Hotels, as depicted in Sarah Lasry’s Hotel Acropole, serve as a source of escape: an escape and refuge from what we hope to leave behind in our lives. They offer a safe place for exploration, for reconciliation, and an embrace of the taboo. But, in the privacy of these spaces, we are often forced to confront what we hope to run away from. If we don’t, we can walk away even more broken than before.

Rivka (Judith Zins) is pregnant and alone, with a gaping wound on her back that refuses to heal. She is forced to isolate, told that she is contagious. However, the contagion seems more psychological than physical, given the recent death of her partner, Hugo, and her discomfort over saying a traditional mourner’s prayer. She journeys to Hotel Acropole the day before his ashes will be scattered, and she is left in her silence. That is before her friend Abel (Sébastien Houbani) arrives.

What ensues is a conversation, one that evokes memories of past desires and regret between the two. With her partner’s urn present, it creates an intriguingly haunting dynamic between the two, with the deceased partner as an unseen watchful harbinger of something. As the conversation unfolds into something more taboo, the questions that hang in the air are these: “Will the two find the relief they are looking for? Or will their regrets keep them from moving on?”

Body horror and intimacy come together in Hotel Acropole.

Hotel Acropole offers a fascinating glimpse into grief, while opening up a well of taboos. Grief hangs heavily, but so does regret, particularly as a love triangle emerges and the topic of infidelity is broached. Rivka’s wound and its source is open to interpretation but, as she continues to hide it, it merely festers and grows. It isn’t until she is with Abel and the two give into the desires they’ve fought to deny, that the healing can begin.

Hotel Acropole

This clash of desire culminates in arguably squeamish acts of intimacy. Lasry’s use of Judith Zins’ pregnant body in acts of intimacy pushes against societal taboos (note, this shouldn’t be a taboo but people are weird about pregnancy). The passion between Rivka and Abel radiates off the screen, and escalates into Cronenberg-levels of penetration that made me squirm. The metamorphosis of the back wound turning into something yonic adds an extra layer here. Either way, this culmination (and subsequent climax) are effective, paving the way for Rivka’s final release.

Cuts to Rivka covered in ashes feature throughout Hotel Acropole, but it isn’t until the illicit couple’s act that it all comes together. This is what is needed for them to move on and let go. To say the Kaddish and mourn what they’ve lost. Not just their friend and partner, but also themselves in the process.

The bottom line.

Hotel Acropole is a highly effective, thoughtful, and fascinating short, with some intimate body horror to make viewers squirm. There are no easy answers or easy characters in this, so some may find the ensuing conversation and development between Rivka and Abel to be challenging. However, in the wake of death, sometimes it is in confronting uncomfortable truths and the things that we suppress that we are only able to heal and move on. To end the chapter and let go.

Hotel Acropole world premiered at the 2025 Fantasia International Film Festival.