly deeper character exploration. The narrative remains focused on the central gag of the sisters’ rivalry, which means the story functions more as a charming comic vignette than a fully developed emotional journey. Similarly, while the animation is polished and appealing, it does not reach the same level of visual ambition as some of the other nominees in this category.
Still, The Three Sisters succeeds as a breezy and entertaining short that celebrates character-driven humour. In its brief runtime, it crafts a delightful portrait of loneliness, rivalry, and the surprising ways affection can disrupt even the most settled routines.
Will win: Butterfly
The emotional sweep of Alfred Nakache’s story, combined with its breathtaking hand-painted animation, makes it the most likely contender.
Could win: Retirement Plan
Its quietly universal reflection on time, ambition, and the dreams people postpone until later in life may resonate strongly with voters drawn to its simple, poignant storytelling.
BEST LIVE ACTION SHORT FILM
The live action nominees present perhaps the widest tonal spectrum in the entire lineup. Some tackle deeply political subjects, others explore quiet human relationships, and one entry stands apart as a delightfully outrageous comedy. Together, they showcase how much narrative ambition can be packed into a limited runtime.
Butcher’s Stain
Set in Tel Aviv in the uneasy months following the October 7, 2023, Hamas attacks, Butcher’s Stain follows Samir (Omar Sameer), an Arab Israeli man working a low-paying job at a local supermarket. Life has already placed him in a precarious position. He is a divorced father trying to make ends meet, quietly navigating a workplace where tensions simmer just beneath the surface. The fragile normalcy of his routine is disrupted when posters bearing the faces of Israeli hostages taken during the attacks are placed in the staff break room, becoming a visible reminder of the country’s ongoing trauma.
When those posters are suddenly torn down, suspicion quickly spreads among the employees. Before long, attention turns toward Samir. With little evidence and plenty of assumptions, he becomes the primary target of the accusation. What begins as an uncomfortable misunderstanding soon threatens his livelihood, forcing him into an impossible position where defending his innocence may not be enough to protect him from the consequences of suspicion.
Director Meyer Levinson-Blount approaches the story with an understated realism that proves to be one of the film’s greatest strengths. Rather than constructing a conventional thriller built on explosive confrontations, the tension here unfolds through subtle shifts in behaviour. Conversations become slightly colder, glances linger a little longer than usual, and the atmosphere inside the supermarket gradually grows more uncomfortable. The setting itself, a mundane workplace filled with fluorescent lighting and routine tasks, reinforces how easily political tensions can seep into everyday life.
Sameer anchors the film with a quiet and deeply controlled performance as Samir. He portrays the character as a man determined to maintain his dignity even as the ground beneath him begins to shift. Much of the film’s emotional power comes from the restrained way Sameer conveys Samir’s anxiety and frustration, often through silence rather than overt displays of emotion. The audience is invited to sit with the character’s discomfort as the accusations gather momentum.
What makes Butcher’s Stain particularly compelling is its refusal to provide simple answers. The film presents a scenario shaped by fear, grief, and political division, where assumptions can easily replace facts. By focusing on a single workplace conflict, it quietly illustrates how broader social tensions ripple into the most ordinary corners of daily life.
If there is a limitation, it lies in the film’s deliberate restraint. Some viewers may wish the narrative pushed its dramatic stakes further or explored the surrounding characters in greater depth. Yet the film’s controlled approach also gives it a haunting authenticity.
In the end, Butcher’s Stain emerges as a thoughtful and unsettling character study about suspicion and vulnerability. It captures the uneasy reality of living in a moment when politics and personal identity can collide in ways that feel both deeply unfair and frighteningly plausible.
(Available on kanopy)
A Friend of Dorothy
In a quiet corner of suburban Britain, A Friend of Dorothy introduces Dorothy (Miriam Margoyles), an elderly widow whose days unfold with the familiar rhythms of solitude. Her routine consists of crossword puzzles, medication schedules, and long stretches of silence inside a home that feels increasingly empty. Though age has slowed her body, her mind remains lively, and beneath her sharp wit lies a lingering sense of loneliness that has settled over her later years.
Dorothy’s carefully ordered world changes when JJ (Alistair Nwachukwu), a teenage neighbour, accidentally kicks his football into her garden. What begins as a brief and slightly awkward interaction gradually blossoms into an unlikely friendship between two people separated by decades of life experience. As their connection deepens, Dorothy becomes both confidant and mentor, encouraging JJ’s budding interest in theatre and helping him find confidence in expressing himself. In return, JJ brings fresh energy and companionship into Dorothy’s quiet life.
