Trauma rarely confines itself to the moment in which it occurs. It lingers in the spaces between memories, in the things left unsaid, and in the insignificant details that can bring the past rushing back into the present. In Every Time I See a Yellow Car, writer and director Matt Chandler explores these lingering effects through an intimate psychological thriller that examines the complicated relationship between trauma, masculinity, and familial love.
The film follows Olly (Ty Tennant) as he processes the aftermath of sexual assault, while his brother Liam (Sam Buchanan) responds to Olly’s suffering in a markedly different way. Their differing responses become the foundation for a story about the difficulties of communicating pain, the limits of familial protection, and the ways in which attempts to regain control can become another source of harm.
Chandler’s decision to construct the narrative through a non-linear framework is particularly powerful. The film allows memories and emotions to surface unevenly, reflecting the disorientating experience of living with something that cannot be left behind, and mirroring the experience of recalling one’s own traumas. At the centre of the film is the titular yellow car, a recurring image that takes on an unsettling significance. It is an effective visual motif, demonstrating how the external world can become entangled with internal suffering, and how everyday objects can become a constant reminder of traumatic events that we try to leave behind.
The exploration of masculinity and the different ways it shapes the brothers’ responses to suffering is captivating. Liam’s instinct to retaliate and protect is rooted in a desire to help, but the film does not confuse good intentions with harmless consequences. His response exposes the limitations of a structure of masculinity in which vulnerability is difficult to articulate, and violence becomes a substitute for emotional honesty and processing. By trying to protect Olly, Liam risks perpetuating the very cycle of harm from which he wants his brother to escape. Olly’s experience, meanwhile, speaks to the isolation that so often accompanies trauma. The film’s engagement with queer identity adds another dimension to this, allowing it to consider the pressures surrounding vulnerability and the expectations placed upon men. Crucially, however, neither brother is reduced to a caricature of a broader social problem. Their relationship is emotionally complicated and shaped by genuine affection at the same time as misunderstanding.
Tennant brings a vulnerability to Olly that allows the emotional consequences of his experience to emerge through quieter moments, while Buchanan conveys the restlessness of someone who desperately wants to help but struggles to understand what help might actually look like.
The cinematography is breathtaking, creating an unease that extends beyond the events on screen, and reflecting how emotional devastation does not always require an explicit declaration; it can be communicated through a look, a silence, or an image that acquires a new meaning with each recurrence.
What ultimately distinguishes Every Time I See a Yellow Car is its understanding that love, however sincere, cannot always protect someone from suffering. The impulse to intervene on behalf of another person can become destructive when it is driven by an inability to sit with pain, and a desire for justice can become entangled with the need to regain a sense of control.
For a short film, Every Time I See a Yellow Car demonstrates an impressive command of tone, structure and visual storytelling. Its psychological-thriller elements serve a deeper emotional purpose, while its central motif gives tangible form to the persistence of trauma. More than a story about the aftermath of sexual assault, it is a thoughtful examination of how suffering reverberates through relationships, shaping not only those directly affected but also the people who love them.
Chandler has crafted a film that lingers well beyond its runtime. Every Time I See a Yellow Car is an emotionally resonant piece of filmmaking, and a powerful reminder that sometimes the hardest part of confronting trauma is learning how to live with what cannot be undone.
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