Picture this: a pulsating, otherworldly rave that isn't just a flashy backdrop—it's the pulsating core of an Oscar-contending film, drawing viewers into a tale of desperation and decay. That's the electrifying premise of 'Sirāt,' Spain's entry for the 2026 Academy Awards in the international feature category, directed by the visionary Oliver Laxe. But here's where it gets intriguing: this isn't your typical Hollywood party scene; it's a raw, immersive dive into the underground rave culture, where a desperate father played by Sergi López hunts for his vanished daughter as apocalyptic chaos unfolds around them. If you've ever wondered how filmmakers capture the wild energy of late-1980s rave origins in cinema, with hits and misses along the way, 'Sirāt' might just redefine what a dance festival on screen can achieve.
For those new to the scene, raves are these legendary underground gatherings born in the late '80s, featuring electronic music, flashing lights, and a sense of communal euphoria—think massive crowds dancing under the stars, often in unconventional locations. Laxe, who's deeply immersed in the nomadic rave world and free party movements for years, insisted on authenticity as the cornerstone of 'Sirāt.' To bring this vision alive, he collaborated closely with production designer Laia Ateca and two vibrant collectives: Trackers and Drop’in Caravan. Ateca, drawing inspiration from the golden era of raves in the 1990s and early 2000s, even took a weekend immersion trip to soak up the vibe firsthand. Yet, Laxe had one non-negotiable demand: a colossal wall of speakers that would echo against the mountainous walls of their filming spot in Rambla de Barrachina, Spain, doubling as Morocco in the story.
Of course, capturing the essence of a modern rave meant letting the collectives orchestrate a real three-day event, which brought its own set of compromises. As Ateca explains with a chuckle, 'We had to keep the music blasting non-stop for four full days, avoid harsh overlighting to preserve that intimate, nocturnal atmosphere—cinema lights would shatter the mood—and embrace their standard speakers, even if they were a tad smaller than ideal.' But size proved irrelevant; the sheer power of those speakers created visible sound waves rippling through drinks at the bar, far from the dance floor. It's a perfect example of how raw, unscripted elements can amplify cinematic storytelling, turning potential limitations into strengths.
And this is the part most people miss: Laxe's creative flair stems from striking visual concepts rather than plot twists. He obsessed over a specific image—a laser beam slicing through the mountain, tracing the path of the sound before splitting into two enigmatic boxes. Achieving this was no small task; initial computer-generated versions fell flat, leading to real-world tests with massive lasers. 'The mountain was farther away than it appeared,' Ateca recalls, 'so we deployed six enormous lasers, installed safety measures to protect dancers' eyes, and even built a tower to position them safely above the crowd. It was a monumental effort!' This highlights for beginners how filmmaking often blends high-tech wizardry with practical ingenuity to create unforgettable scenes.
Beyond budget constraints, shooting in Spain allowed for a genuine turnout of real ravers—around 1,000 showed up, though Laxe had hoped for 3,000 and producers braced for 2,000. As he notes, 'Not everyone's dancing constantly; many chill in trucks or nap. But it was sufficient to fuel the energy.' No rave thrives without killer beats, and that fell to composer Kangding Ray, a celebrated French electronic artist who not only attended but DJ'd an extended set on-site. The track kicking off the film and fueling the rave sequence, 'Amber Decay,' is a remixed version of his decade-old hit—sped up and grittier for the occasion. 'It's got over a million YouTube views and countless licensing pitches I've turned down,' Ray shares, underscoring how unexpected collaborations can resurrect old favorites.
But here's where it gets controversial: During the shoot, Laxe grappled with ethical dilemmas. Some participants indulged a bit too freely, which he chose not to depict, fearing it might exploit their vulnerability. He also worried about intruding on their personal sanctuary. Wrapping up the Spanish leg of filming, he finally let loose to celebrate. 'At dawn, I spotted cameras on the dance floor and felt invaded,' he admits. 'It turned out to be my own crew—I'd forgotten about the second unit. I threw this party for filming, but then I got swept up in the moment, only to realize the film was capturing me too. It was like birthing a Frankenstein monster, blurring reality and art.' This raises a provocative question: When does documenting an authentic event cross into appropriation? Is it artistic genius or a breach of trust?
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
Laxe emphasizes that his cinematic touches arise from visuals, not just stories. That laser through the mountain was his fixation, evolving from sound waves to split boxes. It wasn't straightforward, especially since CG didn't work.
“We conducted laser experiments and discovered the mountain's true distance,” Ateca shares. “We used six powerful lasers, added safety protocols to prevent eye injuries, and prohibited wandering near the beam. We erected a tower to elevate them, ensuring the dance floor stayed safe. It was quite the undertaking.”
Financially, filming in Spain maximized real attendees. With roughly 1,000 ravers present, Laxe felt a hint of letdown—he'd aimed for 3,000. (Producers dreaded 2,000.) “They're not always on the floor,” he explains. “Half might be in vehicles or resting. Still, it sufficed.”
A rave needs rhythm, entrusted to composer Kangding Ray, who performed a lengthy DJ set during production. The film's opening and rave music, “Amber Decay,” is a remastered older track he adapted for Laxe—faster and rawer.
(NEON)
“Interestingly, this piece is over 10 years old with numerous licensing inquiries,” Ray notes. “It boasts more than a million YouTube plays, my top track, yet I've declined all offers.”
Amid the rave, Laxe questioned if they'd gone too far creatively. Some ravers overindulged, which he avoided showing. He sensed they were encroaching on private moments. After three weeks, as Spanish shooting ended, he joined the festivities.
“When sunrise broke, I saw cameras encroaching on the dance floor,” Laxe remembers. “It infuriated me, feeling like an invasion. Then I realized it was my team—I'd overlooked the second unit still filming. ... I orchestrated a party to film, but immersed myself in the reality I sought. The film ended up capturing me, as I refused to halt. Yet, it felt monstrous, like creating a Frankenstein.”
More to Read
What do you think? Does turning a real-life rave into cinematic art justify the potential intrusion on personal experiences? Or is it an innovative way to honor underground culture? Is Laxe's 'Frankenstein' analogy spot-on, or do you see it differently? Debate in the comments—I'm eager to hear your take!
