CRUEL LIKE YOU

"Cruel Like You" is a delicate act of emotional excavation—an elegantly composed, quietly devastating musical short that lingers like the ache of an old bruise. Running a brief but impactful fifteen minutes, it manages to explore an entire emotional odyssey, one that feels instantly familiar to anyone who’s ever loved too long, held on too tightly, or walked back into the same fire hoping it might burn differently this time. 

At its centre is Daisy, played with aching sincerity and depth by Racquel Williams. When her ex unexpectedly resurfaces, Daisy finds herself spiralling into memory and melody, pulled between the soft nostalgia of what once was and the hard truth of what that love has become. What follows is not so much a narrative as it is a series of emotional truths—expressed through song, gesture, and silence—that thread themselves into something more profound than mere plot. 

What makes "Cruel Like You" so affecting is its understanding of love’s grey areas. This isn’t a film of clean breakups or tidy conclusions. Instead, it captures the mess—the yearning, the repetition, the confusion. It understands that sometimes the real antagonist isn't the other person, but the version of ourselves we become when we're with them. Baude’s direction leans into this messiness with compassion and precision, crafting a cinematic language that is both intimate and impressionistic. 

The use of music is particularly striking. These are not show-stopping numbers, but confessional laments—songs that feel like they’ve been written at 2am with red eyes and a heavy heart. They don’t just accompany the story; they are the story. When words fail Daisy, the music speaks. And when music falters, silence fills the void. The final refrain—“I don’t miss you, but I do”—is a masterstroke. It's not just a lyric, it's a thesis. A heart torn in two, still beating. 

This is a film about the hard-won clarity that can only come from pain. It doesn’t preach, and it doesn’t pity. It simply shows. Shows us the softness of false hope, the sharpness of self-realisation, and the bittersweet freedom that can come from choosing yourself over someone who doesn’t. 

In the end, "Cruel Like You" doesn’t offer easy answers. But it gives us something rarer: a mirror. A chance to see where we are in our own cycles. To ask ourselves whether we’re stuck in something cruel, or finally beginning again. And maybe, just maybe, it gives us the courage to walk away. Not with bitterness. But with grace.