Dancing on the Edge: Kangding Ray’s Sonic Vision for Sirat
- Ma Guanghui
- Aug 14
- 13 min read
Sirat didn’t win “big” at Cannes 2025 — instead, it took home the Jury Prize, almost an consolation prize. Yet for many critics and festivalgoers, it was the true best of the festival.
In a competition judged by a nine-member elite jury, the outcome is rarely “fair” in any objective sense — too much depends on personal taste. Beyond the official prizes, alternative rankings by unofficial outlets often provide a clearer picture of a film’s artistic impact. The most influential among them include the Screen International grid, the International Cinephile Society (ICS) panel, and one overall critics’ grid voted on by over a thousand accredited journalists. In many of these, Sirat emerged as the champion of the main competition — the true “uncrowned king” of Cannes 2025.
In Islamic belief, the Sirat is a bridge — thinner than a hair, sharper than a blade — stretched over hellfire that all souls must cross after death. Filmed in the Sahara, Sirat reimagines this concept as a grueling journey. Set in a future ravaged by the third world war, the film follows a group of subcultural “refugees” from Europe who plunge deep into the desert, seeking out a kind of radical Burning Man-style rave. One step from heaven or hell, one step from collapse or transcendence — the film balances precariously on this spiritual and existential edge.
Bridging these extremes is a pounding techno score by French electronic musician Kangding Ray (born David Letellier), whose artist name reflects his early time living in Kangding, Sichuan province of China. Techno rooted from Detroit in 1980s, it’s driving, minimal and percussive. The music at first feels like an odd choice, almost absurd. A line of futuristic sound systems being assembled in the sand, cut into the dry quiet of the desert valley, has a surreal dissonance. In his previous film O que arde, director Óliver Laxe used Vivaldi’s arias and Andreas Scholl’s ethereal countertenor voice to elevate his already poetic imagery. That was graceful — if a little too expected. This time, Laxe gives out a command to fall. Kangding Ray takes it literally, tethering transcendence to the ground with rhythm, bass, and sweat. In this film, the “high” and the “low” — spirit and flesh, void and rave — don’t flow in a one-way vertical hierarchy. They loop. After years of harsh reality — pandemic, war and social upheaval — Laxe’s film offers a quiet faith: that sacredness can still emerge from collapse.
In most films, music adds only an emotional filter. In Sirat, it’s structural — take it away, and the film couldn’t make sense at all. Kangding Ray’s soundtrack, composed mostly before shooting even began, grants the music a surprising independence. Yet its deep entanglement with the film scenes ensures it remains inseparable from the images. This is minimalism not in style, but in method — a reminder that new languages don’t come from more material, but from new perspectives.
The night before Cannes’ main competition awards were announced, the 15th Cannes Soundtrack Award named Kangding Ray its winner — joining the ranks of previous honorees like Mica Levi (The Zone of Interest), Daniel Lopatin aka Oneohtrix Point Never (Good Time), and Lim Giong (The Assassin).
On the morning of May 24, Sirat was screened one last time at the Debussy Theatre in Cannes. After 90 minutes, the entire city of Cannes lost power. The screening halted abruptly. Some audience members walked out in confusion. Others, moved by the techno, started dancing in the aisles. One person cried out: “This is the most immersive film I’ve seen. I won’t leave until I finish it.” A short apology was broadcast. Then, in a poetic turn, Beethoven’s string quartet filled the anxious room. Six minutes later, the lights faded again. The classical stepped out, the techno resumed.
We had the pleasure to speak with Kangding Ray on May 22.
I was a bit afraid, to be honest, because I felt like it was very ambitious — and very crazy in a way.
G=Ma Guanghui
K=Kangding Ray
G: How did you get involved with this production? Is this your first time working with Óliver Laxe?
K: It's my first time working with Óliver, but it's my second score. I've done one German film before. Sirat has been a pretty amazing journey. We've been working on the score for a year and a half. I started working when he approached me — he knew my music and wanted me to get involved in the film, so he sent me the script.
We worked a lot based only on the script, the story, and the impression it gave me. It was much more of a mental approach to the music. I didn’t score to the images — I scored based on the story and what was inside Óliver’s head.
G: That's amazing, because usually composers make the music based on the images.
K: It was more, you know, a discussion — because we had really long work sessions, sometimes lasting five days. I would stay at my place, and we’d work in the studio and try things. He would tell me about the movie he had in his head, and I was producing sounds and themes. At some point, we managed to find the texture and the right atmosphere. It was all about finding the right tone for what Óliver had in his mind.
G: Can I say Óliver is a fan of yours?
K: Yeah, I mean, he loves my music very much. He basically loved both sides of it — the more techno-driven work, but also the more ambient, atmospheric, mental, hypnotic side. I have quite a wide range of music in my discography, and he had been listening to it. So he just approached me. And when someone like Óliver reaches out, I just wanted to follow him on this crazy adventure.
G: What was your initial reaction to the script?
