‘Alpha’ is a difficult film to categorise. On the surface, it plays like an allegory of the AIDS epidemic – a story where infection through sexual contact leads to physical deterioration and, ultimately, death. But it also leans into sci-fi, with a surreal virus that slowly turns parts of the body into marble, complete with striking CGI imagery of cracked stone and flowing blood.

Structurally, the film is deliberately disorientating. We move back and forth between timelines without always knowing whether we’re watching past or present, which mirrors the story’s real focus: trauma. Alpha, now 13, may have been abused by her drug-addicted uncle as a child – or she may be processing present-day danger by projecting it backwards. The film keeps these possibilities suspended, in a way that reflects how trauma blurs memory and reality.

There’s a powerful recurring image of Alpha bleeding uncontrollably – in a swimming pool, in a classroom after getting a tattoo – and the question becomes whether she, or the boy who helps her, might now be infected. The virus transforms people into something unrecognizable, almost zombie-like, adding another layer to the metaphor.

Alpha’s mother, a doctor, seems torn between denial and disbelief as she navigates both her daughter’s fear and her brother’s reappearance. The film weaves in themes of immigrant alienation, addiction, and family breakdown, but sometimes the blend becomes muddled, with so many metaphors competing that it’s hard to know where the emotional centre really lies.

At times, the world-building is oddly inconsistent – hospital staff wander around maskless despite the deadly virus – which hints at a possible COVID parallel but never commits to it.

‘Alpha’ is unsettling, ambitious, and visually arresting, but its refusal to settle on one emotional or narrative through-line means it doesn’t always land with the power it’s reaching for.