Santiago Lozano Álvarez’s I Saw Three Black Lights is a film rooted in spiritual inquiry, but defined by narrative restraint—a work that understands the weight of faith, death, and cultural identity, yet struggles to translate that weight into dramatic progression.
At its core, the film operates within a familiar critical truth: all cinema is inherently political, but not all films actively engage with the realities that shape lived experience. Here, Álvarez does. The film situates its protagonist within a world shaped by religious tension, repression, and the quiet erosion of personal freedom. Yet rather than confront these forces through conventional narrative escalation, it chooses observation over confrontation—at times to its benefit, but more often to its detriment.
“A film that understands the weight of faith, but struggles to carry it forward.”
This is a deeply character-driven film, one that follows its central figure through a journey defined less by transformation than by endurance. The script, co-written by Álvarez and Fernando del Razo, introduces themes of grief, belief, and spiritual obligation with clarity, but rarely develops them beyond their initial articulation. The ideas are present—often compelling—but they remain largely static.
That stillness becomes the film’s defining limitation.
No matter what unfolds across the protagonist’s journey, the internal dynamics remain unchanged. The dialogue suggests reflection, even conflict, but the character’s actions resist evolution. The result is a narrative that feels suspended—less a progression than a repetition. Scenes shift, environments change, but the emotional and psychological core remains fixed. What should feel like a journey instead registers as stasis.
From a storytelling perspective, this lack of movement undercuts the film’s potential. The absence of escalation or transformation creates a flattening effect, draining the narrative of urgency. Conflict exists, but it rarely lands. Stakes are implied, but never fully realized. It’s not that the film lacks meaning—it’s that it struggles to translate meaning into momentum.
And yet, Álvarez’s direction complicates that criticism.
“Visually arresting, narratively suspended.”
Where the script falters, the filmmaking itself often compensates. The pacing, while undeniably monotone, is deliberate and controlled. There are no sharp tonal shifts, no artificial peaks or valleys. The film moves with a steady, almost meditative rhythm, one that invites the viewer to sit within its world rather than be guided through it. Whether that approach feels immersive or inert will depend entirely on the viewer’s tolerance for stillness.
Visually, however, the film is undeniable.
Cinematographer Juan David Velásquez delivers work that not only elevates the material but, at times, sustains it entirely. The compositions are precise, often lingering, allowing landscapes and environments to carry emotional weight where the narrative does not. There is a tactile quality to the imagery—a sense of place that feels both intimate and expansive. The film understands how to look, even when it struggles with how to move.
At the center of it all is Jesús María Mina, whose performance anchors the film with quiet authority. Mina doesn’t approach the role through overt expression, but through presence. His performance is internal, restrained, and deeply felt—giving the audience something to hold onto even when the narrative offers little propulsion.
“Jesús María Mina anchors the film with a presence that the script itself cannot sustain.”
He doesn’t transform the character so much as inhabit him, allowing belief, grief, and obligation to exist simultaneously without forcing resolution. It is, in many ways, the performance the film needs—because while the character may not evolve in a traditional sense, Mina ensures he remains watchable, grounded in a humanity that the script itself only intermittently supports.
Ultimately, I Saw Three Black Lights is a film caught between intention and execution. It is rich in theme, visually striking, and anchored by a compelling central performance, but undermined by a script that resists development. The result is a work that feels less like a completed journey and more like a sustained moment—one that is often beautiful, occasionally insightful, but rarely transformative.
It is a film that asks for patience, but doesn’t always reward it.
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