Director Lee Knight approaches this story with a gentle touch that allows the emotional core of the film to emerge naturally rather than through overt sentimentality. The narrative unfolds through small, intimate moments between the two characters, building a relationship that feels authentic and deeply human. Their conversations are often playful and warm, yet they also carry a quiet undercurrent of vulnerability as both characters reveal pieces of themselves they might otherwise keep hidden.
At the centre of the film is a wonderful performance from Margolyes, who brings Dorothy to life with warmth, humour, and an unmistakable sense of personality. Margolyes captures the character’s sharp tongue and mischievous spirit while also allowing glimpses of the loneliness and fragility that accompany her later years. It is a performance that feels lived in rather than performed, full of subtle gestures and expressions that give Dorothy remarkable depth.
Equally impressive is Nwachukwu as JJ, whose natural and thoughtful performance anchors the film’s emotional journey. Nwachukwu portrays the character with a quiet sincerity that makes his growing bond with Dorothy feel completely believable. The chemistry between the two actors becomes the beating heart of the film, turning what could have been a simple premise into something genuinely touching.
The short’s title carries an additional layer of meaning rooted in LGBTQ+ history, referencing the coded phrase “friend of Dorothy” once used by gay men to discreetly identify one another. Without becoming overly didactic, the film gently weaves this legacy into its story, celebrating the importance of mentorship, acceptance, and safe spaces for younger generations discovering who they are.
If the film occasionally edges toward familiar territory in its storytelling, the sincerity of its performances ensures the emotional impact remains genuine. A Friend of Dorothy ultimately succeeds as a tender portrait of companionship, reminding viewers that meaningful connections can appear in the most unexpected places.
Jane Austen’s Period Drama
Set in the genteel world of Regency England, Jane Austen’s Period Drama begins with all the familiar ingredients of a classic literary romance. Miss Estrogenia Talbot (Julia Aks) awaits a long-anticipated marriage proposal from the earnest Mr. Dickley (Ta’imua), the kind of carefully orchestrated courtship moment that might easily have stepped out of the pages of a Jane Austen novel. The setting, complete with elegant costumes, manicured gardens, and delicately formal dialogue, appears perfectly poised for a swooning declaration of love.
The proposal, however, takes an unexpected turn when Estrogenia suddenly begins menstruating mid-conversation. Mistaking the situation for a medical emergency, the alarmed Mr. Dickley rushes off in search of assistance, leaving Estrogenia and her family scrambling to decide how to salvage the situation. While her relatives suggest maintaining the misunderstanding to secure the engagement, Estrogenia instead chooses a far more radical approach. Determined to be honest, she prepares to calmly explain the realities of menstruation to her deeply confused suitor.
Directors Julia Aks and Steve Pinder lean wholeheartedly into the film’s mischievous premise, crafting a genuinely hilarious and sharp satire that gleefully punctures the rigid etiquette of Regency romance. The film cleverly plays with the conventions of Austen-style storytelling, from its exaggeratedly polite dialogue to its tightly structured social rituals. By inserting a frank conversation about menstruation into this meticulously recreated world, the short exposes the absurdity of historical taboos surrounding women’s bodies.
One of the film’s greatest pleasures lies in how sincerely it commits to the aesthetic of a traditional period drama. The costumes, production design, and cinematography all convincingly evoke the visual language of classic literary adaptations. That authenticity makes the central joke land even harder, as the characters deliver increasingly awkward biological explanations while maintaining the composure and vocabulary of nineteenth-century courtship.
Aks anchors the film with a wonderfully committed performance as Estrogenia, balancing the character’s dignity with the growing absurdity of the situation. Her calm determination to speak plainly about something society insists on treating as unspeakable becomes the engine of the film’s humour. The surrounding cast match her energy perfectly, playing every moment with absolute sincerity, which only heightens the comedic effect.
What also makes Jane Austen’s Period Drama stand out within this year’s Oscar lineup is its unabashed embrace of comedy. The Academy’s short film nominees often lean toward weighty themes and sombre storytelling, making this playful satire feel refreshingly different. It is a rare example of a pure comedy competing in the category, and its willingness to be openly silly becomes part of its charm.
The film’s premise is admittedly built around a single central joke, and the narrative rarely strays far from that initial idea. Yet the filmmakers extract plenty of mileage from the concept through clever dialogue and precise comedic timing.
