Obsessed, but not at first. I was initially underwhelmed by Obsession’s muddy cinematography and tiptoe pacing. My patience was rewarded, or punished, depending on how you view writer-director Curry Barker’s harrowing meditation on rape culture. Be careful what you wish for, or else.
Michael Johnston should win the Oscar for Best Incel. He plays a mopey weasel wrecked by unrequited love. Inde Navarrette is the object of his affection. She is the villain and the victim. Cursed, abused, smiling. Navarrette does to emotional dysregulation what Psycho did to showers.
Barker mines a generation’s insecurities and fears about dating and sex, power and consent. He borrows from, and subverts, 80s classics like Big and Fatal Attraction. He’s drawn to massive Ari Aster-esque head traumas, too. There are a few offbeat/funny moments, but Obsession isn’t drowning in irony. It is a proud feel-bad movie: there’s an underlying sadness that verges on despair.
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