In an era when science fiction often dazzles us with spectacle, Holo dares to slow things down. Directed by Alexander DeSouza and written by Alexander Hernandez-Maxwell, this short film imagines a near-future where technology can bring the dead back, at least, their likeness. But beneath the surface of glass projections and holographic algorithms lies something far more human: the need to heal.
At the heart of Holo is a hauntingly intimate encounter between a woman and the hologram of her deceased abuser, mediated by a technician who may be bending the rules to help her find closure.
What begins as a controlled simulation becomes a raw emotional confrontation, where memory, technology, and trauma collide in unsettling harmony. DeSouza’s restrained direction and minimalist worldbuilding allow the emotions to breathe, crafting a film that’s as elegant as it is disquieting, a sci-fi story that remembers to feel.
The World of Holo – Science Serving Emotion
The world of Holo unfolds inside the sleek, clinical confines of Looking Glass Technologies, a company offering a service that seems almost miraculous. Their breakthrough system, known simply as HOLO, allows clients to reconnect with people from their past through lifelike holographic simulations.
By combining advanced glass projection, motion capture, and facial mapping technology, trained actors can step into another person’s image, mirroring their voice, gestures, and personality with eerie precision.
Originally designed to help people grieve, HOLO was meant to provide comfort and closure, a high-tech séance of sorts. But for Grey (played by Zelda Williams), a gifted technician who sees more than lines of code, the potential runs deeper. She believes the system can be used not just to revisit memories, but to confront them.
When Claire (Morgan Kohan), a survivor of abuse, arrives hoping to face her deceased partner, Grey sees an opportunity to test the boundaries of empathy and ethics through digital resurrection.
The tension between the two women drives the film’s emotional current. Divided physically by the transparent barrier yet united in purpose, Claire and Grey mirror one another, one seeking to exorcise pain, the other trying to understand it. As the simulation deepens, the presence of Jared (Shane West), though artificial, feels suffocatingly real.
What makes Holo stand apart from other sci-fi visions is its quiet confidence. The technology is never the star of the show. Instead, DeSouza and Hernandez-Maxwell use it as a lens through which to explore the fragility of healing.
The minimalist design, sterile lighting, and subtle effects create an environment that feels believable and uncomfortably intimate, reminding us that even the most advanced tools can’t erase what lingers within the human heart.
Performances that Pierce the Simulation
What makes Holo so gripping isn’t just its concept; it’s the precision of its performances. Every actor walks a fine line between reality and illusion, embodying characters who are both emotionally present and technologically mediated.
Morgan Kohan anchors the film as Claire, giving a performance that feels raw and immediate. Her portrayal captures the jagged rhythm of healing, moments of strength undercut by fear, anger, and confusion. Even when she stands tall, there’s a trembling edge to her resolve, reminding us that survival doesn’t always look heroic.
Zelda Williams brings quiet magnetism to Grey, the technician whose curiosity borders on obsession. She plays her role with subtle control, never overplaying emotion, yet revealing deep empathy beneath the professional calm. Grey’s burden isn’t just technical; it’s emotional labour, and Williams makes that invisible weight visible.
Then there’s Shane West as Jared, a ghost made flesh through performance and projection. West’s ability to shift from warmth to menace gives the hologram an unsettling credibility. Jared feels both real and unreal, a reminder of how abusers can remain hauntingly alive in memory long after death.
Even in a smaller role, Beth Hornby as Denise, the client liaison, adds a crucial human note. Her brief warmth cuts through the sterile environment, offering a fleeting glimpse of compassion in a world that otherwise feels engineered and cold.
Together, the cast turns Holo from a high-concept idea into an emotionally charged experience, one where the line between acting and existence becomes as fragile as the glass that separates them.
Direction, Style, and the Filmmaker Behind Holo
Alexander DeSouza brings a rare blend of technical precision and emotional insight to Holo, making it a standout in contemporary sci-fi. A Canadian-Indian filmmaker with a background in editing and directing, DeSouza honed his skills at York University and the 2019 Reykjavik Film Festival Talent Lab, with early work earning recognition from the Canadian Cinema Editors Association.
His shorts, including Mother’s Day (2018) and Skin (2019), as well as television projects like Back To One and CBC Arts documentaries, have established him as a director capable of balancing narrative depth with visual sophistication.