By the time the short reaches its conclusion, Jane Austen’s Period Drama has delivered a cheeky and delightfully irreverent send-up of period romance. It may not carry the emotional gravity of some of the other nominees, but its wit, confidence, and refreshing comedic spirit make it an unforgettable entry in the lineup.
The Singers
Inside a modest, slightly worn neighbourhood bar, The Singers begins with the kind of scene that feels instantly familiar. A handful of regulars sit nursing drinks while conversation drifts between jokes, complaints, and casual storytelling. The relaxed atmosphere shifts when one particularly loud patron begins boasting about his abilities, pestering others in the room and demanding attention. Eventually, the bartender proposes a challenge to settle the matter once and for all. If the man believes he can impress the crowd, he will have to prove it in a singing contest against another regular.
What begins as a playful barroom wager quickly grows into something larger. One by one, patrons begin stepping forward to take their turn at the informal stage. Each performance reveals something unexpected about the people gathered in the room. Beneath the swagger, sarcasm, and casual bravado of the bar’s atmosphere lies a surprising well of musical talent. As voices fill the smoky space, the mood gradually shifts from drunken competition to something more reflective and communal.
Director Sam A. Davis captures this transformation with an approach that leans heavily on naturalism. The film unfolds almost entirely within the bar, allowing the performances themselves to become the driving force of the story. Rather than constructing a complex narrative, the short builds momentum through the emotional impact of each song. What begins as a humorous contest slowly reveals deeper layers of vulnerability as the men behind the performances begin to expose pieces of themselves through music.
One of the film’s most compelling elements is its commitment to authenticity. Many of the performers were discovered through online videos and street performances rather than traditional casting channels, and that choice gives the film an immediacy that feels refreshingly unpolished. The singing is not presented as slick or overly produced. Instead, the voices carry the raw energy of live performance, which makes each moment feel spontaneous and genuine.
The decision to record the music live on set further enhances that realism. As the room grows quieter and the audience leans in to listen, the film allows the tension and emotional resonance of the songs to unfold naturally. Some performances are playful, others unexpectedly moving, but together they transform the bar into a space where strangers briefly connect through shared emotion.
By the time the final notes fade, The Singers becomes less about winning a competition and more about the quiet power of music to break down barriers. What begins as a rowdy night in a dive bar ultimately reveals a surprisingly tender portrait of connection, vulnerability, and the hidden artistry that can exist in the most unexpected places.
(Available on Netflix)
Two People Exchanging Saliva
In a strange and unsettling vision of Paris, Two People Exchanging Saliva imagines a society where the most ordinary forms of intimacy have been outlawed. Within this peculiar dystopia, kissing is considered an obscene and criminal act punishable by death. The cultural response to this ban has reshaped everyday life in bizarre ways. People deliberately avoid brushing their teeth and consume pungent foods like garlic to discourage closeness, while social interactions are governed by odd rituals designed to keep genuine intimacy firmly at bay.
At the centre of this unusual tale is Malaise (Luàna Bajrami), a young shop assistant working in an upscale department store. Her quiet routine changes when she repeatedly encounters Angine (Zar Amir Ebrahimi), a wealthy customer whose dissatisfaction with her privileged life is difficult to conceal. As the two women cross paths during a series of encounters in the store, a curious connection begins to form between them. Yet in a society where even the smallest display of affection is considered dangerous, their growing attraction becomes an act of quiet rebellion.
Directors Alexandre Singh and Natalie Musteata construct their story with a bold sense of imagination, creating a world that feels both absurd and oddly convincing. The film’s central premise is undeniably strange, yet it operates as an effective metaphor for societies that attempt to regulate human desire through rigid moral codes. By turning something as simple as a kiss into a forbidden act, the film explores how repression often finds expression through other, more destructive behaviours.
Visually, the short embraces a stark black-and-white aesthetic that enhances its surreal atmosphere. The carefully composed images of Parisian streets and department store interiors create a world that feels both elegant and faintly nightmarish. The contrast between the city’s refined settings and the bizarre social rules governing its inhabitants adds to the film’s unsettling tone.
The performances at the centre of the story provide an important grounding force. Bajrami’s portrayal of Malaise captures a character quietly navigating a system she does not entirely understand, while Amir Ebrahimi brings a magnetic presence to Angine, whose curiosity about the forbidden world of intimacy slowly draws the two women closer together. Their restrained chemistry helps anchor the film’s more surreal ideas in genuine emotion.