K: I was a bit afraid, to be honest, because I felt like it was very ambitious — and very crazy in a way. There were many things I was almost unsure about. I was like, “Are you sure you really want to go there?” But at some point, you know, he’s the director, so you have to follow him. There’s a level of trust you need to build — and I built that trust. I said, “Okay, I’ll make the music, I’m at the service of your vision. I’ll do my best, and we’ll make a really crazy film together.” But first, I had to trust his vision.
G: But I feel like somehow you can resonate with this story, right?
K: Yes, I totally relate. It resonates so much with my music — the mystical approach, the rave scene, and the fact that we’re showing people who are not usually represented in cinema. It’s a subculture, and I wanted to represent it in the best, most respectful way possible. These are marginalized people, often invisible to society. They travel in trucks, live on the fringes, and choose to live outside of contemporary modern society. But at the same time, they’re very pure.
Even though I live in a city like Berlin and am more connected to society, I really relate to this state of mind. And I also really loved Óliver’s mystical approach — it’s a very spiritual film, I think. I learned a lot just by talking to Óliver — about spirituality, about what it means, about our relationship to death, and the journey we’re all taking in life. It was an incredible learning experience — like having a teacher.
G: Who took the lead during the music production process? Was it you or Óliver?
K: I mean, I did the music — I was responsible for the music. He followed my lead in that sense, but of course, it was a dialogue. When I compose music, I want to resonate with an idea. I don’t just make random cool music — that doesn’t interest me. I want the music to be exactly what’s needed for the images.
Óliver trusted me with the music. He told me several times that this was one of the most intellectually stimulating collaborations he’s ever had. We had deep conversations, talking about ideas and how to translate them into sound for the film. So he guided me conceptually, and I created the sounds as we went along.
Most of the music was made during the first phase — before the shoot. Then I adjusted things when the editing came in. That adjustment process took a long time too; it was very precise work. But the core material was already there. I’d say 90% of the material was done before filming. Some things were adjusted later, but it was more about fitting it to the final cut — refining the placement.
The nice thing is that they could shoot with the music already in mind. In a way, the edit followed the music more than the music followed the edit.
It’s no longer about entertainment. It becomes a soul-searching experience.
G: I also listened to the soundtrack you made for Wann kommst du meine Wunden küssen. I feel like that one was more ambient and restrained — compared to what you did for Sirat, which feels more raw and intense, like techno in its pure and brutal form. What led you to this different approach?
K: Because I listened to the director. That first film is a very delicate one, directed by Hanna Doose. It's a fragile story about three women going through a kind of crisis. There’s no action, no big drama — it’s all emotions and dialogue. It’s a very restrained and tender film. It’s beautiful, but it’s not intense or crazy or action-driven. So the sound had to match the tone. If I had done something too intense for it, it would have been completely out of place.
But with Sirat, we wanted the music to match the energy of the film. And the energy is like a slap in the face. It’s a descent into the abyss. The film starts with techno and then slowly dissolves — until, by the end, there’s almost nothing left. That was the idea: to show a journey from the rave, the intensity, those massive techno slaps at the beginning, and then gradually dissolve into something more like a soundtrack — beautiful, granular, almost like grains of sand.
So I used the sound of wind, the sound of sand, the feeling of the desert, the idea of the horizon. And of course, there's a psychedelic approach, because the whole thing is kind of like a trip — a psychedelic trip.
And because the story itself dissolves — the film becomes more abstract, more fragmented — the sound had to follow that energy, to slowly go towards nothingness.
G: Okay, this just leads perfectly to my next question. I feel like we can split the film into two parts. The first part is a journey of searching — searching for the daughter and also for the next rave. The second part feels like a struggle for survival — everyone doesn’t know when they’re going to die. You’ve already explained your different musical approaches to these two sides of the story.
K: Yeah. But there's also another kind of searching — a search for the self. The search is no longer outward, it becomes inward. And because this is an immersive film, we wanted to express that to the audience — that you're not watching the film, you're in the film.
The sound pulls you in, makes you part of it. So as a spectator, you're also searching — but inside yourself. You start asking: What am I afraid of?
You’re confronted with things you usually can’t — or don’t want to — see. So it’s no longer about entertainment. It becomes a soul-searching experience.
G: Yeah, I totally agree. I feel like in many parts of the film, I just wanted to stand up and dance — but, you know, I couldn’t do that. Many films use electronic elements in the score, like the works of Cliff Martinez, Oneohtrix Point Never, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and Alva Noto. But what you did for Sirat feels completely different.
K: Yeah. I mean, there are different approaches to this. Alva Noto, for example, is a good case — he’s one of my mentors. He’s the one who really introduced me to the world of music. He was one of the first artists I connected with when I arrived in Berlin.
Same with Ryuichi Sakamoto. I met both of them, and we played together in Japan and Europe. But over the years, I gradually developed my own approach — something much more raw, visceral, and psychedelic.
Of course, I’m still influenced by those mentors — Sakamoto, Alva Noto — but my world now is a blend of experimental music, the Berlin techno scene, and the psychedelic festival culture in Europe and Japan, which I’m very involved in.
