Bear

Bear, directed by Rebecca Parker, is a haunting short that begins with the quiet sorrow of loss and ends somewhere far more unexpected, in the messy, morally ambiguous terrain between empathy, judgment, and survival. A deserving win of an Honourable Mention award.

At its surface, the film follows Bev, played by Tessa Rose, a small town grandmother, who takes her beloved dog Bear to the vet to be put down. What should be a simple, painful errand spirals into confrontation when she encounters Sherrie, played by Jan Gifford, an impassioned animal lover who challenges her decision. What unfolds is not merely an argument about the fate of a dog, but a study on human contradiction, the fragile boundary between compassion and fanaticism, grief and guilt, truth and delusion.

Parker’s direction is remarkable, drawing tension not from overt conflict but from silence and implication. The encounter feels real and lived-in, echoing the uncomfortable moral confrontations that simmer beneath ordinary life. But as the story deepens, and Bev reveals she believes Bear is possessed by the spirit of her abusive late husband, Bear tilts into psychological horror. Yet this genre shift doesn’t feel abrupt, rather inevitable, like trauma breaking the surface.

The performances add a vital dimension, bringing emotional weight and cultural resonance that sharpen the story’s edges. The racial and class tensions that underlie the interactions emerge with startling clarity. The film becomes not just a story about grief, but about power, who is heard, who is dismissed, and how trauma is filtered through cultural perception.

Bear lingers because it resists easy interpretation. Parker invites discomfort, reflection, and contradiction, leaving viewers unsettled yet strangely seen. In the end, Bear isn’t just about putting a dog to rest, but about the impossibility of clean moral lines and the ghosts we all carry.