At times, the film’s abstract storytelling may leave viewers searching for sharper narrative direction. The allegorical nature of the world-building means that certain elements remain intentionally ambiguous, which can make the story feel more like a philosophical fable than a traditional drama.
Yet this ambiguity is also part of the film’s fascination. Two People Exchanging Saliva stands out as one of the most unusual entries in the category, offering a provocative and visually striking meditation on desire, repression, and the strange ways societies attempt to control human connection.
Will win: The Singers
Its emotionally uplifting celebration of music and human connection could strike a powerful chord with voters looking for a film that leaves audiences inspired.
Could win: Two People Exchanging Saliva
Its striking dystopian world-building and bold visual style make it one of the most distinctive films in the category.
BEST DOCUMENTARY SHORT FILM
This year’s documentary nominees tackle some of the most emotionally powerful subject matter in the entire lineup. From the lingering grief left by school shootings to the personal risks faced by journalists and activists confronting war and political division, these films demonstrate the ability of documentary filmmaking to illuminate the human stories behind global events.
All the Empty Rooms
All the Empty Rooms approaches the tragedy of school shootings from a deeply personal and quietly devastating perspective. The documentary follows veteran journalist Steve Hartman and photographer Lou Bopp as they travel across the United States, visiting the homes of families who have lost children to gun violence at school. Rather than focusing on the events of the shootings themselves, the film centres on the bedrooms the victims left behind, spaces that many parents have chosen to preserve exactly as they were.
Inside these rooms, time appears frozen. Stuffed animals sit carefully arranged on beds, posters still decorate bedroom walls, and school projects remain scattered across desks. These ordinary objects form intimate portraits of children whose lives were cut tragically short. Through these preserved spaces, the documentary introduces viewers to young people like Dominic Blackwell, Hallie Scruggs, Jackie Cazares, and Gracie Muehlberger, transforming them from distant headlines into vividly remembered individuals.
Director Joshua Seftel builds the film around a concept that is both simple and extraordinarily powerful. By focusing on the physical spaces where these children once lived, the documentary avoids sensational imagery and instead allows absence to speak for itself. The quiet stillness of the bedrooms becomes the film’s most haunting visual motif. Every object carries emotional weight, each one a small reminder of the life that once filled the room.
The film’s strength lies in its restraint. Rather than constructing a conventional investigative documentary, All the Empty Rooms functions more like a meditation on grief and memory. Parents reflect on the personalities and dreams of their children while the camera lingers on the personal details scattered throughout the rooms. Friendship bracelets, school trophies, and handwritten notes quietly convey the individuality of the children who once occupied these spaces.
This approach humanises a crisis that is often discussed in abstract numbers. By concentrating on the lives that were lost rather than the perpetrators responsible for the violence, the documentary reframes the conversation around remembrance and empathy. It encourages viewers to see the victims not as statistics but as children with hobbies, aspirations, and futures that never had the chance to unfold.
At times, the film’s emotional intensity can be overwhelming. The accumulation of stories and images of preserved bedrooms creates an atmosphere of profound sorrow that may be difficult for some viewers to process. The documentary also deliberately avoids entering into broader political debates about gun policy, choosing instead to remain focused on the human cost of these tragedies.
Yet this restraint ultimately gives All the Empty Rooms its quiet power. By allowing grief to take centre stage, the film creates a deeply affecting portrait of loss and remembrance. The empty rooms themselves become memorials, silent but eloquent reminders of lives that should have continued far beyond childhood.
(Available on Netflix)
Armed Only with a Camera: The Life and Death of Brent Renaud
Armed Only with a Camera: The Life and Death of Brent Renaud traces the remarkable career of the American journalist and documentary filmmaker whose work brought global attention to the human cost of conflict. Over the course of two decades, Renaud reported from some of the world’s most volatile regions, covering wars, humanitarian crises, and the lives of civilians caught in the crossfire. Rather than focusing on military strategy or political rhetoric, his work consistently centred on ordinary people struggling to survive amid extraordinary upheaval.
The film follows Renaud’s journey across assignments in places such as Afghanistan, Iraq, Haiti, and Central America before arriving at the final chapter of his life. In early 2022, he travelled to Ukraine to document the experiences of refugees fleeing the Russian invasion. While filming civilians attempting to escape the besieged city of Irpin, Renaud was fatally shot by Russian forces, becoming the first American journalist killed while covering the war. The documentary reflects on both his final assignment and the body of work he left behind.
