Sirat

Somewhere in southern Morocco, a father wanders through a rave at the edge of the world. Luis has come to the desert with his young son, Esteban, and their dog, searching for his daughter Mar, who vanished months ago into the Sahara's underground party scene. When armed officials break up the gathering and word spreads that a global war may be erupting — borders closing, armies on the move — Luis and Esteban set off after a small caravan of ravers heading deeper into the desert, toward one last party, clinging to the hope that Mar might be among them.

The title comes from Islamic tradition: As-Sirât, the bridge over hell "thin as a hair and sharp as a sword" that every soul must cross. Óliver Laxe's film is exactly that kind of crossing — a road movie that opens as a Mad Max–like desert rave and descends, step by step, into something stranger, more physical and more spiritual, a trial that strips its travellers to the bone.

Driven by Kangding Ray's pulsing electronic score and the vast, pitiless landscape, and anchored by a shattering performance from Sergi López, Sirât is overwhelming, sensory cinema — best experienced loud and on the largest screen possible.