Mumblegore became prominent in the genre at a pivotal time in my life. This niche subgenre of horror made its way into my life when a pre-film school Brendan received a copy of Ti West’s The Innkeepers. Little did I know, this would start an obsession with a singular subgenre that would last for years to come, influencing how I would look at film for the rest of my life. Something about the naturalistic dialogue, grounded plots, realistic characters, and simple storytelling done well just checked all the right boxes. While the past few years have not been absent of mumblegore films, especially when a good portion of your life is spent watching festival films, the subgenre has seemed to take a backseat to more popular subgenres. Within the first five minutes of Sweet Relief, I knew mumblegore was back on the menu.

A town in New England is rocked by grief, tragedy, and bloodshed. A viral internet challenge, Sweet Angel, has townspeople on edge. Children are going missing at the hands of a serial killer. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. One woman’s quest to find the truth will find the ties that bind these terrible crimes. Can the day be saved before it’s too late?

What I find most fascinating about mumblegore/core is pacing. If you look at Ti West’s The Innkeepers, you know exactly what I mean. Long, continuous takes of nothing have shaped the genre into what is now considered art-house horror. Sweet Relief is no exception to unique pacing. In this subgenre, pacing goes hand in hand with the acting. Forcing your audience to sit through five minutes of a one-shot scene with unscripted dialogue only works if the improvisation can be delivered competently and professionally. There is a gentle balance between realistic film conversations and the conversations we have in real life.

Sweet Relief’s biggest issue comes from that very aspect. Now, it should be stated, that I have no clue if writer/director Nick Verdi allowed his actors to riff. If everything said in this film was scripted, then yikes. The Tarantino amount of F-bombs feels unbelievably forced and comes off as dialogue filler while the actors come up with the next thing they think their character would say. If long takes of community theater-level acting (this isn’t a slight, I was in community theater and directed community theater shows, and I love everyone I met along the way) is a possible turn-off for you, then Sweet Relief will fall incredibly flat for you.

Where Sweet Relief excels is in the overall story, some great kills, reasonable means of getting from point A to point Z, and long continuous shots of characters observing other characters. In fact, Sweet Relief would have heartily benefited from less dialogue and more observation. Watching one character stumble across the child killer disposing of a body in the woods and then following them for multiple minutes was captivating and thrilling. Then, the conversation afterward almost undoes all of the anxiety that had been built up. One thing I’ve realized about mumblegore is how it thrives off of structured chaos; Sweet Relief feels like sloppily structured chaos.

That being said, something about Sweet Relief made me feel nostalgic for my youth. I haven’t actively sought out any specific mumblegore films in a good while, but watching Sweet Relief gave me the same feeling I had when I watched The Innkeepers for the first time. It’s experiencing something you’ve seen before, only it was done in a way that most filmmakers wouldn’t dare to try and do. It takes a lot of guts to make a film like Sweet Relief. Knowing you’re actively going against the grain of what’s ‘in’ is a bold move, and I can’t help but give immense praise to Verdi for taking such a risk.

Sweet Relief is by no means an original film, but Verdi’s created a product that made me feel a way I haven’t in quite some time. Even if it isn’t the most original, you can bet you haven’t seen a festival film like this in a good while. For the Sweet Angel, I do NOT nominate Nick Verdi, and I eagerly anticipate whatever he comes out with next.

Before we jump right into this review, I should get something out of the way. There was a film at Chattanooga Film Festival that I enjoyed more than this one. But on all metrics, this film easily takes the cake as my best of the fest.

When you think of classic horror, what do you think of?

Some films that come to mind are Wait Until Dark, Don’t Look Now, and Psycho. These are films that tell their horrific tales effortlessly through brilliant camera work, incredible acting, and a complete knowledge of the craft. In my opinion, few films today fall under the category of future classics, films that our grandkids will look at as overly formative within the genre. What is it about these films of yore that seem so intangible for modern filmmakers? If you find yourself looking for that white whale, the needle in the haystack, then do I have a film for you.

Canvas follows the tumultuous relationship between sisters Marissa (Bridget Regan) and Eve (Joanne Kelly). Both are artists, only one is much more talented. Throughout their formative years, their father, Raymond (Samuel Roukin), pushed them to harsh extremes to elevate their art. However, Eve and Marissa took two very different lessons from their father. Eve is now a recluse, while Marissa seemingly has become a big-city artist. Things quickly go awry when Marissa takes a trip back to her familial home and injects herself back into Eve’s life.

Like most classics, the story of Canvas is straightforward. Two sisters with animosity toward each other reconnect; one sister has one plan for their father’s artwork, while the other has an entirely different idea. Twists and turns slowly unravel to reveal an even deeper mistrust and hatred. Canvas doesn’t let itself get bogged down by high concepts, rather it, itself, exists as a piece of art. It lets the audience inspect each frame, and each character’s action as if it were a painting. The frowns and forced smiles are strokes of paint that go against the grain, indicating a deeper analysis of each action.

The film hinges on the relationship between Marissa and Eve, meaning the brunt of the heavy lifting falls to Bridget Regan and Joanne Kelly (with some excellent supporting performances). Regan and Kelly are, to put it bluntly, brilliant actors. Seeing Melora Donoghue and Kimberly Stuckwisch draw such raw and authentic performances in their directorial feature debut is astounding. Donoghue and Stuckwisch feel like seasoned pros, and Canvas is their seventh or eighth feature film. Also, a huge shoutout must go to Samuel Roukin, who voices Ghost in Call of Duty, for an incredible performance.

Canvas is a piece that’s able to transport the viewer into a singular place and time. Part of this film’s beauty is from the beautiful collaboration between Melora Donoghue and Kimberly Stuckwisch and cinematographer Justin Hamilton. One of the many things this film does incredibly well is the transitions. I wish there were more transitions like this in film. Hamilton moves the camera seamlessly from the modern day to 20+ years ago when they were children. These in-camera transitions show a dedication to immersion and storytelling. There’s nothing wrong with cutting away to a flashback, but handling it as smoothly as they did in camera just adds that extra level of love and care that makes this film feel like a classic.

Canvas is a modern classic. Its emphasis on emotion stands strong against the gorgeous cinematography. This is a film that needs to be taught to filmmaking students. When you have a great story, an incredible cast, and a deep dedication to filmmaking, you don’t need a studio-sized budget. You don’t need over-the-top effects and gore. Canvas does what many films try to do but fail at. Its production value looks ten times what it probably cost. One thing is clear: Melora Donoghue and Kimberly Stuckwisch could direct paint drying, and I’d eat it up.