Director
The compelling and amusing story behind one of San Francisco's most visually arresting signposts and the design change that tarnishes a legacy.
Producer
Rob and his best friend Austyn apply to become human guinea pigs at the local medical testing facility of a vaguely intentioned multinational company called EvCorp. As the facility's mere presence has bitterly polarized their town, the two apply in stealth. Only Austyn is accepted - ushered away and out of contact into EvCorp's shadowy interior - leaving Rob to bear the burden of secrecy as well as the private concern that perhaps not all will be well with his buddy. As he navigates both sides of the town's deepening rift, guilt and denial do battle in his mind - evoking eerie visions, paranoia, and a strange physical malady. SLACKJAW is a mildly absurd bromantic dramedy about the path to personal responsibility amidst the divisive fog of a politicized landscape.
Producer
Josh (Zach Weintraub) is a young American who has traveled to Buenos Aires to find subjects for a documentary series he has been commissioned to produce. While there, he seems also to be hoping to use the time to regroup—although regroup from what is unclear. The change of venue is not without its own set of problems, however. Josh finds it difficult to get his footing in Buenos Aires. Subjects aren’t coming easy, and he is having trouble connecting socially. He spends long stretches of time isolated in his rented room, struggling to move forward with his work and make social in-roads. Enter Anna (Sophia Takal), a young woman renting a room with an adjoining wall to Josh. After discovering each other through this shared wall, a friendship quickly blossoms which may lead to something more. What remains uncertain is if Anna’s presence will help pull Josh out of his doldrums.
Director
What do resilience and conviviality taste like in prison? Reflections roll through Tamalero like waves, from generational food rituals in childhood to collective meal practices while incarcerated, and inform composed yet fragmentary glimpses. Hands, light, and faces each serve as an invocation to presence with sound: an ambient dream-space of sound from a propane burner on John Avila's Prison Pies food cart, and his memories and contemplations.
