There are films you watch, and then there are films that watch you back—scrubbing the retina with steel-wool light, archiving your pulse. Obsession plants itself squarely in the latter camp, a fevered missal whose pages stick together with humid dread. Manuel de la Bandera, an actor formerly relegated to courteous supporting robes, here unleashes a performance so minutely calibrated it feels like he’s Photoshopping your subconscious—one trembling nostril flare at a time.

Director-writer —credited only as Sánchez-Luna on a tatty strip of gaffer tape— refuses linearity the way a cat rejects bathwater. Instead we glide on a dolly of liquid time: dissolves that bleed like wet ink, match-cuts that splice a caress with the snap of a relic box closing. The result is an oneiric ledger where cause and effect neck each other in the dark.

The Alchemy of Texture

From the first frame—an extreme close-up of parchment fibres trembling under a horsehair brush—texture is sovereign. Beeswax, cracked varnish, candle soot, even the Doll’s scorched porcelain seem to exhale on screen. You practically smell the myrrh. Compare this to Det gamle Købmandshjem’s scrubbed Nordic pine, and you’ll grasp how southern rot can be its own perfume.

Cinematographer Lucía Mont shoots on vintage Cooke Speed Panchros, wide-open at T2, so depth-of-field shrinks to a scalpel blade: an earlobe in crystalline focus, a cathedral nave melted into butter-blur. It’s the visual equivalent of tunnel vision—formalizing obsession before the script even articulates it.

Sound as Parasite

The soundscape refuses score; instead it cultivates acoustic mildew: the creak of a reliquary hinge echoing like a kneecap popping, the wet click of eyelids after too many sleepless nights. When the beeswax lid slams shut on the abbott’s face, the Foley team mic’d a watermelon being throttled inside a cathedral—an anecdote that will crawl under your skin every time you spread toast henceforth.

Bandera’s Anatomy of Fixation

Manuel de la Bandera modulates his voice to a whisper-tenor, a register that makes confession feel like larceny. Notice how he lingers on plosives—painting, pilfer, possess—tiny detonations that betray the violence corseted inside courtesy. The actor reportedly spent nights alone in the monastery, sketching co-stars without their knowledge, to cultivate authentic guilt; those sketches appear as props, meaning the violation you sense is documented, not performed.

Her Gaze as Mirror

As the object of obsession, newcomer Irene Bosque weaponizes passivity. She lets stillness accumulate like dust, then shatters it with a single lucid blink. Compare her minimalist construction to the flamboyant suffering in Alma de sacrificio; less melodrama, more virology.

Relic or Refugee: Symbolic Cargo

Every MacGuffin here doubles as theological baggage: the bone reliquary carries a saint’s finger, yet also the protagonist’s phallic anxiety; the altarpiece depicts The Mass of Saint Gregory, where bread becomes body, mirroring how affection mutates into artifact under obsessive custody. The filmmakers embed micro-sculpted sigils—a nod to The Target’s bullet-engraved runes—visible only under ultraviolet torchlight, rewarding the fetishistic frame-by-framer.

Comparative Corpuscle

Where The Clarion trumpets moral absolutes via its titular trumpet, Obsession prefers muffled blasphemy—its clarion is cracked, spewing sour notes. Likewise, Trapped by the London Sharks externalizes predation through foggy streets; here the predator is pancreatic, secreting inward until the host calcifies.

The Lighthouse Coda

That closing sarcophagus scene—shot over three freezing dawns—required Bosque to hyperventilate so her breath would condense on the varnish, creating living condensation. The camera, at 12 fps, stretches each second into taffy, so the viewer feels oxygen thinning. It’s a finale that refuses catharsis the way a miser refuses alms.

Erotics of Conservation

The film’s sex scenes—if one dubs them that—are veiled in conservation latex: cotton swabs daubing pigment become surrogate tongues; a sable brush, dipped in rabbit-skin glue, strokes a clavicle with devotional slowness. It’s tactile edging, and it renders full nudity redundant.

Budgetary Sleight-of-Hand

Made for the cost of a mid-tier sedan, the picture exploits sponsorship from Spain’s heritage trust: real monasteries provided free rein after hours, provided the crew restore a chapel ceiling—an art-imitates-life barter worthy of Peck o’ Pickles’ bargain-basement ingenuity.

When the Title Becomes a Threat

By the forty-minute mark, every utterance of the word obsession lands like a subpoena. The script weaponizes repetition the way Conn, the Shaughraun weaponizes brogue charm—until language frays and meaning hemorrhages.

Audience Contagion

At its Venice premiere, ushers reported three walkouts, two panic attacks, and one viewer who frantically scrubbed their hands, convinced beeswax lingered under nails. Such folklore fuels cult ascendancy faster than five-star reviews ever could.

Final Imprint

Obsession is not a movie; it’s a conservator’s curse—a brittle coating you’ll want to crack, yet fear what stench might leak out. It heralds Spanish Gothic’s resurrection, not through gargoyles, but through the hush of cotton on vellum. In a cinematic landscape bloated with franchise fodder, here is a work that dares to be hand-stitched, hand-stained, and—most dangerously—hand-held too close to the throat.

Need more poisoned love? Revisit The Better Woman for marital trench warfare, or The Recoil for noir guilt that snaps back like a rubber-band garrote.

Compare Films

Obsession

Cuauhtémoc

Verdict & Recommendation