Light Pillar is a futuristic, technologically driven meditation on loneliness that channels the spirit of Inception and Black Mirror while retaining a deeply compassionate touch — a neon-filled, experimental bonanza from director Xu Zao.
Ever since the Berlinale dropped the Encounters category and introduced Perspectives, the films selected for this section have proven not only to bring fresh ideas to the table but also to stage worldly issues in a bold manner. This year, 15 films from around the world were selected, including a distinctive and meaningful entry from China that contributes a narrative propelling the story into the future while preserving echoes of the contemporary world.
A film studio is facing imminent bankruptcy as its business operations decline to a critical state. Zha, employed as the studio’s janitor, receives minimal remuneration, and his wages are occasionally delayed — a circumstance attributed to his single marital status. Bachelors are often expected to be more accommodating than married employees when it comes to company policies, even though the sacrifice is rarely reciprocated. Zha dwells in a modest, laid-back house, sharing it with a cat of singular grace — once the studio’s luminous star, now a faded memory curled in the corner. The boss, who feels a little guilty after delaying Zha’s pay, gives him a VR set as compensation, though Zha has no familiarity with its operation. When he finally dares to try it, everything changes. The device reveals itself as an instrument of destiny — a force that shatters the ceiling of his existence and launches his dreams to unimaginable heights.
It’s worth noting that China’s animation industry has surged forward dramatically since Ne Zha packed theaters and captivated audiences. And then there was Art College 1994 — a 2023 Berlinale selection that unfolded like a quiet lecture, surprising those who walked in expecting less and leaving them with more. However, Light Pillar’s commitment to distinctiveness at every opportunity is precisely what marks it as a contemporary piece. The hybrid approach — part animation, part live action — is grounded in dramatic logic. Yet the most compelling internal mechanism is the inversion: dream sequences occupy the realm of live-action “reality,” while the waking world is depicted through animation, a reversal that is both eye-catching and thematically resonant.
Director Xu Zao (also known as Xu Jingwei), who wrote and directed the animated short film No Changes Have Taken In Our Life, which won numerous awards (and clearly, we understand why), adds advanced technology and futuristic elements as his main ingredients here. That recipe evolves into a technological intervention within his crafted film. The film’s central concern is how technology shapes us — how it leads us into unknown territories and possible futures, revealing both the beauty it offers and the darkness it can unleash. From VR headsets to space travel and virtual dating, Zao samples technological innovations and amplifies their potential for both good and ill. He plays God (but sensibly) and allows us to absorb, immerse ourselves in, and finally submerge ourselves in his dreamlike vision. Special recognition goes to colorist Li Wentao, whose work ensures that every frame — whether dream sequence or animation — is precisely color-coordinated to reflect the film’s shifting moods. The neon accents and rainbow-soaked perspectives radiate vibrancy, beautifully capturing the protagonist’s hope and emotional bonds. Despite its technological terrain, the film envelops the viewer in unexpected warmth — a rare synthesis of humanism and speculative fiction. It’s as if Hirokazu Kore-eda were asked to direct an episode of Black Mirror crossed with Inception. Director Zao offers nothing less than an antidote here, crafted frame by frame.
As for the characters, Zha represents introverted individuals who often experience anxiety in front of people, yet easily immerse themselves in dreams and imagination. The film delves into the inner workings of loneliness, specifically how introverts navigate their days in search of light. The paradox of Zha’s existence lies in this inversion: dreams offer him self-discovery, while reality ensures his erasure. His escapism is therefore double-edged — a necessary refuge and a deepening wound. Going deeper, Zao adds absurdist projections in the form of satire through supporting characters (working personnel with distinctive traits) to inhibit nihilism toward an evolving world, embedding unpredictability as a core element.
Light Pillar (original title: Han ye deng zhu) is perhaps the futuristic and vibrant star of the show — a testament to how advanced technology can save us from reality, despite its possible drawbacks, when viewed through the right lens to see the beauty it contains. Blurring the line between waking and dreaming, Zao, in his feature debut, constructs an eternal dreamscape radiating warmth and vibrant possibility, where unpredictability soothes rather than startles and technological intervention becomes a means of celebrating life in all its complexity. It is perhaps the whole journey of discovery that makes it worthwhile, despite the underlying effects it contains. Yet the film emphasizes giving these clumps of emotion a chance, as sometimes unforeseen decisions can bring unimaginable happiness — and Light Pillar stands as evidence of that.
On a side note, look out for the robotic vacuum cleaner. It does way more than just vacuum — it’s got opinions.
Our team is on the ground at the 76th Berlin International Film Festival, running from February 12th to 22nd, 2026.
