An Uncanny Obsession

The very best horror films are also tragedies. Obsession (Curry Barker, 2025) will haunt anyone who ever pined for someone beyond their reach; anyone who realized too late their true love was there all along; anyone who had to bear the guilt of not returning the love of someone they merely liked. 

Such is the tragedy of Bear, who loves Nikki; Nikki, who sees Bear as a little brother; and Sarah, who loves Bear. And Bear again, for not realizing that last truth until it's too late to even ponder it. And Ian, trying to be the best friend he can to the others, bewildered, concerned, helpless, powerless, and doomed. 

The uncanny is the most potent form of horror. It is malevolence for the sake of malevolence, striking out at the vulnerable, wreaking anguish just because it can and for no other reason. Bear, Nikki, Sarah, and Ian are all demonstrably good people who genuinely care for each other; their friendships, had the uncanny not intruded, could have ebbed and flowed into something more or something less; whatever happened would have been better than this modern variation of "The Monkey's Paw." 

The scariest thing about Obsession is how real it feels. The uncanny takes the form of the banal here--capitalist trinkets selling dreams for handfuls of change, complete with disclaimers and retro branding for nostalgic appeal. Break the One Wish Willow and your wish will come true--but we keep forgetting that in the fables, wishes never quite turn out the way you expect. In life as it is in horror. 

I really cared for these four young people, though I knew they were doomed from the start. The knowledge doesn't ease the heartache. Yes, this is a fiction, a scary parable--but it's a mirror of the fear and chaos that disrupts lives from out of nowhere. It happens to the luckiest of us, somewhere, sometime, and if it hasn't happened to you yet, just wait a while; it will.