Melinda Goldrich

Melinda Goldrich’s filmography honestly reads like a crash course in stories that stick under your skin. October 8 (2025) is the one that’s been buzzing around lately. People talk about it like it’s more than just a date—it’s a knot in your stomach, a day you can’t quite forget. The film weaves through lives colliding on that day, all caught in this weird, charged atmosphere. It’s got that vibe—tense, real, like you’re eavesdropping on something you shouldn’t hear. There’s no sugarcoating or neat resolutions. Just people, raw and messy, trying to figure their way out of the aftermath. Jump to Ride for the Living (2024) and you’re in a totally different lane. This one’s a road trip, but not the fun kind with mixtapes and junk food. It’s rooted in memory, legacy, and survival. The story follows a group retracing a journey of historical trauma, but it doesn’t get preachy or heavy-handed. There’s this undercurrent of hope—like even in the shadow of tragedy, you find moments of connection, even laughter. The cinematography lingers on faces, on landscapes that hold secrets. It’s moving without shoving emotion down your throat. Then you’ve got The Tattooed Torah (2019), which feels almost like a bedtime story with teeth. It’s animated, but the heart is all grown-up—tackling Jewish heritage, loss, and resilience. The story is about a little Torah that survives the Holocaust, and it’s told with this gentle reverence that sneaks up on you. It’s short, but it leaves a mark. Goldrich’s lineup isn’t just a resume—it’s a testament to stories that matter, that challenge, that linger long after the credits.