Qué, Sirāt, Sirāt

I wasn’t exactly eagerly awaiting the arrival of Sirāt in U.S. theaters. I had heard it described as “polarizing” and knew people were pretty split on it (more critical/festival praise, with limited release audiences not enjoying it as much), so I figured I would come out of it on more neutral footing. I know myself enough to know that I usually end up seeing a bit of both sides in these situations, which usually leaves me at a lukewarm okay. Centrism strikes, and with clowns to the left and jokers to the right, I move on with my life.

I can’t do that with Sirāt. Not just because I was able to see it presented in 35mm with a subsequent Q&A with director Oliver Laxe and screenwriter Santiago Fillol—one that, to my delight, ended in an argument between Laxe and a woman sitting in the row behind me—but because I thought more about it, it clicked, and I was moved by it. Laxe deserves a fair amount of credit for my fruitful rumination (I can’t wait for Thomas to read this, because he didn’t like the movie or what Laxe had to say about it), though it was really his lack of answers and his ambiguity that led me there. 

Sirāt, denotatively, and per the quote at the beginning of the film, is an Arabic word meaning “path” or “road” also used in Islamic theology to describe a razor-thin bridge spanning Hell that everyone must cross on the Day of Judgment to enter Paradise. The righteous pass safely, and the unrighteous fall. It’s immediately and obviously applicable to the movie. Superficially, Sirāt is about a father, Luis, searching for his daughter throughout the Euro-driven, underground rave culture of Morocco. His search seems fruitless—no one has seen or heard of his daughter. As he investigates one particular rave, it’s broken up by the Moroccan military, who warn them that conflict has broken out and demand they evacuate the country. A small group that Luis previously encountered (comprised of fellow Europeans Jade, Bigui, Tonin, Josh, and Steff) breaks away, making a run for it into the desert so their fun won’t end. Hopeful they will lead him to another rave his daughter may be at, Luis follows with his young son, Esteban, in their wimpy van. There they go, off on the road. 

Sirāt eases you in. First and foremost, it establishes the desert, the dust, and the beat. It starts very slowly, and it’s a few minutes before you’re really introduced to any characters or there’s even any dialogue. We see the ravers, dancing, one with the mob and the music. I totally understand the layered meaning—especially after the Q&A in which Laxe cited Tarkovsky’s Stalker as an influence—I was meant to understand the film as at least partially transcendental, or containing transcendental elements, and obviously relate that to the entranced state of our ravers. For what it’s worth, I think a lot of movies made by true artists and film lovers tilt at transcendence but rarely fully embrace and/or achieve it. That being said, I think Laxe is successful—if only because he chose the easy path of pounding beats to ensnare our minds. What’s really  important, though, is that the audience and the ravers are one in the same.

Transcendentalism, even in film, is, of course, inherently spiritual. It’s not a big stretch, then, for Laxe to relate the raves to a religious ceremony and imbue them with that sacredness. Really, the audience should understand it thematically and from the reverence the film gives to the raves, but in case you didn’t pick that up, Laxe also threw in two shots that sandwich the film for you to compare. Relatively early on in their trek, they come across an abandoned building, inside which a TV is playing. Steff stands and watches the footage of tawaf. The Kaaba is set dead center in the shot of the television. Later, much closer to the end of the film, a speaker is positioned in the same fashion during a drug and dance session. It helps that both objects are black and boxy, and I thought the juxtaposition was obvious.

Beyond the assumptions we can make about the ravers—that they might’ve struggled with substance abuse, their family, mental health, or anything else that would make them a societal outsider—we don’t really know much about them. They have shaved heads, piercings, and missing limbs. There’s one particular scene that provides a touch of exposition—Jade asks Esteban why his sister ran away. Esteban says that she didn’t run away—she’s a grownup, and she just left. They don’t get into why, and maybe it’s because they don’t know. Maybe only Luis knows, and he doesn’t want Esteban to know. It seems to resonate with Jade, but the audience still isn’t given any definitive answers to her background. 

We understand that our characters are on the literal and metaphorical road. I’m not really solid on what might be a much more expansive theological concept of Sirāt, but I think I at least understand—or can extrapolate—that the road, broadly, is just life. The path that leads to Heaven, with those on it precariously balancing righteousness and dangling over the threat of eternal damnation, is just life. In life, you encounter people, but you don’t often really get to know them. There’s something very human and beautiful about connecting with a stranger, no matter how brief. When you realize you share some joy or pain—the rest doesn’t matter. Does Jade wish she had family looking for her? Does she relate to Luis’s daughter? We just don’t know, but we can see and sense their connection.

