Sirāt

Sirāt, directed by Óliver Laxe, is one of those rare cinematic works that defies easy definition, a film that breathes less through a conventional narrative than through atmosphere, sound, and the power of its images. The title itself sets the tone: in Islamic eschatology, the Sirāt is the perilous bridge between heaven and hell, thinner than a hair and sharper than any blade, a passage that every soul must attempt to cross. Laxe embraces this idea not as a distant allegory, but as a lived experience, integrating it into every stage of the journey. The first few minutes already foreshadow this ambition: workers assemble a huge wall of speakers in the Moroccan desert, much like acolytes erecting an altar. The rave that follows, imbued with Kangding Ray's relentless soundtrack, becomes both an ecstatic ritual and an unsettling threshold. It is clear from the outset that the film seeks not so much to find answers as to immerse us in a liminal state where faith, grief, and the seductions of oblivion intertwine.

At the emotional heart of the film are Luis, played with raw gravity by Sergi López, and his young son Esteban, portrayed with disarming naturalness by Bruno Núñez Arjona. Their quest is deceptively simple: to find Mar, the missing daughter and sister, who may be among the anonymous crowd raving under the strobe lights. The contrast is stark: this fragile, grief-stricken father and son wandering through an environment fueled by trance and intoxication. When the rave is interrupted by the army and rumors of an impending world war crackle through fragmented radio broadcasts, Luis's decision to follow a convoy of ravers south transforms the story into something more akin to a mythical road movie. The father's grief turns to obsession, each mile drawing Esteban into a physical and spiritual descent, a journey where the Sirāt is no longer a metaphor, but the road itself.

The group they join—a collective of ravers played not by actors but by nomads of this subculture, including Jade Oukid, Tonin Janvier, Stefania Gadda, Joshua Liam Henderson, and Richard Bellamy—brings a striking authenticity to the screen. Their presence is raw, lively, and utterly convincing. What could have been caricatures of hedonism instead becomes a mosaic of resilience, eccentricity, and unexpected tenderness. Their solidarity in small, almost comical episodes—such as when they rally to care for Esteban's dog Pipa after she falls ill from ingesting drug-laced trash—is as significant as the more significant moments of danger. Laxe does not idealize them, but he grants them dignity, presenting them as vagabonds who find a fleeting community in the rhythm of music and the routine of the road. Their role accentuates the contrast between the chosen families forged during the journey and the broken blood ties that drive Luis forward with an almost self-destructive determination.

Visually, Sirāt is simply mesmerizing. Mauro Herce, Laxe's longtime collaborator, films the Moroccan desert in 16mm, capturing landscapes that seem both eternal and hostile. The desert is not a backdrop; it is an adversary, a mirror, and a silent judge. Wide shots reduce the convoy to fragile dots crossing the void, headlights shining in the night like dying embers on an infinite black canvas. The perilous sequences along the ruined mountain roads evoke the agonizing tension of Clouzot's The Wages of Fear and Friedkin's The Exorcist, but here the terror takes on a spiritual dimension: one false step and the abyss swallows everything. It is the perfect visualization of the Sirāt bridge, not as a celestial myth, but as a lived experience, where each step is an act of faith precariously balanced on the edge of despair. The desert becomes cinema's great equalizer, stripping away illusions until all that remains is survival, grief, and fleeting flashes of ecstasy.

Sound, however, is the film's true weapon. Kangding Ray's pounding music and Laia Casanovas' meticulous sound design create an auditory experience that is both seductive and suffocating. The bass draws the audience into a hypnotic complicity, our bodies swaying unconsciously even as our eyes avert from images of exhaustion, violence, and death. It's a disturbing dissonance that Laxe wields with intent, forcing us to confront how beauty, terror, and seduction often coexist on the same frequency. The film's final act, which explodes both narrative and form, is a heartbreaking crescendo that left the Cannes audience speechless. Without revealing the details, suffice it to say that the ending erases all certainty, leaving us suspended on the bridge between salvation and ruin. Few recent films have dared to leave viewers so disturbed and yet exhilarated by the raw power of their vision.

The soul of the film lies largely in the performances of the actors. Sergi López plays Luis with quiet despair, a man drained by grief but unable to give up his search, even though he suspects that his daughter may not want to be found. His weariness is palpable, each of his gestures a mixture of resignation and stubborn determination. Opposite him, Esteban, played by Bruno Núñez Arjona, is heartbreaking, a child forced to navigate the despair of an adult, clinging to moments of innocence while gradually absorbing the brutality of the world. Their bond is tender, sometimes unbearable, and contrasts sharply with the warmth and vitality of the ravers, who embody a strange and precarious hope. This dynamic reinforces one of the film's central themes: the fractured and unresolved families we inherit, as opposed to those we build from the rubble of the world.

Beyond its characters and aesthetics, Sirāt resonates as a mirror of our fractured times. The faint echoes of war, military crackdowns, nomadic exodus through hostile terrain—all of this echoes a world where crises blur boundaries and survival seems temporary. Some have called it Laxe's most political film, though it expresses itself less through slogans than through lived allegory. The ravers' dancing, their ecstatic abandon, becomes a form of resistance, a secular ritual that defies collapse. Yet the film resists romantic conclusions: ecstasy wavers, the rhythm cannot last forever, and the abyss always returns. This refusal of resolution is perhaps the most honest aspect of Sirāt: the bridge between heaven and hell is not elsewhere, but here, and most of us already cross it daily, often without realizing how fragile it is.

Sirāt is a daring, disconcerting, and unforgettable experience. It is not designed to be comfortable, nor to please in the conventional sense. It requires patience, open-mindedness, and a willingness to venture into the darkness without the certainty of finding light on the other side. But for those who surrender to it, the reward is a rare sensation, that of cinema as an ordeal, as a ritual, as dangerous beauty. As the audience left the screening in Cannes, they could be heard confessing both their hatred and their admiration, a paradox that sums up the very essence of Laxe's success. Few contemporary films have the courage to make us feel complicit, to involve us in the rhythm of destruction and transcendence. For this reason alone, Sirāt deserves to be seen, discussed, and remembered.

Sirāt
Directed by Óliver Laxe
Written by Santiago Fillol, Óliver Laxe
Produced by Domingo Corral, Óliver Laxe, Xavi Font, Pedro Almodóvar, Agustín Almodóvar, Esther García, Oriol Maymó, Mani Mortazavi, Andrea Queralt
Starring Sergi López, Bruno Núñez Arjona, Richard Bellamy, Stefania Gadda, Joshua Liam Henderson, Tonin Janvier, Jade Oukid
Cinematography: Mauro Herce
Edited by Cristóbal Fernández
Music by Kangding Ray
Production companies: Los Desertores Films AIE, Telefónica Audiovisual Digital, Filmes Da Ermida, El Deseo, Uri Films, 4A4 Productions
Distributed by Pyramide Films (France)
Release dates: May 15, 2025 (Cannes), September 10, 2025 (France)
Running time: 115 minutes

Seen on July 1, 2025 at the Forum des Images

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