The opening sequence of Obsession shows Baron (Michael Johnston) – whom everyone else calls Bear – declaring his deep love to his long-time friend Nikki (Inde Navarette), whom since high school he has loved from afar. This monologue is filmed in close-up, which exposes the intimate intensity of his feelings, while momentarily concealing the fact that his declaration is only a dry run, delivered not to Nikki but to a waitress in the diner where he is with his best friend Ian (Cooper Tomlinson). The waitress seems touched, but Ian, who knows all the parties involved, warns Bear that Nikki herself would just laugh at such a corny confession.
What is important about this prologue to writer/director Curry Barker’s second feature (after the self-published psycho-slasher Milk & Serial, 2024) is the way that it shows desire as something both obsessive and transferrable. Bear may be giddily earnest in his emotions, but he is also projecting them onto someone other than their true object – and even when we later see him clumsily trying (and failing) to tell the actual Nikki how he feels about her, there is the sense that the Nikki at the heart of all his yearnings, and the Nikki right in front of him, are not exactly the same person. When Bear attempts to get real with Nikki, he might as well still be talking to her substitute in the diner.
Obsession is concerned precisely with that gulf between a person in all their messy reality, and the fantasy version of them that our wishful thinking constructs to suit itself. Of course, this being a horror film, that idea is expressed through a monkey’s paw narrative, as frustrated Bear makes a wish upon an old gimmick toy (the ‘One Wish Willow’), purchased from a new age shop, that Nikki should love him more than she loves anyone else in the world, and quickly learns the age-old principle that you should be careful what you wish for.
Now Bear’s obsession has transferred itself to Nikki, and while he is initially delighted to find his crush throwing herself at him, Nikki’s clinging affection soon festers into something at once overwhelming and soon frightening, as she proves far more controlling and manipulative and crazy in love than he ever was, and fetishises her beloved into an object as he has done with her. Nikki is an infatuated, increasingly unhinged monster, full of destructive emotions and violent jealousies – especially towards Bear’s other friend and work colleague Sarah (Megan Lawless) – and will not let Bear out of her sight. Worst of all, Bear knows that this adoring creature is not the real Nikki, but a succubus spawned by his own longing.
Before Bear makes his wish and Nikki is transformed, he has a conversation with her about the novel that she is hoping to write, which she insists is a ‘love story’ but not a ‘romance’ – a fine distinction which expressly confounds Bear. In a sense, Barker’s entire film is teasing out this difference, as it explores that shadowy place where love and obsession overlap, pushing out all other aspects of life and suffocating both lover and beloved in a closed world of amour fou. Bear’s rapid decline under these circumstances never feels anything less than deserved, as he falls victim to his own sought-after scenario, and learns the hard way where his dehumanising desires can lead.
Yet the real victim here is poor Nikki, made a horrified insider witness to the possession of her own body both by Bear and by the double of her that he has dreamt up in his erotic imagination. For once obsession has entered the picture – and it is there right from the start – everyone, it seems, is doomed not to get what they want and, like in the very darkest of romances, to suffer for love. Obsession is funny in parts, and grotesque too, with Navarette skilfully negotiating her way between two very different rôles that are often visibly in conflict – but by the bitter, gory finish, no one is laughing, as desire shows its tragic end.
strap: Suffering for love: Curry Barker’s romantic horror lets an infatuated man magically get what he desires, and quickly regret it
© Anton Bitel
