Technocrats Rule is not a film, it’s a condition. A stomping, audiovisual hallucination, built from the guts of This Technocratic Town, where reality is engineered, logic loops forever, and control has forgotten its own face.
Harman doesn’t direct, he diagnoses. He paints with film the way he paints with images, not to depict the world, but to unravel it. Narrative collapses into system, meaning gives way to protocol. What remains is rhythm, recursion, and the beautiful emptiness of design pushed to the edge of madness.
Power here doesn’t shout. It hums.
It arrives clean, seamless, absurd — the absurdity not of chaos, but of a world too perfectly arranged.
The work drifts between the dreamlike and the nightmarish, not because it shifts between them, but because they’ve become indistinguishable. In a time where bureaucracy feels eternal, and beauty is weaponised by systems, Technocrats Rule doesn’t offer critique, it becomes the very apparatus.
Influenced by the ruptures of Dada and the deadpan terror of existentialism, the film refuses to comfort. It processes, it loops, it governs.
There are no characters, no narrative arc,
Only aesthetics doing the governing, and a rhythm enforcing the rules.
You are not watching it,
You are inside it.
The title is not a metaphor,
Technocrats rule,
And they do it beautifully.
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