What gives the film its emotional resonance is the perspective from which it is told. The documentary is completed by Brent’s brother and longtime filmmaking partner Craig Renaud, who spent much of his career working alongside him. This personal connection lends the film an intimate tone, transforming it from a conventional biographical documentary into something closer to a tribute. Through interviews, archival footage, and reflections from colleagues and loved ones, the film builds a portrait of a journalist deeply committed to telling stories that might otherwise go unheard.
One of the documentary’s most compelling elements is the extensive use of Brent’s own footage from the field. These images offer powerful glimpses into the environments he reported from and the people whose lives he documented. Families displaced by war, communities rebuilding after devastation, and civilians navigating the chaos of conflict all appear within his lens, reinforcing the idea that his work was driven by empathy rather than spectacle.
The film also raises broader questions about the risks journalists accept when covering dangerous events. Renaud believed strongly in the responsibility of reporters to bear witness to injustice, even when doing so required entering environments where safety could never be guaranteed. The documentary quietly explores that commitment, asking viewers to consider the cost of telling stories from the front lines.
At times, the film’s deeply personal perspective may feel more reflective than analytical, leaning toward tribute rather than investigative examination. Yet that emotional closeness is also what gives the documentary its sincerity.
Ultimately, Armed Only with a Camera stands as both a memorial and a reminder of the vital role journalists play in documenting the realities of war. Renaud’s work lives on through the images and stories he captured, ensuring that the people he filmed continue to be seen and remembered.
(Available on HBO Max)
Children No More: “Were and Are Gone”
Children No More: “Were and Are Gone” documents a quiet but deeply provocative act of public mourning taking place in the heart of Tel Aviv. Each week, a small group of activists gathers in a city square holding photographs of Palestinian children killed in Gaza. Beneath each portrait appears a simple inscription listing the child’s name, age, and date of death alongside the stark words “was and is no more.” The participants stand silently in a line, allowing the images themselves to speak.
What begins as a modest vigil gradually grows into something larger. As more people join the gathering, the demonstration draws the attention of passersby whose reactions range from quiet sympathy to open hostility. Some stop to read the names and offer words of support, while others confront the participants with anger or accusations. The square becomes a space where grief, politics, and public memory collide in unpredictable ways.
Director Hilla Medalia adopts a restrained observational style that allows the events to unfold with minimal interference. The camera watches as the participants stand silently with the photographs, capturing the stillness of the vigil as well as the shifting reactions of the surrounding crowd. This approach gives the film an immediacy that places viewers directly within the public space, allowing them to witness the emotional complexity of the moment.
One of the documentary’s most striking choices is its reliance on silence. Unlike many forms of protest that rely on chants or speeches, this vigil communicates through quiet presence alone. The stillness becomes its own kind of statement, forcing observers to confront the faces of the children and the uncomfortable questions their images raise. The simplicity of the gesture proves to be remarkably powerful, creating a visual tableau that lingers long after the film ends.
At the same time, the documentary reveals the deep social tensions surrounding the conflict. The varied reactions from passersby reflect a society grappling with competing narratives of grief and responsibility. Supportive voices mingle with expressions of anger and denial, illustrating how profoundly divided public opinion can be.
Because the film focuses so closely on the vigil itself, it offers limited context about the broader historical and political circumstances surrounding the conflict. Some viewers may wish for a wider exploration of those complexities. Yet the documentary’s narrow focus also allows it to concentrate on a single, emotionally resonant act of remembrance.
Ultimately, Children No More: “Were and Are Gone” functions as a meditation on mourning in a politically charged landscape. Through its quiet imagery and restrained storytelling, the film invites viewers to reflect on the human lives behind the headlines, reminding us that the cost of war is measured not only in statistics but in the faces of children who will never grow older.
The Devil Is Busy
The Devil Is Busy takes viewers inside an abortion clinic in Atlanta, Georgia, during a period when reproductive healthcare across the United States has been dramatically reshaped by new legal restrictions. In the wake of the Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe v. Wade, Georgia’s “heartbeat law” now bans most abortions after roughly six weeks of pregnancy, creating a narrow window in which clinics are legally allowed to provide care. Against this tense backdrop, the film follows the staff of one clinic as they attempt to navigate the daily realities of operating under these constraints.
Over the course of a single day, the documentary observes the people who keep the clinic running. Phones ring constantly as patients seek information and appointments, security personnel monitor the building’s entrance while protesters gather outside, and doctors work within a rapidly changing legal framework that often leaves them unable to help everyone who walks through the door. Some patients arrive already outside the legal timeframe, leaving staff with the heartbreaking task of explaining that the procedure they need can no longer be performed in the state.