So when I make music for film, all of those influences come together. I have a knowledge of both the more academic, experimental, institutional music world — and also the most underground raves and clubs. That’s why I can bring both faces into the film.
G: Have you ever discussed with Óliver why he wanted techno for this film? The reason I ask is that in his last feature, he used a lot of classical music — which is totally different from Sirat.
K: Yeah. Again, I think it’s a matter of matching the culture he wants to represent. The culture in this film is one of raw experience through dance. Dance is at the center. Dance is a form of being alive — of still being alive — and also of overcoming adversity. A lot of the characters have disabilities — they’ve lost a hand, they’ve suffered. And dance becomes a form of catharsis for that suffering.
There’s a strong connection between religion and dance, between spirituality and dance. I think Nietzsche once said, “I would not trust a god who doesn't dance.” So dance is a kind of affirmation — it’s how we express who we are as human beings. It doesn’t need to make sense. It’s a celebration of life.
So that’s one element. We wanted this strong, intense way of dancing — not just a little movement, but really going for it, in a very powerful, almost primal way.
And then there's another element: texture. The texture of the desert. The desert isn’t soft. It’s not glossy or smooth — it’s granular. It’s sand, rocks, scorching sun, infinite horizon, dried-up riverbeds.
The sound needed to reflect that. That’s why, in our very first discussions, Óliver and I talked a lot about this: What is the sound of the desert? How do you convey this feeling of vastness — of being so small, so insignificant in front of the sky? It’s a confrontation with the immensity of the universe — and a search for who you are within it.
They’re real people. They’re not playing roles.
G: Just to follow up on what you just said — I was really fascinated by how your score sometimes merges with the film's sound design. Please correct me if I’m wrong, but during one desert driving scene, I felt like the friction of the wind, the sand, and the car almost formed a rhythm. I could hear a kind of boom boom — like a hidden pulse underneath everything.
K: Yeah, sometimes we used sound elements to match and blend. And sometimes you don’t even know exactly what you’re hearing. The wind is often incorporated — like, sometimes something passes and rises up, and I use that in the score to blend elements together.
The sound design elements — like the truck sounds and other effects — were created by Laia Casanovas. But of course, we worked very closely together. It was a team effort. We’re all working toward one vision, so everything — the score, the sound design — needs to be connected and flow as one.
G: In traditional film scoring, composers often rely on recurring themes, motifs, and variations. Do you also work this way?
K: There is one motif that we used — it’s kind of the theme of the film. It appears in three different forms. The first time it shows up is during the rave. It’s the underlying motif of one of the rave tracks — the last one, before… well, I won’t spoil it, but let’s say the last rave track. That’s where it starts, and it launches the journey. This underlying motif then appears maybe two or three more times throughout the film, but each time it becomes more and more degraded — almost disintegrated. By the end, it’s unrecognizable. It's like the sound slowly decays, mirroring the degradation in the film itself.
You can interpret that in many ways, but one inspiration was this very important piece by William Basinski called The Disintegration Loops. He used tape loops and played them for hours until the physical material of the tape began to degrade. That process of physical disintegration really inspired me — the idea of a sound becoming unrecognizable as it falls apart.
G: I also found it quite funny when Jade, the leading female raver, says something like, “This music is not for listening — it’s for dancing.” She’s basically explaining the rave scene to the father.
K: Yeah, she says that in response to the father, and it’s a very nice scene because you can feel that he’s really annoyed — he actually hates the music. But he has to go through it. And slowly, he begins to understand why they’re doing this. That scene is like a ceremonial introduction — a way of showing him, and the audience, why this matters.
The father, in this case, represents the establishment. A lot of people — especially from outside the scene — say things like, “Techno is just noise. It’s just boom boom boom.” But for those who are part of the scene, who are immersed in it, it’s not noise at all. “Noise” is always in the ear of the listener. If you don’t have the cultural context, of course you’ll think it’s too loud or meaningless. You might prefer something like classical strings. But if you're part of this culture, the meaning of what you call “noise” changes completely.
This has always been the case throughout music history. When punk first arrived, the establishment called it noise too. There’s this famous interview with Iggy Pop where he says something like, “They call our music noise.” That’s what always happens — when people don’t understand a new sound or movement, they dismiss it as noise. And yes, it is noisy, just like punk. But once you understand the attitude and the cultural meaning behind it, it’s no longer noise — it becomes music.
In the film, the father says something like, “I can't tell the difference — it all sounds the same.” And she replies, “Yeah, but it’s not for listening. It’s for dancing.” That’s how you understand it — through movement, through being in it. Of course, there are layers. You can also just listen to the music without dancing, and it still means something. But this scene reflects how the system — the establishment — views subcultures like rave.
G: And also, it feels quite physical from what you just said — especially considering the choice of actors.
K: Yes, exactly. They’re not professional actors. They come from the real rave scene, from the free party scene. They were cast directly from that world. So they’re real people — they’re not playing roles. You can't get more authentic than that.
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