These are the things I admire about Sirāt. I enjoy ambiguity in film—it kind of majorly feeds this blog, anyhow—as much as I like getting knocked over the head by themes and motifs. Ideally, a movie is a mix of both and trusts the audience to fill in with their own experience and ride the feelings. That being said, I think it’s time to dig into some of the artists’ inflections on the work. I mentioned at the top that the Q&A ended in an argument. Argument is a bit of a strong word. The question was poised pretty pointedly—something like I’m curious and maybe critical of why you chose to set the film in Morocco, but I’m paraphrasing—and I don’t remember who first used the word orientalist (I think it was her), but Laxe’s initial response did not satisfy her. I could see why his response would be read as dismissive, and perhaps he was a bit glib, but I also think the language barrier was a bit of a problem. Maybe giving a white European the benefit of the doubt in a discussion of race is not the wisest, but I really think he’s pretty cognizant of the issue of orientalism (he referenced having read Said, which isn’t a get-out-of-orientalism-free card, but does add some depth of awareness). If it matters, he also attempted to continue the conversation after the Q&A ended and the audience was filtering out.

Anyway, I don’t know that the askers approach was the best. It’s not a sin, but I also think that just commenting on a film being orientalist is just… not interesting. Posturing the accusation as a question is just not enough to receive a fair answer, and that’s really because “this film is orientalist” is just true on its face. Laxe is a white Spaniard making a movie that is ostensibly about Morocco. Personally, I think Laxe understands that, he just doesn’t find it to be remarkable or offensive in a way that deserves comment in precedence over other overarching themes or aspects of his movie. So, it’s orientalist—where does that leave us in analyzing the rest of the film?

For starters, Laxe and Fillol have used the inherent orientalism to their advantage. The movie would not be the same without the exoticism. I think it’s obvious why the film is set in a desert—god knows the Euros don’t have a shortage of underground rave culture to choose from—beyond just Laxe mentioning that he lived in Tangiers for a time (and presumably encountered plenty of folks like his characters). It’s like Mad Max, Beau Travail, or the Taste of Cherry—the desert is not just coincidental, it’s also an essential part of the themes/allegory. To quote the fake quote from the beginning of Fury Road: “Where must we go… we who wander this wasteland in search of our better selves?” It’s as obvious as the orientalism, so I almost feel bad noting this, but deserts are notoriously harsh environments. If you want to manufacture some strain for your characters, you can throw them into one. Here, in a movie where their external and internal issues are part of a grandiose religious metaphor, every single problem possible is essential to the formula. The road they’re on has very real, very physical dangers. 

And yes, part of that is orientalist. The exotic and the threatening unknown is a key element to the story, and it does go beyond just the desert. Spain has deserts, but setting the film there wouldn’t have added that extra layer of an unknown language and unfamiliar culture—nevermind the looming conflict that upends everyone’s plans. When Luis makes the absolutely terrible decision to follow the ravers out into the desert with his young son, he immediately makes both himself and his child reliant on strangers, some of whom at least speak their language and appear friendly enough. After the initial rave, when it’s broken up by the military and they head on into the desert, every other character they encounter is not only Moroccan, but pastoral country folk. One of their new companions, Josh the British guy, speaks enough Arabic to get them by, but goodness me, if I were in that position, I would not want one random dude being the only thing allowing me to get food, water, and gas in the middle of the desert in a foreign country. 

It works that whatever the conflict is is never made plain to the audience. Maybe I’m a bit geopolitically ignorant when it comes to North Africa, but I have a feeling us and the characters are meant to be on the same level in those terms (I kind of assumed it was supposed to be related to the conflict between Morocco/Western Sahara). Even if it’s not, Laxe and Fillol just made up some vague fighting to loom as an external threat over our characters… it works. When Luis, Esteban, and the ravers first break away from the military round-up, they drive far enough to get away and soon have to stop for supplies (mainly gas, but I feel like a food restock is also implied). The gas station is mobbed by actual Moroccans, who are stocking up in order to flee the burgeoning conflict. They are in the midst of displacement. They are becoming refugees. They are fleeing from their homes with whatever they can carry on their backs.

For the ravers, the line is an inconvenience. They don’t register any danger at all—only that having to wait their turn might throw off their plans. It’s an awful, apathetic attitude about the situation. Their apathy says a lot about our characters, as does their lack of concern for themselves. That’s just not possible without the orientalist element. The scene doesn’t just work as one-off characterization, it comes full circle at the end of the film.

Is it orientalist to use the suffering of non-Westerners (in this case, Moroccans) to further Western plots and make white characters complex? Is it voyeuristic? I guess so, but that’s a critical argument you can make against almost any fim—and has in some notable cases. It’s the same critique Michael Haneke leveled against Schindler’s List and in the same vein as too-online folks who call Sean Baker’s movies poverty-porn or Hamnet grief-porn. It’s a bit too general to apply here. Whereas Schindler’s List and Hamnet are probably too ooey gooey for their own good, the point of art is to elicit emotional and intellectual response. 

