The curse

A visceral, dreamlike descent into Venezuela’s soul—where revolution is not just politics but raw metaphysics. Through stark landscapes, faces, and fire, the film mirrors Nietzsche’s eternal chaos: oil as Dionysian sacrifice, crowds as living waves, power as both creator and destroyer. Beauty and decay collide in a hypnotic dance of force

It starts with a single men starving, then ten, ten thousand, until the hunger is no longer for bread but for ruin.

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Soldiers as porcelain clones—trapped in history’s loop. Like China’s terracotta army, they march for a revolution that eats its own. The masks hide no faces, only the hunger for power that turns liberators into statues

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Porcelain soldiers stand stacked in a crumbling monument—frozen mid-collapse, like revolutions that never reach their height. Each shattered figure bears a barcode, revealing real stories of political violence: victims and perpetrators blurred, history’s cycle laid bare

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Step into darkness, where only a blood-red pulse reveals the truth beneath your feet—shattered porcelain hands, frozen in revolution's eternal scream. Some clutch berets like sacred relics, others beg for mercy already denied. This is the moment before history chooses its villains and heroes, when rage and despair are still the same raw, untamed force.

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A labyrinth of wax and petroleum—the raw materials of saints and bombs. The deeper you go, the more the walls cling, until you face the core truth: a porcelain serpent (the people’s rage) and a golden one (the state’s hunger), locked in a dance where every revolution is just the prelude to its own betrayal. The exit? There isn’t one.

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"Two thrones—'Oppressor' and 'Liberator'—cast from the same porcelain. Between them, history loops: the same fists, the same purges, the same fire. A whisper cuts through: 'You are the hero. So were they.' The only difference is who sits. The throne never changes."

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Beneath the shroud: a growling, breathing monument that never reveals itself. The sheet billows like a living thing—sub-bass trembling through your ribs—but when it drops, there’s only empty space and a whirring fan. The revolution isn’t here. It never was. And yet, you still felt its teeth.

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A gleaming cannon aimed at the exit, its barrel packed with shredded constitutions. Every 10 minutes, it 'fires'—only to spit out paper scraps and a child’s laugh. The leaders’ portraits watch with darting eyes, as the plaque taunts: 'An empty gun is the deadliest.' History’s violence, reduced to confetti and echoes.

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Ankle-deep in crimson water, you wade through a sea of porcelain hands—some clutching power, others shattered. Distorted anthems hum beneath the surface as waves clatter the fragments like bones. The water rises. A counter ticks: another refugee, another ghost. The exit never gets closer, only farther away.