Through the Shadows of Pain: Unraveling the Layers of Trauma
When Trauma first made its way into the cinematic conversation, it was never meant to be just another psychological thriller. It was meant to sting — to leave scars that didn’t fade when the credits rolled. Whether you’re referring to the 2017 Chilean horror film by Lucio A. Rojas or Dario Argento’s surreal 1993 exploration of identity and grief, Trauma in any form is more than a movie. It’s a mirror — cracked, painful, and unrelenting. It forces you to watch not just the horror on-screen but the unspoken turmoil within yourself.
But beyond the screaming and shadows, Trauma is about survival. It’s about the aftermath — of war, abuse, loss, or even fame — and how people learn to live with the ghosts they cannot bury. And, interestingly, the cast and creators behind the film lived through their own versions of trauma while bringing it to life.
The Fear That Doesn’t End When the Scene Cuts
Lucio A. Rojas’s Trauma (2017) set out to push the limits of what cinema could show about violence — not for shock value, but to remind audiences that the real monsters often wear human faces. The story follows four women who go on a weekend trip to the Chilean countryside, only to become victims of an ex-soldier and his son, products of dictatorship-era brutality. What unfolds isn’t just physical horror — it’s generational trauma personified.
Rojas, who grew up during Chile’s dictatorship, said he wanted to confront his country’s silence about systemic abuse and corruption. “We inherit violence,” he once said in an interview, “and until we face it, we keep repeating it.” That statement became the film’s beating heart.
The movie’s unflinching portrayal of cruelty drew both outrage and admiration. Critics at festivals called it “hard to watch but impossible to forget.” The film blurred the line between art and atrocity — every scream felt like an echo of buried truth.
The lead actresses, notably Catalina Martin and Daniela Ramirez, went through intense preparation to portray trauma survivors. Rojas refused to use body doubles for emotional scenes, wanting their reactions to feel raw and unrehearsed. In post-release interviews, Ramirez admitted she suffered panic attacks after filming: “We weren’t just acting — we were reliving pain that felt real.”
That authenticity became both the film’s power and its curse. It divided audiences — some praised its courage, others accused it of excess. But beneath all that noise was a story about women reclaiming their narrative after generations of silence.
The Haunting Parallels Behind the Camera
What makes Trauma linger isn’t only the violence but the silence after it. Much like the characters, the actors and crew had to process what they’d gone through while making it. During shooting, Rojas reportedly halted production multiple times because scenes became too emotionally taxing for the cast. The movie was filmed in real abandoned sites from Chile’s dictatorship era, where political prisoners were once tortured — a choice that blurred the line between fiction and history.
Cinematographer Nicolás Ibieta later revealed that “every location had ghosts.” The production faced supernatural rumors: camera malfunctions, lost footage, and unexplained audio interference during key emotional scenes. Though Rojas dismissed it as coincidence, the cast described an eerie sense of heaviness that hung over the set.
But the most striking symbolism came from the director’s visual language. He used warm, sunlit frames for scenes of female friendship early on — soft, golden tones that slowly shifted into harsh, cold desaturation as the violence began. The shift wasn’t just aesthetic; it was a descent into the psychological reality of trauma.
The film’s title itself is deceptively simple. “Trauma” isn’t the event — it’s the aftermath, the way memories linger long after the body heals. In the film, the women’s survival isn’t a triumph; it’s an open wound. The final act, where one character stares silently at the ruins of her former life, says more about the human condition than any dialogue could.
Echoes of the Real World: How the Actors Carried It Home
What makes Trauma unforgettable is how deeply it resonated with its cast — many of whom had personal experiences with political fear, censorship, or emotional abuse. Catalina Martin shared that her grandmother was detained during Chile’s dictatorship, and that filming certain scenes made her “feel her grandmother’s fear through her veins.”
Daniela Ramirez, who had previously worked in telenovelas and lighter dramas, found herself unprepared for the emotional exhaustion. “After Trauma, I couldn’t go back to simple characters,” she said. “It changed the way I saw storytelling — and even therapy.”
For Lucio Rojas, the film was both confession and rebellion. He was criticized for pushing boundaries, but his defense was unwavering: “Art must hurt when it tells the truth.” In his mind, the violence was symbolic — the physical suffering represented the nation’s suppressed collective pain.
When the film premiered at the Brussels International Fantastic Film Festival, it sparked walkouts and standing ovations in the same screening. That contrast reflected the very duality Rojas wanted: to disgust, to move, and to make people confront what they’d rather ignore.
Between Death and Rebirth: The Symbolism Beneath the Blood
For those willing to look past the gore, Trauma reveals layers of meaning through its imagery. The recurring use of water — from the rain during the attack to the final cleansing sequence — represents both suffocation and rebirth. Mirrors appear frequently, but never reflect clearly; they distort, suggesting that survivors never truly see themselves the same way again.
One of the most haunting visual choices is the contrast between light and confinement. Whenever the women are trapped, the frame tightens, suffocates. When they escape, the landscape widens, but the air feels heavier — freedom that doesn’t feel free.
The film’s antagonist, a man broken by institutionalized violence, is not shown as pure evil but as a product of a decaying system. His son, forced to participate, becomes the embodiment of cyclical abuse. That generational echo — from father to son, from dictatorship to democracy — is Rojas’s most chilling message: that nations, like people, can inherit trauma if they refuse to confront it.
The Noise, the Buzz, and the Fear Before the First Frame
Before Trauma was even released, the trailer stirred massive controversy online. Horror fans called it “Chile’s answer to Martyrs,” while others accused it of exploiting sexual violence. YouTube had to restrict the trailer due to graphic content, which only made it trend faster.
Fans on Reddit and horror forums debated whether it was too extreme or too necessary — a film that could either push the genre forward or drown it in discomfort. But Rojas leaned into the chaos, giving interviews where he refused to sanitize his message. “If you feel uncomfortable,” he said, “then maybe you’ve been ignoring something real.”
Production rumors only added to the hype. There were reports that one actor quit mid-shoot due to the emotional toll, forcing script rewrites. Another crew member allegedly fainted during the final scene’s take. Whether true or embellished, these stories deepened the film’s mythology.
When Fiction Becomes Exorcism
By the time Trauma found its way to streaming platforms, it had already become a conversation piece — not just for horror fans, but for those who saw cinema as confrontation. It forced audiences to recognize that violence doesn’t end when the screen goes black; it continues, quietly, in those who’ve lived it.
For the actors, Trauma became more than a role — it was therapy through terror. And for Lucio Rojas, it was a declaration: that horror, when done right, isn’t about monsters lurking in shadows. It’s about the pain we refuse to face in daylight.