I think Sirāt, even though I think it’s straightforward enough, trends towards the latter. It’s a bit of an inquiry into the metaphysical, so it does want you to feel—or not feel. Ideally, the audience perceives that the characters are too callous towards the suffering around them. It should, at least, hit at the end of the film, when the survivors have joined the exodus of native Moroccans fleeing violence. They, like those around them, have been through a lot. Yet, none of it matters when you are all crammed atop a train rolling through the desert—hopefully towards safety, certainly towards the unknown. Everyone has been funnelled onto the same path, no matter where they come from.

It’s obvious what it means in the overarching metaphor, but it’s also some retributive payoff for the carelessness of our white characters. We don’t really get confirmation that they’ve learned their lesson. They don’t look into the camera and say, “We shouldn’t have been so indifferent to the suffering around us for the sake of our own pleasure and escapism, and we understand now that we are all part of one brotherhood struggling to get through this life.” And that’s a part of the nature of filmmaking. The film isn’t a morality play. It’s not for the characters to teach us a lesson. At the Q&A, most of Laxe’s answers circled around to a request for the audience to think for themselves. The ambiguity of Sirāt lends itself perfectly to that—the audience is led to feel, and the thoughts are born from that initial reaction. I think it’s the ideal escalation in the experience of any art form.

Okay, now it’s time to be negative. And also spoil the movie majorly. The two main things I don’t like—one I want to puzzle out, one I just want to say I don’t like and move on from—are the death of Esteban and the minefield. I just didn’t like the minefield. Being a literal minefield, it added some great tension to the movie, but it didn’t really add anything plot-wise or thematically. I guess, if we consider the larger metaphor at play, it’s supposed to represent a precarious point in life wherein folks are suddenly dropping dead (old age?) or crossroads of important decisions (damnifiable ones). It’s probably neither of those things, though. When Luis crosses safely, he credits it to either faith or just moving without thought (for something that’s arguably incredibly important to the film, it’s probably bad I don’t quite remember). I mean, that’s life, isn’t it? There are times when you just don’t know how you’re going to get through… but you just keep pushing forward, and you get to the other side anyways.

So… I guess I couldn’t resist puzzling it out a bit. Maybe I do like that part in the movie—the end goal, at least, and how it works in the allegory. It’s the way it's worked into the plot I’m not a fan of. I don’t know, I just think it feels hamfisted. Of course, it has to be a surprise for it to be as shocking as it is, but maybe something else would’ve been more effective or at least less lame.

Esteban’s death, really, is what I can’t make any sense of. If it’s meant to just be a random tragedy—like any that happens in life—isn’t there enough suffering in this movie already? Worse, if we apply the theological concept of Sirāt, especially with him literally falling off of a cliff, am I supposed to understand that this little boy, after metaphorically wavering on the road to Paradise, fell into Hell? Well… that’s just not very nice, is it? What did that little boy do wrong, metaphorically? I’m generally anti-child when it comes to movies (rare is the good child performance), but man, did that death feel unearned, both narratively and thematically. I’m just so stuck on it. Why’d that little boy go to Hell? That, plus my more superficial ick with the minefield, is where my goodwill about the film falters. 

That being said, I really can’t deny my feelings about the movie are positive overall. You shouldn’t be able to, either, because most of this post is praise and excuses. I just really enjoy an overtly themed but otherwise ambiguous film. It’s nice to be challenged to not only think, but just feel. Maybe I’d also note that it probably helps that I went into their mostly blind, with no expectations or presuppositions. 

The delay in finishing this blog post—the majority of it was completely within the first week or so of my Sirāt watch, but you (maybe) know how bad I am about actually wrapping up these things—has allowed me some complementary viewings. I don’t really want to get fully into them, but my thoughts on orientalism in Sirāt are aligned with the themes of Beau Travail (a rewatch) and The Stranger (the 2025 adaptation of Albert Camus’s novel). Suffice to say, all of these films engage in orientalism by not only depicting, but embodying it. It’s silly to assert that these white, European filmmakers aren’t self-aware (I mean, with The Stranger it’s kind of the whole point). We know the passivity of colonialism breeds inhumanity in the colonizers—do we need to have characters look into the camera and explain that? Do our characters need to directly acknowledge the suffering that colonial structures perpetuate and resound? No, we don’t. Of course, I’d never say that orientalism isn't a relevant or acceptable paradigm to critique these films. I don’t have the right to, and I’m not trying to complain about CANCEL CULTURE and THE WOKE LEFT or whatever, I just enjoyed the movie, and I think that it’s worth engaging on a deeper level. 

Sirāt and its makers ask us to contend with ourselves. How do we understand each other and our place in the world? I felt it, thought about it, and it resonated. It’s simplistic to say that we’re all on the same path, that we all suffer the same, etc., but I think I’ll always be moved by humanist themes. Maybe it’s the potent mix of Catholic guilt and low self-esteem I hold within me, but duplicitous morality is always an extra hook. After all, we’re all wandering searching for our daughters, our better selves, or Paradise. Even for those bereft of spirituality like myself, there’s something that connects us in music and joy just as much as in our struggles and our pain. We’re looking for something, we’re running for something, and we’re all headed to the same place.