Ignas Miskinis

The Southern Chronicles (2024) tosses you right into this moody, slow-burn drama that just doesn’t care if you’re comfortable. It’s all about fractured families, the kind of small-town secrets that fester like a bad wound, and the weird, magnetic pull of the past. There’s this raw edge to the way the story unfolds—honestly, sometimes it feels more like eavesdropping than watching a movie. The main character, stumbling through his own mess, heads back to his roots after years away. There’s zero glamour here—just a parade of familiar faces, unresolved beefs, and that suffocating feeling only your hometown can give you. People talk around the truth, hide stuff behind half-smiles, and every casual greeting seems to carry extra weight. The film doesn’t rush, either. It lets you sit in the awkwardness, makes you stew in it. You want answers? Too bad. You’ll get them on its terms. The cinematography? Bleak but gorgeous—the kind of shots that linger on empty fields or rain-streaked windows. And the sound design, man, it’s subtle but almost haunting. You can practically hear the silence between people, the stuff they’re not saying. By the end, don’t expect everything to get tied up in a neat little bow. That’s not what Ignas Miskinis is about. The Southern Chronicles is more about the scars people carry and how some places never really let you go, no matter how far you run.