When the 2025 Chicago International Film Festival closed its doors, three titles stood out for their willingness to interrogate uncomfortable truths. Lav Diaz returns with a period piece that revisits the Spanish conquest of the Philippines, Ali Asgari presents a bleak yet humane portrait of a doctor on the brink in contemporary Tehran, and Neto Villalobos offers a future-facing family drama wrapped in thriller conventions. Together, they form a miniature survey of how filmmakers worldwide are using long-form storytelling to question power, memory and love.
Lav Diaz’s spiritual sequel to Magellan
Diaz’s newest work, Let Us Through, Dear Ancestors, moves the narrative clock back to 1617, a time when Spanish missionaries imposed a brutal regime on the archipelago. Padre Enciso (Bart Guingona) is the embodiment of colonial ambition: he commands an enslaved workforce to haul marble through hostile jungle terrain, all to raise a church that never actually appears on screen. The film’s premise—an arduous transport mission—echoes classic cargo-drama thrillers such as The Wages of Fear, yet Diaz refuses conventional suspense. Instead of dramatizing every peril, he lingers on the aftermath of loss, allowing the audience to feel the weight of unseen deaths. By never showing the church, Diaz underscores the idea that the institution’s shadow—its cultural domination—outlives any physical structure.
The visual language remains unmistakably Diaz: static compositions, long takes, and a muted palette that forces viewers to confront the monotony of oppression. The director’s choice to keep the narrative focus on the enslaved labourers rather than the priest highlights a crucial point—while Enciso is a monster, the true horror lies in the system that permits his cruelty to take root. The film’s relentless pacing can feel exhausting, but for those willing to endure, it delivers a haunting meditation on colonial legacies that still echo in modern Philippine society.
Ali Asgari’s A Bit of Light: a personal revolt against despair
Set against the backdrop of the renewed U.S.–Iran tension, A Bit of Light follows Dr. Arash (Missagh Zareh), whose medical licence is revoked after treating protestors. Facing professional exile, Arash announces his intention to end his life. The next 87 minutes become a road-movie of conversations with his three siblings and his mother, each offering a distinct perspective on suicide, agency and resistance. The brother, Maziar, urges indulgence in vices, the sister Mahsa frames the decision in spiritual terms, while the eldest sibling Massi argues from a pragmatic standpoint tinged with familial resentment.
What prevents the screenplay from slipping into melodrama is Asgari’s subtle balance of dark humor and stark realism. A performance art scene—where Arash is thrust onto stage to confront a wounded protester—acts as a microcosm of the film’s larger ethical dilemma: how far can a healer go when the state criminalises compassion? Executive producer Taika Waititi’s involvement might suggest a lighter tone, yet the film remains grounded, largely thanks to the razor-sharp writing of Asgari and co-writer Shadmehr Rastin. Zareh delivers a restrained yet deeply affecting turn, proving his versatility beyond the terrifying father role he played in The Seed of the Sacred Fig. The result is an intimate portrait of personal agency fighting against the machinery of oppression.
Love is the Monster: family bonds in a dystopian frontier
In Neto Villalobos’s Love is the Monster, the future is a fenced-in landscape where men fight distant wars and civilians live behind fortified walls. The central figure is Abuela (Pauline García), a seventy-year-old matriarch yearning to reconnect with her estranged daughter and beloved granddaughter. As external threats—kidnappings by striking workers—loom, Abuela’s attempts at redemption become increasingly desperate, culminating in moments of both tender affection and harrowing missteps, such as accidentally locking her grandchild in a car.
While the screenplay, co-written with Diego van der Laat, occasionally stumbles when trying to merge domestic drama with thriller elements, García’s performance anchors the film. She portrays an aging woman whose flaws are laid bare: selfishness, stubbornness, and an earnest desire to repair past mistakes. The chemistry between García and young actress Gloriana Vargas lends authenticity to scenes that might otherwise feel contrived. Although the film’s premise risks becoming an over-cooked allegory about love turning monstrous, the raw emotional core, powered by García’s unapologetic portrayal, keeps the audience invested.
Collectively, these three works demonstrate how filmmakers from different continents are expanding the limits of narrative cinema. Whether it is Diaz’s unflinching look at colonial exploitation, Asgari’s personal rebellion against political repression, or Villalobos’s exploration of familial sacrifice in a speculative world, each director invites viewers to linger on uncomfortable questions rather than offer easy resolutions. For cinephiles seeking depth over spectacle, these films merit both patience and applause.
