Lav Diaz’s Phantosmia, which had its world premiere at the 2024 Venice Film Festival, immerses viewers in a haunting, four-hour journey into the psyche of an ex-soldier grappling with phantosmia — a condition in which he perpetually smells rotten things triggered by his PTSD.

The film’s length might seem daunting, but Diaz’s masterful pacing makes each minute feel necessary, drawing the audience deeply into the external and internal struggles of its main character, Hilarion Zabala (Ronnie Lazaro).

As a retired soldier haunted by memories of past battles, Zabala is advised by his psychiatrist to “re-immerse” himself in military work to confront his trauma. Diaz’s direction seamlessly melds this ex-soldier’s haunting reality with the intimate fractures of his family life.

Zabala’s children, played by Toni Go and Edrick Alcontado, bear the scars of his absence due to his complicated past and love life. His eldest child — a forgiving daughter — offers him a fragile solace, while his second child, a rock-star figure with mime-like body language and a white-painted face, channels his pain into silent, aggressive movements. It’s an emotionally raw portrayal that borders on the humorous while driving home the deep resentment this son harbors for his father.

Expanding the narrative, Phantosmia introduces Janine Gutierrez as Reyna, a poor girl enslaved by her adoptive mother, Narda (Hazel Orencio), an abusive pimp. Narda not only keeps Reyna trapped in a life of exploitation but also enslaves her son, Setong (Arjhay Amado). This subplot explores Narda’s abusive control over her children, highlighting oppression and the abuse of power within the smallest of units — a family.

The film’s themes extend beyond the family, revealing a larger picture of tyranny. The penal colony where Zabala works as a guard is ruled by a corrupt major, played by Paul Jake Paule. The major abuses his position to exploit Reyna without remorse, paralleling the power Narda wields over her children. Through these characters, Diaz emphasizes how unchecked authority festers into violence and oppression in both private and public spheres.

Diaz’s choice of black-and-white cinematography captures every nuance, from moments of personal revelation to confrontations with systemic corruption. The black and white does not feel gimmicky but actually enhances both the visuals and the narrative, drawing the audience deeper into the stark reality of the characters’ lives. Diaz lingers on certain scenes without overindulging, allowing viewers to fully absorb the weight of the unfolding drama.