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The debut feature from Michelle Savill is a star vehicle for Ana Scotney.

When Millie (Ana Scotney) gets a fancy internship at a fancy New York architecture firm, she becomes the envy of her friends, school, and community. She gets featured in commercials and brochures for her school, her hair straightened out to something almost unrecognizable. She gets a spot on the local news as her best friend and rival, Carolyn (Jillian Nguyen), tries to reassess her own architecture work, which she believes Millie has copied. And she gets plastered on a huge billboard in the Wellington airport — where she’s secretly hiding out after forcing her way off her flight, panic-stricken and out thousands as she begins to craft an Instagram-worthy image of her new life in New York.

A lie spinning out of control is a solid comedy premise: The more Millie lies, the more she must continue lying to maintain her situation, concocting scenarios that start off clever and grow increasingly concerning. After editing herself into generic photos of Times Squares, Millie spends her dwindling dollars on bags of flour so she can roll around on gravel and create faux snow angels. Her posts seem to work on her peers, including Carolyn; one shot of Millie smiling, her face lit up only by her phone’s notifications of likes rolling in, is a delight both of lighting design and of character insight. As the film goes on and Millie runs out of places to hide, her actions grow more and more confusing: Why would she steal a camping tent from her parents’ backyard shed and hide in the woods rather than in the shed? Why would she sneak back into Carolyn’s house after a party she’d attended in a Daft Punk-like disguise? Millie isn’t some sociopath intent on deceiving her friends for the sake of it — she screwed up and she’s embarrassed. She avoids moving forward only because she can’t turn back time and stay on the plane. In the most ridiculous and untenable situation, Millie becomes a highly relatable protagonist.

Scotney carries the film, which played Berlinale last month before heading to SXSW, as a woman in self-imposed isolation, navigating anxiety, lackluster romance, and the crushing weight of unfulfilled expectations in a 100-minute sojourn. She revels in a sense of self-destruction that begets more bad decisions as if she is compelled by some outside force. “Sorry I’m such a disappointment,” she admits to her mother after she’s caught by the Airbnb guest staying at her family’s home. “We can’t all be appointments,” her mother says in returns, forcing Millie to listen to a tale of her father’s mental health struggles and how he ignored them for too long. Millie appears more upset by the panic attack she insists she didn’t have than by her elaborate schemes after the fact; whether this mental health stigma comes from her life and society in New Zealand or her family and culture, it’s deeply ingrained within her.

Less ingrained and less developed, however, is a plot involving Millie’s professor (Sam Cotton), a man projecting his premature mid-life crisis onto Millie’s romantic advances by having her role play as the wife who’s left him. The sequence comes toward the end of the film after the two have already had a previous awkward encounter, and feels out of place, like it was added to increase the run-time as Millie inched closer to the resolution of her problems. That resolution comes with a wakeup call on her most important relationships, including with her witless but determined boyfriend (Chris Alosio) and the family she’s tried to distance herself from. Director Michelle Savill wraps up the arrested development, coming-of-age cringe comedy in a moment of joy that spells big things for the first-time feature filmmaker.

A beguiling feature that uses structure and star-power to weave a compelling mystery

The Cow marks the feature writing/directorial debut of Eli Horowitz, co-creator of Homecoming (the podcast and Amazon series), alongside co-writer Matthew Derby. As you’d expect with such a pedigree, the film has an interesting, non-linear structure, weaving around a mystery that gets weirder as the film progresses.

Kath (Ryder) and her boyfriend of a year, Max (John Gallagher Jr.), setting off to the redwoods for the weekend. Arriving at the place Max booked, they find a chilly reception awaiting them in the form of Al (Owen Teague), a lanky 20-something who apparently also has a reservation. His girlfriend, Greta (Brianne Tju), is more amenable, inviting them to crash on the sofa and sort it out the next day. The following morning Kath wakes up to find that Max and Greta have absconded in the night. After driving home alone, she finds she cannot contact Max. Days go by, and bemusement at the situation turns to irritation and suspicion. She tries to track down Greta by reaching out to the cabin’s owner Nicholas (Dermot Mulroney). The pair hit it off, and soon immerse themselves in a little sleuthing to try and figure out what really happened to Max.

