Amir GanjavieIn Sirât, Oliver Laxe offers a cinematic experience that feels more like a passage than a story—a crossing over, rather than a destination. Named after the mythic bridge in Islamic tradition said to separate paradise from hell, the film is less about arrival and more about the perilous, beautiful, and painful act of moving forward, step by step, through uncertainty.
Premiering in the Cannes 2025 competition, Sirât follows Luis (Sergi López), a father searching for his lost daughter, accompanied by his young son Esteban (Bruno Núñez Arjona). Their journey begins at the edge of civilization—an outlaw rave deep in the Moroccan desert—and plunges into a landscape where society has broken down and all that remains are remnants of community, sound, and memory. As they join a convoy of techno-travelers heading further into the wasteland, the question emerges: is this an escape from the world, or a confrontation with what’s left of it?
The power of the film lies in its restraint. Luis is not a hero, but a man moving through grief and resolve in silence. There is no grand speech, no promise of redemption—only presence, endurance, and the weight of what has been lost. The rave, with its visceral beats and worn-out bodies, becomes a ritual of resistance: people gathering not to celebrate, but to remember they are still alive. Later, their trek through the desert mirrors a kind of exodus—not in search of land, but of meaning.
What makes Sirât so compelling is how it suggests that the real journey is not toward a missing person, but toward a kind of clarity that cannot be spoken. The film is filled with dust, sound, and distance—and yet it never feels empty. Even the silence carries weight. One gets the sense that these characters, particularly the father and son, are not just surviving—they are being shaped by the very act of continuing.
The war that erupts in the background is barely visible, but it stains everything. News of it crackles over the radio like static, dismissed by those who have long known the world was ending. Laxe never shows us the war directly. He doesn’t need to. The fear, fatigue, and quiet unraveling are already written into every frame. What matters is how the characters respond—not with slogans, but with gestures, glances, and the stubborn act of walking forward.
Shot on textured 16mm film by Mauro Herce, the visuals have a raw, tactile intensity. The desert is not just vast—it is alive, both majestic and unforgiving. The music by Kangding Ray, deep and immersive, turns the film into a kind of sensory trance. It doesn’t just accompany the scenes—it invades them, vibrating through the bodies on screen and through the audience.
If Sirât offers no answers, it’s because it knows some questions are not meant to be solved. They are meant to be carried. In the end, this is a story about love and loss, endurance and exile. A film that does not demand to be understood, but rather felt. It is a reminder that sometimes, simply continuing the journey is the most courageous act of all.
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