
Diego Peretti
Kloster

Convinced the tragic deaths of her loved ones were orchestrated by a famous novelist she worked for, Luciana turns to a journalist to expose her truth.
I keep thinking about the way Luciana’s hands shake—not from fear, but from the effort of holding everything in. There’s a moment in The Wrath of God where she sits across from a journalist, her fingers curled around a glass of water, knuckles white. The camera lingers just long enough to make you wonder: Is she about to shatter the glass, or herself?
That tension, the kind that hums beneath the skin of Sebastián Schindel’s thriller, is what stays with you long after the credits roll. This isn’t a film about divine retribution, despite its title. It’s about the quieter, more human kind—the kind that festers in memory and demands to be spoken aloud.

Schindel has built a career on stories that peel back the layers of moral ambiguity, and The Wrath of God is no exception. His previous films—The Invisible Eye, The Boss, Anatomy of a Crime—often explore the ways power corrupts and the fragile boundaries between justice and vengeance. Here, he trains his lens on Luciana (Macarena Achaga), a woman convinced that the deaths of her loved ones were no accident, but a calculated act of cruelty orchestrated by a famous novelist, Daniel (Juan Minujín).
The synopsis teases a thriller, but what unfolds is something more intimate: a story about the stories we tell ourselves to survive, and the ones we weaponize to destroy others.
The film’s first act moves with the deliberate pace of a woman testing the ice beneath her feet. Luciana, a former assistant to Daniel, reaches out to a journalist, Lorenzo (Diego Peretti), to expose what she believes is the truth. The setup is familiar—whistleblower meets skeptical reporter, the promise of a bombshell revelation—but Schindel isn’t interested in the mechanics of the investigation.
Instead, he focuses on the psychological toll of Luciana’s obsession. Achaga’s performance is a masterclass in restraint. She doesn’t rage or weep; she simmers, her grief and fury coiled so tightly that even the smallest gesture—a twitch of the mouth, a glance held a second too long—feels like a threat.
"A tense but uneven psychological thriller with strong performances that struggles to fully deliver on its intriguing premise."
The atmospheric tension and strong lead performances, particularly from Juan Minujín and Diego Peretti, keep the story engaging. Uneven pacing and occasional predictability undercut it, and the narrative doesn't live up to its potential.
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Sebastián Schindel’s The Wrath of God (2022) arrived on Netflix as a tense, Argentinian psychological thriller, but the film’s production and reception reveal a story nearly as gripping as its on-screen drama. latestnetflix.com's view is that here’s what we know about the making of this chilling revenge tale.
Sebastián Schindel, born in Buenos Aires in 1975, built his reputation on award-winning documentaries before pivoting to narrative features—particularly crime dramas and psychological thrillers. His transition wasn’t accidental. Schindel’s documentaries often explored real-life tension and moral ambiguity, themes that bleed into The Wrath of God. While the evidence doesn’t detail his exact inspiration for this film, his filmography suggests a fascination with power dynamics and vengeance, both central to the movie’s plot.
The film marks another collaboration with actor Diego Peretti, a frequent presence in Schindel’s work. Their partnership has yielded some of Argentina’s most talked-about thrillers, and The Wrath of God appears to be no exception—though specifics about their creative process remain scarce in the available sources.
The Wrath of God follows a woman who sues her powerful boss, only for her family to begin dying under mysterious circumstances. The premise—corporate corruption, escalating violence, and a protagonist pushed to the brink—echoes real-world themes of impunity and retribution. While the evidence doesn’t confirm whether Schindel drew from actual cases, the film’s tone aligns with his interest in socially charged narratives.
YouTube recaps and reviews highlight the movie’s relentless pacing and shocking twists. One summary even frames the protagonist’s actions as divinely sanctioned ("God helps him kill people"), underscoring the moral gray areas Schindel often explores. The film’s original title, La Ira de Dios ("The Wrath of God"), hints at its theological undertones, though whether this was a deliberate choice or a marketing angle remains unclear.
Critically, The Wrath of God landed in divisive territory. SensCritique users rated it a lukewarm 5.2/10 (based on 150 votes), while Rotten Tomatoes’ audience score—though not detailed in the evidence—suggests a split between fans of its brutal tension and detractors of its execution. Netflix’s platform likely amplified its reach, with multiple review videos dissecting its plot and performances.
The cast, including Juan Minujín and Macarena Achaga, delivered performances praised for their intensity, though no behind-the-scenes anecdotes about their work have surfaced in the available sources. Rumors of on-set tension or improvisation are unconfirmed, and the evidence offers no details about filming locations or budget constraints.
For all its intrigue, The Wrath of God leaves much unsaid. The evidence doesn’t reveal whether Schindel faced challenges during production, how the cast prepared for their roles, or if the film’s darker themes sparked debate among the crew. What’s clear is that the movie fits neatly into Schindel’s oeuvre: a high-stakes, morally complex thriller designed to unsettle.
If you’re a fan of Argentinian cinema or revenge narratives, The Wrath of God delivers—but don’t expect a tidy behind-the-scenes story. The real drama, it seems, was always meant to unfold on screen.
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