This film is about a 19-year-old girl who does something we're all taught never to do: she gets angry. Not the kind of anger you can tuck away or dress up…the real thing. The kind that erupts when every adult has failed you, every system has turned its back, and every rule about how you're supposed to act just... breaks.
I've watched people I love learn to live with the unbearable because speaking up felt more dangerous than staying quiet. With this film, I want to put you right there—inside that moment when everything finally snaps. Not to make it dignified or neat, but to show you what it actually feels like: messy, strange, and sometimes, against all logic, darkly funny.
Because here's the thing about trauma: it's absurd. The way it sits next to the ordinary. The way you can be drowning and still have to take out the trash, answer texts, pretend everything's fine. Squatter refuses to treat violence like a solemn, cinematic event. It lives in the uncomfortable truth that horror and humor aren't opposites: they're neighbors. Sometimes the only sane response to the insane is to laugh, even if that laugh sounds unhinged.
One in three women experience violence from a partner. One in four teenagers face abuse in their relationships. Most never report it. Most never even tell anyone. The story just ends in silence.
Squatter asks: what if someone fought back? And what if that fight didn't look heroic or clean, but grotesque? Liberating? What if it was all those things at once—ugly and freeing and so extreme it almost becomes funny? That's the moment we almost never see, especially with Black women, with femme people, with anyone society has already decided should stay quiet. The full force of their anger. The mess of it. The relief.
In my last film, I worked from a place of stillness. This time, I wanted to go somewhere wilder: into the charged, impossible feelings that live inside our femme and Black bodies but get flattened into stereotypes or melodrama. Ramona gets to be contradictory, excessive, alive. The quiet ache of watching someone you love destroy themselves. The helplessness of not being able to stop it. The rage. The bizarre humor that keeps you from disappearing completely.
Not a tragedy. Not a triumph. Something messier and more real.
Raw. Vulnerable. Fierce. Grotesque.
Funny. And fully, defiantly human.