A retro Fulci-esque horror that crackles with tension
When you attend Fantastic Fest, you are facing plenty of films that could easily be labelled as “not for everyone.” Within sub-genres, Italian horror is one such category. It’s often slow burn, moody fare, placing tone above propulsive and structured storytelling. That description is a warning for some, but a beckoning signal to many; and from my perspective, it’s intended as a compliment. Luz is a a lo-fi, technically accomplished debut from Tilman Singer, that feels like a retro throwback, creaking open a window to gaze upon an evil quietly clawing its way into our world.
After surviving a car accident, taxi driver Luz Carrara (Luana Velis) is taken in to a police station, whereupon she starts exhibiting strange behavior. This, coupled with memory loss, prompts detective Bertillion (Nadja Stübiger) to call in psychiatrist Dr. Rossini (Jan Bluthardt) and translator/sound tech Olarte (Johannes Benecke), who specialize in a type of regressive hypnotherapy designed to help people reenact and remember memories of incidents lost to trauma. During the session they find that the incident began when Luz picked up a old childhood friend at the airport, a woman named Nora Vanderkurt (Julia Riedler) who is now missing but had a mysterious encounter with Rossini earlier in the evening. The reunion between Luz and Nora stirred up memories of a ritual they performed while in school together, and an entity that may hold the answer to what happened in that fateful ride.
Luz can best be described as a film that does a lot with little, from an enigmatic scene in a bar where we’re first introduced to Nora and Dr. Rossini, to a conference room with a sound-booth in the corner where we spend most of the runtime. The hypnotherapy that unfolds here is the fulcrum of the film, with Luz reenacting that fateful incident, switching between reenacting her cab drive on a chair in the conference room and flashbacks to paint a more detailed picture. Velis is like a great mime artist in these sequences, adjusting her mirror, spitting out of the window, cussing at people on the street. It’s a performance filled with sass and energy that does as much to pull you in as the other facets of the film. Clues and details begin to sketch out the truth behind what happened, not just in the cab ride and apparent disappearance of Nora, but also between this woman and Luz back in their Catholic school days, an incident involving the recitation of a twisted version of the Lord’s Prayer…“Our father, why art thou such a dick? Thy kingdom stinks, Thy shall be done in the crotch of an old Grandpa.” We watch this all unfold with the knowledge of an encounter in the film’s opening act where Nora drunkenly seduced Dr. Rossini, leading to some kind of supernatural light passing between them in a bathroom stall encounter. This positions Dr. Rossini as something as a puppeteer as he leads the hypnotherapy session, and also has some connection to the evil force looming large over everything. As great as Velis is in this sequence, the final act of the film belongs to Jan Bluthardt as what lies within emerges and seeks to complete the journey that Luz initiated in her childhood. There’s a disturbing procession of behavior as his body loses itself to its new inhabitant. Credit must also go to Benecke, whose tech guy acts as a pressure valve, providing some lighter moments as the insanity escalates outside his booth.
Apparently a film-studies thesis project by director Tilman Singer, it’s more readily apparent as an homage to Fulci and Cronenberg. A slow burn horror that verges on experimental filmmaking, shot on 16mm, it oozes an ominous, stark atmosphere with lo-fi practical effects — think smoke machines and contact lenses. It’s a gritty and chilling vision from DP Paul Faltz. The retro feel of the piece is aided by production design, hinting at an ‘80s/‘90s setting, while a score from Simon Waskow again invokes the film’s Italian fore-bearers with a stonking synth/sax heavy score. Luz can drag on occasion, and like its Italian antecedents, it emphasizes mood rather than momentum. Still, even at only 70 minutes it can feel a little stretched; but even in these more mundane moments, it’s remarkably moody fare.
While unlikely to draw in conventional audiences, to others Luz will feel like a treasure, akin to a lost ‘70s Bava gem unearthed and shared at rep screenings. A clever conceit, executed with a minimal budget but undeniable atmosphere, that showcases Tilman Singer’s craft and storytelling abilities. Luz is portentous pastiche that manages to showcases the unique stylings of its director while offering evocative retro horror.
