A folktale, a horror story, a cautionary fable, and a biblical parable rolled into one. There's very little gore or bloodshed (but what there is will scar you), yet every minute of it feels like the air is being sucked from the room.
Luz is a parable that looks like it was filmed in paradise. There's an ethereal quality to this world that feels far removed from reality. The skies are forever painted in vanilla and crimson. The horizon stretches forever to caress the mountain peaks. The forests are lush and deep. Beauty is highlighted by the absence of things. There is nothing beyond this realm. It's so captivating that by the time we realize there's also no escape, director Juan Diego Escobar Alzate has already ensnared us into El Señor's trap.
By the time we begin to look elsewhere, the grainy image reveals perpetually disheveled faces, endless sweat, and grime for days. The film feels heavy and humid, as if the temperatures from far away seep through the canvas. Alzate keeps the framing tight when he's with people, and wide as they are alone. Community is oppressive, nature is limitless, and the closer we're drawn in the hotter the room gets.
This is Alzate's first feature film and it's a remarkable debut. His story is told with tense minimalism without any extra fat on it. It also resists the urges that most new storytellers fall into, and reigns the visuals in at every turn instead of showing everything. The decision pays off in spades, as the implications are far more horrifying. Only a single scene tips the scales, but it's the kind of moment that people will speak of for years to come.
Luz is a parable that looks like it was filmed in paradise. There's an ethereal quality to this world that feels far removed from reality. The skies are forever painted in vanilla and crimson. The horizon stretches forever to caress the mountain peaks. The forests are lush and deep. Beauty is highlighted by the absence of things. There is nothing beyond this realm. It's so captivating that by the time we realize there's also no escape, director Juan Diego Escobar Alzate has already ensnared us into El Señor's trap.
By the time we begin to look elsewhere, the grainy image reveals perpetually disheveled faces, endless sweat, and grime for days. The film feels heavy and humid, as if the temperatures from far away seep through the canvas. Alzate keeps the framing tight when he's with people, and wide as they are alone. Community is oppressive, nature is limitless, and the closer we're drawn in the hotter the room gets.
This is Alzate's first feature film and it's a remarkable debut. His story is told with tense minimalism without any extra fat on it. It also resists the urges that most new storytellers fall into, and reigns the visuals in at every turn instead of showing everything. The decision pays off in spades, as the implications are far more horrifying. Only a single scene tips the scales, but it's the kind of moment that people will speak of for years to come.