A genre-crossing affair, The Cow weaves together a detective story, psychological thriller, horror story, and drops a little mid-life crisis into the mix. The end result is surprisingly breezy, perhaps even too lightweight. The thrust of the film comes from the simple mystery. Why did Max disappear with a woman he only just met? While Kath’s efforts uncover more intrigue, the structure of The Cow shifts back and forth in time, flipping to Max’s perspective to unfurl more of the story. The structure further opens up (and adds to) the mystery, but also allows playful contrasts between Kath’s life with Max, and the burgeoning relationship with Nicholas, a refreshingly adult figure after the infantile Max. Their differences in age and the realization that a younger woman has seemingly snatched Max away from her feed into Kath’s contemplation of her fleeting youth, and sense that time is running out; themes that are nicely developed within her character’s arc, and a little more heavily stamped into other aspects of the film. The time hops make up for some of the shortfalls in a script that struggles to build a real feeling of suspense or danger. The aforementioned breezy quality keeps you primed for an escalation or ramping up of weirdness that never fully manifests. The Cow, quirky in humor and tonally playful, treads a line between dark and unnerving, and farcical B-movie, and you walk away feeling it should have leaned harder into one or the other to really make a mark.

Mulroney is as natural and smooth as you’d expect, while Teague and Tju are operating on the wavelength where the film perhaps should be. Winona Ryder is a joy to watch, bringing depth to the role of a woman grappling with being ghosted by a partner who, let’s be clear now, was a douche and clearly punching above his weight class in dating her. The transition from “I’m fine” to “wtf” to “maybe I’m better off”, and everything in between, is sublime, as are her subtle gestures and deliveries that touch on her insecurities about her age.

Overall, The Cow manages to take a low stakes mystery and build it into something compelling, but lacking a real edge. Structural time shifts and an unnerving score by David Baldwin compensate for some narrative failings, in a film that needs to lean a little harder into its genre trappings. But real substance comes from Winona Ryder, whose rich performance makes The Cow stand out from the herd.

A warts and all performance anchors this exploration of addiction and the value of self-belief.

The theme of substance abuse and addiction often hits close to home. Many films stumble trying to humanize the issue, but To Leslie shines. A richly textured tale written by Ryan Binaco, informed by his experiences with his own mother, Andrea Riseborough (Mandy, Possessor) stars as Leslie, a woman from West Texas who win $196,000 in the state lottery. But there’s something off about her demeanor in the footage of her first introduction, despite the promise of a better life. Cut to six years later, she’s ejected from a diny motel room without a penny to her name. She seeks out her teenage son James (Owen Teague), who, sensing her state, refuses to take her in. Leslie, left with little options, finds herself on a bus back to her hometown where she seeks out old friends Dutch (Stephen Root) and Nancy (a viscerally angry performance from Allison Janney), who also make clear that the bridge has been burnt. Worse for wear, she is found by local motel owner Sweeney (Marc Maron, GLOW, Sword of Trust). After learning about her past, he takes pity on her and offers her a place to stay and a job as a cleaner. For Leslie, this may be her last opportunity to climb from the bottom of a bottle, rouse herself from her stupor, and try to piece her life back together.

Directed by Michael Morris (Better Call Saul, among others), To Leslie swiftly outlines Leslie’s multiple sins before immersing itself in her hard fought path to rebuild her life. The film doesn’t sanitize or excuse things, planting her firmly in the fallout of her destructive behavior. Old manipulative tricks and cries for attention fail her. Wrecked relationships leave her not just isolated, but resented. This is not a place to heal, but to submit herself to one final punishment. But there’s something about the faith and lack of judgement from Sweeney that seems to strike a chord with Leslie; the film largely revolves around this burgeoning friendship. They form a genuine bond over uncomfortable truths shared and epiphanies realized, a kindling of faith that spurs Leslie on to face up to her failures and the consequences of her actions and to seek a possible path forward.

The opening credits serve as an effective montage to get us up to speed, using “Here I Am” by Dolly Parton to establish the country roots of the piece and the ballad-like structure of the film. To Leslie feels like a country song, working its way through soulful hurt and ending with a glimmer of hope. Country tracks throughout, from artists like Willie Nelson, Linda Perry, and George Jones, aptly reflect the emotional journey Leslie undertakes, and a newly recorded track over the credits from Patty Griffin adds a fitting coda. The sounds and ambiance are complemented by considered production values that feed into a visual shorthand. Cinematographer Larkin Seiple balances the surroundings to highlight Leslie’s discontent in stark daylight, and safer surrounds in the amber hues of a bar. Shot on 35mm, a grainy aesthetic complements the setting and worn down nature of Leslie’s existence.