In Holo, DeSouza’s approach is defined by restraint and careful pacing. Rather than showcasing the flashy potential of holographic technology, he emphasizes the emotional stakes, letting tension grow naturally through silence, reflection, and unspoken moments.
The sterile yet intimate setting of Looking Glass Technologies, enhanced by minimalist production design, retrofuturistic aesthetics, and biophilic touches, increases the psychological weight of the narrative.
DeSouza’s process is deeply collaborative. He draws inspiration from music, using curated playlists to set tone and emotional rhythm, and he works closely with actors to extract the psychological depth of their performances.
Coordinating scenes where one actor mirrors another, as with Zelda Williams and Shane West in Holo, required meticulous blocking and rehearsal, ensuring that both technical precision and raw emotional beats were preserved.
Every frame is composed to heighten unease: reflections, glass panels, and subtle distortions serve as visual metaphors for uncertainty and memory. His editing philosophy, cutting for performance and emotional resonance over strict technical perfection, reinforces the intimacy of the film. The pacing remains deliberate but never stagnant, building toward two twists in the climax that feel earned rather than manipulative.
DeSouza reflects on his approach: “I view editing as basically the last re-write when making a film, with being provided a screenplay as the first time a film would have been ‘written.’ Cutting for performance and emotional beats is what allows the story to truly resonate with audiences.”(quote from take2indiereview.net)
By combining his professional background with a measured, minimalist visual style, DeSouza transforms Holo from a high-concept sci-fi idea into an emotionally immersive experience. The result is a short film that is both a standalone story and a proof of concept for a larger television series, all while reflecting the human heart behind the technological marvel.
Themes – Memory, Control, and Healing
Beneath its sci-fi surface, Holo is a study in human fragility, how memory, guilt, and grief intertwine in our search for closure. The film’s technological premise serves as a metaphor for what so many survivors face: the desire to confront the past without being consumed by it. Through Claire’s emotional confrontation and Grey’s calculated control, Holo examines what happens when healing becomes an experiment, and when empathy turns into intervention.
At its heart, the film asks: Can technology truly mend what it didn’t break? HOLO’s system promises a kind of emotional resurrection, but DeSouza and Hernandez-Maxwell make clear that artificial reconnection can’t erase real pain. The hologram of Jared might be a product of code and glass, yet his presence reopens wounds that time had only covered, not healed.
Power dynamics ripple through every frame. Grey wields control over the simulation, but Claire must face the ghosts it conjures. Both women perform acts of courage, one by pushing ethical limits, the other by reliving trauma. In this push and pull, Holo becomes less about science and more about survival, revealing how control, whether emotional or technological, often masks deeper vulnerability.
There’s also a subtle commentary on absence, the idea that what’s missing can define what remains. Jared may be dead, but he’s anything but gone. His shadow lingers in the system, in Claire’s mind, and even in Grey’s fascination. In this way, Holo doesn’t treat technology as a saviour but as a mirror, reflecting the uncomfortable truth that some voids aren’t meant to be filled.
A Proof of Concept Worth Expanding
As a proof of concept, Holo accomplishes what many short films struggle to do; it feels both complete and full of potential. The story concludes with a sense of emotional resolution, yet it also leaves behind a world rich enough to explore further. You can easily imagine this premise expanding into a feature-length narrative, one that dives deeper into Grey’s experiments, the ethics of holographic therapy, and the blurred lines between compassion and control.
What’s most exciting is how much remains unsaid. The technology behind HOLO, the corporate motives of Looking Glass Technologies, and the psychological cost of reliving trauma all beg to be unpacked. DeSouza’s direction already establishes a tone of quiet intensity, suggesting that a longer version could balance emotional depth with philosophical tension, without losing the intimacy that makes the short so affecting.
If extended, Holo could easily stand alongside sci-fi works like Ex Machina or Her, where technology serves as the stage for human confrontation rather than a distraction from it.
Wrapping Up
In the end, Holo is less about technology and more about the human cost of using it to heal. It lingers in that uneasy space between comfort and confrontation, showing that closure is rarely clean and often comes with consequences. There is a story that balances science fiction’s imagination with the weight of human pain, reminding us that progress without empathy risks becoming another kind of cold machinery. Every element echoes this central truth.
What makes Holo unforgettable is not its futuristic concept, but its restraint. It resists the urge to explain, to moralize, or to fix. Instead, it sits quietly with its characters, and with us, in the tension between love and loss, past and present, real and artificial.