SIRAT, or How to Rave in the Face of Death
This year the Jury Prize went to SIRAT, a film that takes on nothing less than the ephemerality of life and the absurdity of death.
Noble, yes. Necessary, even.
So what’s the story of SIRAT?
Well, “story” might be too generous a word.
Imagine this: a group of beautiful thirty-somethings, allergic to work and sobriety, decide that the only way to confront the terrifying absurdity of death is… to party harder.
They set off on a psychedelic odyssey through the deserts of Northern Africa, taking “bio” drugs (because chemicals are sooo last century) while dancing like their life insurance depends on it.
Somewhere in the middle of this eternal rave, the Minotaur appears—yes, a literal Minotaur, because nothing says “meaning of life” like Greek mythology crashing your techno set.
Played by the immense Sergi López, he alone seems aware that this labyrinth of strobe lights and sweaty hugs could actually be about something. He is looking for his daughter and grabs on to the only bit of family that remained to him.
The others? Mostly busy staring at the sky, kissing each other’s foreheads, and muttering lines so clumsy they make fortune cookies sound like Shakespeare.
The message? Life is short, death is absurd, so ditch responsibility, skip society, and dance barefoot in glitter until the end arrives.
A philosophy that sounds thrilling at 2 a.m.—slightly less so the next morning when your rent is due.
Socrates must be spinning in his grave, though admittedly he might have enjoyed the light show.
Visually, it’s a treat.
The cinematography is gorgeous, the camera so fluid it almost dances, the images poetic enough to make Instagram jealous. For a few moments, you feel like you’re floating in a golden dream.
And then someone speaks.
The poor non-professional actors, required to deliver only a handful of lines, manage to treat each word like an Olympic hurdle.
It’s painful, but also—ironically—almost in theme: nothing lasts, not even coherent dialogue.
Sergi López, what a gift.
Where the others stumble, he roars.
Where the film flirts with superficiality, he digs deep.
His presence is immense, magnetic, unforgettable.
He doesn’t just act; he rescues the entire enterprise from collapsing under its own strobe lights.
SIRAT will fade, but Sergi will stay with you.
But the real show came at the Q&A at the MK2 Quai de Seine in Paris.
The director, asked the most basic question—why the title “SIRAT”?—embarked on an odyssey of awkwardness.
For context: “Sirat” in Islamic tradition refers to the bridge of judgment, stretched perilously thin between heaven and hell, the path of ultimate destiny. A title dripping with philosophical weight, perfect for a film about life and death.
And the director’s explanation? He chose it because...it “sounded melodious.” That’s it. The bridge of eternity reduced to a catchy jingle.
One imagines Dante rolling his eyes in the seventh circle.
Meanwhile, the rest of the team stumbled on stage, visibly high or drunk, and turned the discussion into a half-slurred cocktail of leftist slogans and anti-Israel declarations.
The audience’s mild goodwill evaporated like spilled prosecco.
The aftertaste was less cinéma vérité than karaoke politique.
In the end, SIRAT is like a festival night you only half-remember: flashes of beauty, lots of noise, a lingering headache, and one incredible performer you’ll never forget.
The rave fades, but Sergi López—immense as always—remains.
By Giulia Dobre
in Montpellier
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