
SIFF 2025: Day 10 Journal
May 24th, 2025 / Kevin Ward
Capsule Reviews of everything screened at the Seattle International Film Festival 2025
Twinless—★★★★½
Twinless is a cleverly structured, emotionally complex character study featuring a remarkable dual performance from Dylan O'Brien, who plays Roman and his late twin brother, Rocky. Roman, the surviving twin, is a sweetly dim-witted guy who meets Dennis (James Sweeney) at a grief support group specifically for those who have lost their twins. Roman's a little slow on the uptake—he thinks limes are just unripe lemons and isn't aware of Moscow outside of Idaho—but his warmth and sincerity make him quietly endearing. There's a disarming openness to him, even when he admits to struggling with his brother's queerness—something he clearly hasn't fully worked through. But in a later scene, after Dennis is harassed following a hockey game, Roman's knee-jerk defense suggests that his heart is in the right place even if he doesn't always understand his feelings.
Roughly 20 minutes in, the film shifts perspective in a way that reframes what we've seen and offers a glimpse of Rocky, whose confident, flirtatious charm is played by O'Brien with such distinction that it's easy to forget you're watching the same actor. Rocky is smooth where Roman is awkward, self-assured where Roman is emotionally adrift. That contrast becomes central to the film's more profound exploration of grief—not just the loss of a sibling, but the loss of one's mirror, one's second self.
A key emotional high point—and one of O'Brien's most stunning moments—comes in a hotel room where Roman, grief-stricken and unraveling, speaks to Dennis as if he were Rocky. Through tears, he confesses, "I don't know how to fucking be here without you." It's a gutting admission, not just of loss, but of how incomplete he feels without the person who defined so much of who he was. O'Brien delivers the monologue with a perfect mix of sorrow and humor, cracking a small joke midway through that makes the moment feel even more human.
The film is visually inventive, using some aesthetically pleasing backdrops. One particularly impressive flourish comes when Roman and Dennis attend a party together. The camera morphs into a split screen, tracking their perspectives before re-merging in a mirror shot of Dennis watching Roman from across the room. It's beautifully executed and one of the most striking moments in the film.
I loved Twinless. It's intimate, inventive, and emotionally sharp—occasionally funny, often heartbreaking, and full of moments that catch you off guard. Dylan O'Brien is fantastic in a dual role that's as technically impressive as it is emotionally rich, giving us two brothers who couldn't be more different yet feel utterly real. The film navigates identity, grief, and the awkward, stumbling ways we learn to carry forward with those we've lost.
Good Boy—★★★★
Good Boy, directed by Ben Leonberg, is an impressively inventive supernatural horror film told entirely from the point of view of a dog. When Todd moves into a secluded family home with his pup Indy, it’s Indy—not his distracted owner—who first detects something sinister watching them. The camera stays fixed at dog-eye level, transforming mundane spaces into eerie liminal zones where every open doorway and rustling leaf feels charged with threat. Human faces often remain out of frame, making the world feel alien and off-balance in a way that subtly builds dread.
What makes the film even more remarkable is how it was made. Indy isn’t a trained acting dog. To pull this off, Leonberg relied not on traditional direction but on patience, improvisation, and clever framing—shooting over 400 days to capture the natural behaviors that would bring the story to life. Rather than shaping the dog’s performance to fit the film, he shaped the film around the dog, finding tension and unease in Indy’s reactions, pauses, and wary glances.
With a few more scares, this might have been even more pulse-pounding. As it stands, Good Boy is a moody, slow-burn thriller with some chilling moments and a killer concept, executed with style and restraint. Inventive, patient, and fully committed to its premise, it’s the kind of risk-taking horror film that could easily inspire others to explore storytelling from bold new angles.
Originally reviewed after its screening at SXSW 2025
Color Book —★★★★
Color Book, directed by David Fortune, is a profound portrait of grief, parenthood, and resilience. Shot in luminous black and white, the film follows Lucky (William Catlett) and his son Mason (Jeremiah Daniels), a young boy with Down syndrome, as they set out across Metro Atlanta on a modest but meaningful journey: to attend their first baseball game together following the recent passing of Lucky's wife. It's a restrained exploration of moving forward when the future feels uncertain, and the weight of caregiving is both a gift and a daily test of strength.
Catlett is remarkable as Lucky—his face etched with weariness, his voice often soft but loaded with unspoken emotion. He conveys the complex emotional terrain of a man carrying profound loss while trying to remain whole for his son and perhaps finding strength in that responsibility. His love for Mason is unwavering but never idealized. We see his frustration, his fear, his exhaustion. A harrowing sequence where Mason becomes separated from him on the subway brings all those feelings to a head—it's raw, visceral, and taps into a primal terror every parent knows, heightened here by Mason's added vulnerability.
The film's cinematography is flat-out gorgeous. The absence of color doesn't wash out the world; it enhances the textures of their environment and the emotions flickering across the actors' faces. There's an elegance in the stillness, a contemplative beauty in the simplicity of the framing.
At its heart, Color Book is about the journey of healing, the long arc of parenting through sorrow. It's a lovely and moving film.