I’m not sure if there was a projection issue at the cinema where I watched Lav Diaz’ Magellan, but it looked like it had not been color corrected. It almost felt like a deliberate low-budget aesthetic — footage left ungraded to convey a documentary feel. It is confusing, especially compared with the gorgeous visuals in the trailer.

That, however, is not my main complaint. Diaz’s 2025 Cannes film, which the Philippines has submitted for the 2026 Best International Feature Oscar, reflects his signature style as a slow cinema auteur. His films are long, self-indulgent works, designed less for entertainment than for reflection and contemplation.

The problem with Magellan is not its length or contemplative pace. It is that it often feels staged, losing the hyperrealism it seems to aim for.

Shot in a nearly square 4:3 aspect ratio, the compositions are consistently layered. Landscapes, jungles and beaches are framed with foreground, midground and background, giving the 16th-century world visual depth that almost feels three-dimensional.

Yet, as in previous Diaz films, there is a telenovela quality that keeps pulling you out of the film, with some performances carrying a melodramatic tone. It creates a disturbing dissonance, placing theatrical acting in what is supposed to be ruminative, art-house cinema.

The film opens with a female native in Malacca, genitals exposed, scooping water from a knee-deep river. She performs a scripted, screaming action and runs away. This stagey feel continues, especially in the jungles of the East Indies and later in the Philippines. Sparse dialogue is often interrupted by over-the-top wailing, mostly during invocations to pagan deities.

There was one ritualistic scene where I swear one of the extras in the far left corner was trying not to laugh. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. It could not have been part of the wailing; the rest of her companions were frozen like photographs, serious and staged.

Unlike last year’s Phantosmia, superbly acted by both the principal cast and extras, Magellan feels contrived. You can almost anticipate the script: where actors will lie down, how a slave might toss pebbles deliberately near the camera. The lack of authenticity makes the stretched runtime laborious to watch.

A breath of fresh air comes in the Portugal scenes. Here, the staged compositions feel more appropriate, with a painterly quality: warm yellows, creams, ochres, muted greens and terracotta tones. Golden beaches with women in black, ochre cliffs, deep blue seas and majestic sailing ships — the carracks — are visually striking.

Gael Garcia Bernal as Magellan is, as always, reliable. He is the only natural, believable character here, from his conversational tone to his gait, even when lying in bed with gangrene. But he is mostly alone in this; other characters, including Enrique, the slave-interpreter, feel like they are merely acting.