
Saturday Boy
Theo BranniganA fifteen-year-old with a Saturday job at a Dublin carpet showroom is told to sell one particular roll before six, and nobody will say why.
Eleven films, none of them longer than fifteen minutes, all of them finished. That is the point. A short is not a sketch for something bigger. It is the whole thought at the right length, and getting the length right is the hardest part of the job. Watch three tonight. It costs you less than one episode of anything.

A fifteen-year-old with a Saturday job at a Dublin carpet showroom is told to sell one particular roll before six, and nobody will say why.

Eleven minutes of a Georgia summer, cut to a score built from gospel radio drift and forty-one answering machine messages.

In a Los Angeles where every private pool is metered, two strangers meet at three in the morning in somebody else's water.

A man has walked the same six hundred metres of Marseille shoreline at low tide every morning for thirty-one years, and keeps what the sea returns.

A man puts up an above-ground pool eleven inches over the property line and spends a Saturday negotiating with the neighbour who measured it.

Told she has to allow showings while she still lives there, a Brooklyn tenant decides to attend every one of them.

A fire lookout on her second night alone reports a light at a bearing where there is no road.

In a town where everything shuts from one until five, a fourteen-year-old spends the siesta hours teaching herself to drive her father's car around the block.

A jeepney driver hands the radio dial to his passengers for one day, on the condition that whoever sits closest to the front decides.

On a street that floods every August, the water gives back what it took the year before, and this year it gives back something that was never an object.

Six minutes inside a municipal greenhouse in January, animated in gouache, following the heat rather than a character.