Directors Geeta Gandbhir and Christalyn Hampton adopt a quiet observational style that places the audience directly inside the clinic. Rather than relying heavily on narration or political commentary, the film allows the day’s events to unfold naturally. Conversations between staff members, phone calls with anxious patients, and moments of exhaustion between appointments gradually build a portrait of people working in an environment shaped by constant pressure.
At the centre of the documentary is Tracy, the clinic’s operations manager, whose steady presence provides the film with a clear emotional anchor. Tracy moves between responsibilities with remarkable composure, coordinating security concerns, supporting staff members, and attempting to ensure patients are treated with dignity during extremely stressful circumstances. Her compassion and determination quietly drive the narrative, offering a human face to a situation often discussed in abstract political terms.
One of the film’s most compelling aspects is the contrast between the tense atmosphere outside the clinic and the empathy displayed within it. While religious demonstrators protest loudly beyond the building’s doors, the staff inside focus on helping patients navigate complicated decisions and limited options. The documentary repeatedly emphasises the emotional labour involved in this work, showing how the clinic’s employees absorb the anxiety and grief of those seeking care.
Because the film concentrates on a single location and a relatively short timeframe, it does not delve deeply into the broader political debate surrounding abortion policy. Yet this narrow focus also allows The Devil Is Busy to highlight the human realities behind those policies.
By centring its story on the people working inside the clinic, the documentary offers a thoughtful and intimate look at compassion under pressure. It is less a political argument than a portrait of individuals striving to provide care and dignity in the midst of one of the most polarising issues in modern American life.
(Available on HBO Max)
Perfectly a Strangeness
Set against the vast, sun-bleached landscapes of Chile’s Atacama Desert, Perfectly a Strangeness offers one of the most unusual perspectives in this year’s documentary short lineup. Filmed near the La Silla Observatory, a site where astronomers peer deep into the cosmos through powerful telescopes, the film follows an unlikely trio of explorers. Three donkeys wander freely through the surrounding terrain, slowly making their way across rocky hillsides and desert paths that weave around the observatory’s towering domes and scientific equipment.
As the animals move through this stark environment, they encounter the strange machinery humans have built in their attempt to understand the universe. Telescope domes open and rotate, mechanical structures hum quietly in the background, and the desert sky stretches endlessly above them. The donkeys pause, observe, and continue their wandering journey, becoming silent witnesses to humanity’s quest to look far beyond the planet they themselves inhabit.
Director Alison McAlpine constructs the film with an intentionally minimalist approach that strips documentary storytelling down to its most basic elements. There is no narration to guide the viewer, no interviews explaining the scientific work taking place at the observatory, and no dialogue to clarify the film’s purpose. Instead, the documentary unfolds almost entirely through imagery and sound, allowing the landscape and the animals’ movements to carry the narrative.
The result is a hypnotic viewing experience that feels closer to visual poetry than traditional nonfiction filmmaking. McAlpine’s cinematography captures the desert with breathtaking clarity, emphasising the immense scale of the landscape and the quiet rhythms of the natural world. Against this backdrop, the observatory’s futuristic structures appear almost alien, as though the donkeys have stumbled upon remnants of some mysterious technological civilisation.
What makes the film particularly fascinating is the perspective it encourages viewers to adopt. By focusing on the donkeys as they wander through the observatory grounds, the documentary invites us to imagine how these animals might perceive the strange machines designed to study the stars. The contrast between their simple presence and the sophisticated technology surrounding them creates a quietly philosophical reflection on humanity’s place within the universe.
At times, the film’s abstract approach may leave some viewers searching for a clearer narrative direction. Those expecting a traditional documentary filled with explanations or interviews may find the experience deliberately elusive. Yet this ambiguity is also part of the film’s appeal.
Perfectly a Strangeness stands as one of the most visually distinctive and contemplative entries in the category. By blending natural observation with cosmic imagery, it creates a meditative exploration of curiosity, perspective, and the strange beauty of a world where donkeys and telescopes share the same desert horizon.
(Available on HBO Max)
Will win: All the Empty Rooms
Its devastating concept and deeply human approach to the victims of school shootings make it one of the most emotionally resonant films of the entire Oscars lineup.
Could win: The Devil Is Busy
Its intimate look at healthcare workers navigating the fallout of the post-Roe landscape offers a timely and human portrait of one of the most important issues in modern America.