Further texture comes from the outstanding supporting cast, most notably Maron, who manages to infuse an authentic goodness into his well-worn character. But the film rests on a tour de force performance from Riseborough. She brings nuance and humanity to a flawed but still sympathetic character, with believable, desperate shifts in mood as she transitions from her lowest ebb through this ongoing, hard-fought journey. It’s in the physicality of the character too, beyond bruises and lanky hair, in jittery movements and guarded posture, that she comes alive. Her performance is akin to an injured animal just waiting for the next wrong to befall it, or bite the hand of anyone who approaches. Riseborough’s performance is a crucial contribution to a truly sincere and skillfully wrought tale that affirms the healing power of support, and self-belief.

Daniels returns with a film brimming with spectacle and soul.

We all wonder about what might have been. Realities where making different choices might have resulted in different outcomes. The duo behind Swiss Army Man, Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert (better known as Daniels), seems to have long contemplated these paths not taken, judging by their 2014 interactive short film Possibilia. Everything Everywhere All at Once blows open this concept, taking a wild cosmic swing at questions about potential and possibilities, planted within a fracturing family unit.

Evelyn (a stellar Michelle Yeoh) lives in a universe where her fate has taken her down a path of wrong choices. She’s in a rut: a disappointment to her father, distant from her husband, estranged from her daughter, and her laundromat business seems on the verge of financial ruin. En route to a meeting with IRS inspector Deirdre Beaubeirdra (Jamie Lee Curtis, clearly enjoying herself), her rather hapless husband Waymond (Ke Huy Quan) starts to speak strange words in an unfamiliar tone. Another version of Waymond crosses a dimensional divide to communicate a message from the Alphaverse, a herald that Evelyn might be their last hope to win a multidimensional war, waged by an entity who has managed to broach every strand of reality and seems intent on using this power to end them all. Evelyn isn’t the “One”—she’s the opposite. A life of missed opportunities might make her the perfect conduit for all the talents of her other selves to help win this war. Her monotonous, unfulfilling life is blown wide open at the possibilities of life, the threat to all existence, and the chance to reconnect with her daughter.

Everything Everywhere hurdles you into a fragmented reality, throwing concepts and events at a startling pace. But there is an elegance to the film, and an anchoring in an emotionally resonant core that holds you tight,no matter how abstract or absurd it may get. The plot has a distinctly sci-fi feel, one where Evelyn is introduced to technology from the Alphaverse that allows psychic bridges across the multiverse, drawing on the skills of her counterparts (hibachi chef, opera singer, and martial arts action star, to name but a few) to try and survive the onslaught coming from the disciples of this mysterious, all powerful enemy. This infusion of skills offers opportunities for Evelyn to get herself out of mounting sticky situations, and also offers the best opportunity for the Daniels to veer into full Loony Tunes mode. These connections are initiated by carrying out the most improbable act in that moment, one of several apparent nods to Douglas Adams, leading to some of the more farcical and brazen moments of the film, from dildo nunchuks to buttplug-fueled battles, from black hole bagels to a scene featuring two rocks that is one of the more moving things you’ll see in this or any year. The film revels in a wild creativity.

Events blow open Evelyn’s mind not just in her own timeline, but in those of other Evelyns across the multiverse. Shock gives way to reflection and further yearning for what might have been, while also providing contrast to her current issues. She is a woman adrift in cultural clashes, social anxieties, casual and overt racism, not to mention the emotional struggles within her own family. Her father Gong Gong (the legendary James Hong) has looked down on his daughter since she disobeyed him to move to America and marry Waymond. Her naïve husband fails to grasp her struggles and sallies on, sticking googly eyes on things in the hope they make their days a little brighter. Most pertinent is her broken relationship with daughter Joy (Stephanie Hsu), with Evelyn unable to restrain her judgment of her daughter’s career, weight, and sexuality. Yeoh’s performance is the glue that binds this fracturing spectacular together. In many ways, the film seems like a meta-capper to her career and an explosive tribute to her talents. From worn down, befuddled laundromat operator to someone grappling with generational trauma or a woman vibrant with omnipresent power, she handles them all with aplomb. Ke Huy Quan (The Goonies, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) is a gentle delight, the beating heart of the film, while Hsu (Shang Chi), delivers a breakout performance, exuding confidence and depth in an ever-shifting landscape.

