“A visceral and unflinching exploration of

displacement, A Lien turns

paperwork into purgatory and uncertainty into horror”

The live-action short category at the Academy Awards is often a showcase for some of the most daring and urgent storytelling in contemporary cinema. Within this landscape, A Lien, directed by Sam and David Cutler-Kreutz, stands apart as a film that does not merely recount an immigrant’s struggle—it immerses the audience in a psychological state of profound anxiety, where bureaucracy becomes an omnipresent specter of control. At its heart, A Lien is a piercing meditation on the ways in which identity, autonomy, and survival can be held hostage by an indifferent system.

I had the privilege of attending a private screening of A Lien at Soho House on February 11, an experience that underscored the film’s searing relevance. Sitting in a room filled with industry insiders, Academy voters, and creatives, the stark contrast between our privilege as spectators and the protagonist’s helplessness within the film was impossible to ignore. As the credits rolled, a heavy silence hung over the audience—a testament to the film’s ability to unnerve and provoke contemplation.

On the surface, A Lien might be categorized as an immigration drama, but such a label feels almost reductive. The film is less about the political discourse surrounding immigration and more about the existential toll of being caught between worlds. It transforms a bureaucratic procedure into an emotional and psychological ordeal, one that is as disorienting as it is dehumanizing. The Cutler-Kreutz brothers construct an atmosphere of suffocating unease, where every minute detail—the flickering fluorescent lights, the echoing footsteps down sterile hallways, the impersonal monotone of an immigration officer reading a case file—reinforces the protagonist’s loss of agency.

From its opening moments, A Lien positions the audience within an environment that feels almost otherworldly in its cold detachment. The film’s visual language is striking: tight framing and shallow focus emphasize isolation, while an almost surgical use of sound amplifies the omnipresence of unseen forces governing the protagonist’s fate. Papers shuffle with a threatening finality. The distant murmur of office conversations reminds us that countless other lives are being processed—or discarded—by the same faceless mechanism.

The film’s protagonist, played with harrowing restraint, embodies the quiet terror of uncertainty. Their performance is one of aching vulnerability, marked not by overt expressions of fear, but by the subtle, devastating erosion of hope. The lack of a traditional antagonist only amplifies the horror—there is no villain to fight, no system to outwit, only an insurmountable wall of bureaucracy that offers no explanations and no recourse. A missing signature, an outdated form, an arbitrary technicality—any of these can mean the difference between belonging and erasure.

During my interview with Sam and David Cutler-Kreutz, they spoke about their approach to crafting a story that resists sentimentality while maintaining emotional urgency. They referenced real-life accounts of individuals caught in administrative purgatory, where a single procedural misstep could result in exile from a life carefully built over years. The brothers were particularly interested in how systems of power function not through explicit cruelty, but through passive indifference. “We didn’t want to make a film that tells the audience what to feel,” they explained. “We wanted them to experience what it’s like to be trapped in a moment where you have no control over your own existence.”

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This ethos permeates every element of A Lien. The film’s pacing is methodical, mirroring the protagonist’s agonizing wait for answers that never arrive. Dialogue is minimal, allowing silence to take on an oppressive weight. Even the film’s score—or rather, its conspicuous lack thereof—serves as a narrative device, forcing us to confront the raw, unembellished reality of the protagonist’s predicament.

One of the most fascinating aspects of A Lien is how it plays with genre conventions. While structurally a drama, it borrows elements from psychological horror and existential cinema. The sterile, indifferent environment recalls the works of Kafka, while the slow encroachment of dread evokes the creeping tension of a slow-burn thriller. In many ways, A Lien achieves what few short films manage—it creates a world that feels boundless in its implications, where every detail carries symbolic weight.

What makes A Lien truly unsettling is its refusal to offer closure. Unlike many films that tackle systemic injustice, it does not end with catharsis or resolution. Instead, it lingers in ambiguity, mirroring the reality faced by countless individuals who exist in legal limbo, their futures hinging on the arbitrary decisions of an unseen authority. This decision to embrace narrative uncertainty is a bold one, but it is precisely what gives the film its staying power. Long after the credits roll, the weight of A Lien remains, forcing us to reckon with the uncomfortable truth that for many, the system is designed not to provide answers, but to keep them suspended in perpetual doubt.

As the Oscars approach, A Lien stands as one of the most vital and affecting nominees in the live-action short category. It is not merely a film to be watched—it is a film to be felt, to be sat with, to be grappled with. In a year where conversations around identity, displacement, and systemic power have never been more urgent, A Lien is both a warning and a plea: to recognize the humanity behind every case number, and to understand that the greatest cruelty of bureaucracy is not in its rules, but in its refusal to see the people it governs.

RATING: ★★★★½

All eligible Academy members may participate in Oscars voting in the final round. Members may vote in all 23 award categories.

The winners are announced live on the Oscars broadcast on ABC and streamed live on Hulu.

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