El niño de las monjas: A Trip Through Time and Stiff Collars

Is it worth your time?

Honestly? Maybe. If you’re the type of person who digs through archives just to see what cinema looked like before it was obsessed with pacing, you’ll find some charm here. If you need a plot that moves faster than a tectonic plate, you are going to be bored to tears within fifteen minutes. 🙄

It’s not exactly a thrill ride. It’s more of a long, slow stare into a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

The vibe is heavy

There’s a specific kind of silence in El niño de las monjas that feels like it’s trying to swallow the dialogue whole. The framing is so rigid you can practically hear the director adjusting everyone’s posture between takes. It’s all very polite and terribly serious.

Sometimes the camera just stays on a character’s face for too long. I found myself counting the seconds, waiting for someone to blink or move, but they just… stood there. It’s a strange, hypnotic kind of failure.

Some odd observations

• The lighting makes the convent walls look like they’re made of wet cardboard.
• Gaspar Campos has this look in his eyes like he’s constantly remembering he left the oven on at home.
• There’s a sequence involving a garden that feels like it was filmed in a different decade than the rest of the movie.

Watching this made me think of The Life Story of David Lloyd George. Not because the plots are alike—they aren't—but because both films carry that same weight of being historical artifacts that have mostly been forgotten by everyone but film school professors.

It doesn't try to be flashy. It’s just... there. It exists in its own little bubble of Spanish tradition and stiff fabric.

A bit of a ramble

The middle section drags quite a bit. There’s a scene where the characters discuss local customs, and I swear the dialogue loops back on itself twice. It’s like the writer ran out of things to say but decided to keep the cameras rolling just to be safe. You can practically feel the boredom in the editing room.

If you want something that feels more lived-in, maybe look at Someone to Love instead. At least that one has a pulse. This one? It's a ghost story without the ghosts.

Still, there’s something undeniably authentic about the way these people carry themselves. You don't see that kind of performative modesty in movies anymore. It's almost refreshing in a weird, dusty way.

Don’t go in expecting a masterpiece. Go in expecting to feel like you’ve been sitting in a quiet room for two hours while someone reads you a very old, very serious diary.