Kwan and Scheinert have crafted a film that is meditative and manic, expansive and intimate, sublime and exceedingly silly. Playful nods to films such as The One, Cloud Atlas, The Matrix, and Ratatouille, or the influences of Wong Kar-Wai’s distinct aesthetic, delight rather than distract. Wild ideas, beautifully complemented by a kaleidoscope of bold colors and images from cinematographer Larkin Seipl, are deftly edited by Paul Rogers. Fight choreography harkens back to the golden era of the Shaw Bros., albeit with a distinctly Daniels slant. (Fanny pack combat is legit, people.) Infantile humor, notably running gags featuring sausage fingers and racoons, threaten to throw things off course, but its continued weight actually holds everything down. These ludicrous sights of the multiverse are also tempered by more tender moments. Investing in this Chinese-American family allows the film to explore regret, family dynamics, and generational trauma, and remind us that potential lies within each of us, to be great, and to be kind. Everything Everywhere all at Once is a truly soulful and spectacular vision.

Bickering, backstabbing, and blood, with a biting social commentary

Bodies Bodies Bodies nestles nicely into an ongoing, unofficial theme at this year’s SXSW of intimate locations hosting situations that rapidly escalate into colossal clusterfucks. In this instance, it’s a remote, opulent mansion, host to a group of 20-somethings planning a debauched weekend under the shadow of an incoming hurricane. But the planned party instead descends into bickering, backstabbing, and blood.

Fresh out of rehab, and freshly coupled to new girlfriend Bee (Maria Bakalova), Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) is the last of her friend group to arrive. Greeted by their host David (Pete Davidson) they receive a chillier reception from his girlfriend Emma (Chase Sui Wonders), while another friend, Jordan (Myha’la Herrold), is confrontational from the offset. A warmer welcome comes from the effervescent Alice (Rachel Sennott), who has dragged along her new beau Greg (Lee Pace). Awkward reunions give way to alcohol, drugs, and further confrontations among the crew. To break the tension, someone suggests playing a game, the titular “Bodies Bodies Bodies.” A random drawing designates one player the murdered, the lights go out, a “victim” is tapped on the shoulder and plays “dead,” the lights come on, and the survivors have to guess who the killer is. The game’s first round offers an appetizer for what’s to come as the groups start to circle one another, pointing out each of their tells, their habits, exploiting their knowledge to try to guess who the killer is. Things turn sour, bringing the game to a halt. Not long after, one of their number is found outside the house, covered in blood, dying from a neck wound. Panic engulfs the group just as the hurricane hits, taking out the power and their cell phones. The group struggles to hold their shit together, and before long, more bodies pile up and the gang continues to pile on each other.

Writer Sarah DeLappe, working from a story by Kristen Roupenian, turns in a sharp and biting script that weaves a whodunnit reminiscent of the Clue or Werewolf games. Social anxiety among a group of teen girls provides perfect fuel for any film that relies on an infusion of mistrust and paranoia. The murders themselves are nicely executed (no pun intended), but are (refreshingly) a backdrop to the even more savage moments between this circle of “friends.” Snarky and sharp comments and resentment give to years of animosity and secrets, rising to the surface or weaponized to cause further hurt. Issues with addiction, fidelity, privilege, resentment, and more come to the surface. The film doesn’t fill in all the blanks, but plants you in the midst of a long-simmering series of issues. Beyond the personal strife, Bodies uses these characters to offers a wider skewering of Gen-Z, from virtue-signaling, hyper-awareness, and the superficiality that stems from social media to the embrace of new-age spirituality. This is where the film finds even more of a black comedy streak, one that tilts slightly farcical at times.

The film ultimately rides on its brilliantly effective cast, and such flawed characters gives each of them plenty of juicy material to come to grips with. The performances feel very reactive, feeding nicely into this combustible mix. Bakalova (Borat Subsequent Moviefilm) is quietly understated but crucially effective in the role of an outsider dropped into this shitshow. Pace (Pushing Daisies, A Single Man) and Davidson (The King of Staten Island, SNL) going head in a pissing contest is also a highlight. But it’s Sennott (Shiva Baby) who steals the entire film with impeccable comedic timing and delivery, notably a line about being an “ally” that is one of the line reads of the year. Together, they bring an exuberant, chaotic energy that director Halina Reijn harnesses to fuel this pressure cooker scenario. Slick pacing, a continually moving camera embedded within the girls, and the use of flashlights and cell phones to illuminate shots make for an immersive experience, while a thumping score ratchets up the discordant and unnerving mood. But it’s the pitch-black humor and biting social commentary, more than the bloody kills, that makes Bodies Bodies Bodies stand out.