Sorry, We're Dead

"Sorry We're Dead" doesn't mourn aloud. It sighs, hesitates, and lets silence do the talking. This is a film about what it means to drift away-not with a rupture, but with a barely noticeable shift in gravity.

What's remarkable isn't what happens, but how it doesn't. The characters occupy the same space but seem to ghost through each other, like echoes of a closeness that's no longer there. The film finds poignancy in absence-of resolution, of confrontation, even of sound.

Visually, it's spare but deliberate. The camera watches, almost respectfully, allowing time to stretch in scenes where nothing changes-and that stillness becomes the story. The performances are quiet, yes, but not empty. There's a flicker of recognition in a glance, a retreat in the way someone exhales.

It's a film for anyone who's ever had to live past the end of something without knowing exactly when it ended. Not loud, not flashy-but quietly piercing.

"Sorry We're Dead" is a quietly devastating short that lingers long after its final frame. Without shouting or spectacle, it captures something rare: the slow erosion of connection, and the fragile absurdity of trying to keep something alive that has already ended.

The performances are understated but emotionally precise. Each silence feels weighted. The cinematography embraces stillness-often letting the frame breathe while the characters can't. There's a deadpan irony to the title, but the film itself is deeply human. It doesn't ask for your pity; it just asks you to look closely.

Short, sharp, and surprisingly moving. Recommended for anyone interested in stories about endings that don't announce themselves.