September 05th, 2026

             My Only Problem with the Movie Obsession is Me

For starters, this is not a film review, as I reviewed Obsession elsewhere, and if you’re curious about how I rated the movie, I’ll be happy to furnish you with the review in question. This is more of a think piece about how the film affected me, unsettled me for very personal reasons, reasons so personal in fact that I’m not even really comfortable addressing them on an ill-trafficked blog.
I typically hate articles on subjects in which the writer makes the piece more about themselves than the work they’re supposed to be addressing. In the case of Obsession, though, I simply can’t separate my feelings about the film from how I feel about myself, my life, my own manhood, my inability to ultimately connect with women in any substantive way.
For those who haven’t seen the movie, insert your standard “In case you have been living under a rock,” clause here. Suffice it to say that it has become a cultural sensation, transcending the narrower world of horror cinema to become a topic of sometimes-contentious general conversation. That it was made for under a million dollars and has generated roughly half a bajillion dollars at the box office has also, in its way, made it more worthy of attention.
The movie’s premise is pretty basic, with the director admitting he got the idea from a Simpsons: Treehouse of Horror episode that was itself based on the short story “The Monkey’s Paw.”
“Paw” is about someone making three wishes and getting what they want, long and hard, with each of their wishes being spoiled in some way by a darkly ironic twist.  
“Obsession” gives its protagonist one wish, which he uses to make a girl he likes “love him more than fucking anyone in the world.” Naturally this ensures her love is terrifying in its intensity, which results in scenes that range from ridiculous to horrific. When Bear (the male wish-maker) leaves for work, Nikki (his ensorcelled crush) waits at the doorway for his return with the eagerness of a loyal dog; later, when another girl is about to kiss Bear, Nikki smashes the girl’s face with a brick.
Both men and women who saw the film were deeply disturbed by it, but for very different reasons. At a basic level, a lot of men cringed in fear at Nikki’s extreme behavior, mostly because it reminded them of an unhinged ex who once keyed their car or attacked them before calling the cops and claiming to be the victim.
Many women responded to Bear’s wish for Nikki to love him with a different kind of horror. His desire triggered fears about patriarchal attempts to mold the female to conform to man’s desire and expectations. The male lust to possess sexually and romantically is still in some way a will to power, and it’s one that has limited female agency throughout most of human history. Yes, there are women who enjoy being homemakers and enjoy having children, but most would probably prefer to make the decision for themselves rather than having the decision made by a father who’s more interested in the dowery or solidifying relationships with an ally by joining two kingdoms.
Of course there are plenty of other, less facile levels at which to analyze the film, and those with overpriced film studies degrees will be getting quite a bit of use out of them when studying this movie. Cultural theorist Asa Seresin, for instance, who coined the term “hetero-pessimism,” has already provided a lens through which some of the more thoughtful early critique has occurred. You can expect many pots of ink (or their pixilated equivalent) to be spilled talking about the film in the coming years. There will probably even be a book-length treatment or ten, complete with footnotes and endnotes, and prose dry enough to wring the last bit of joy from the experience.
As for me, my main takeaways from “Obsession” and the Apache dance that plays out between man and woman in the film is that 1). I’m old, and 2). I’m a soulless monster.
To address these sobering revelations each in their turn, then:
First, this is a movie written and directed by a man in his mid-twenties, and most of the actors in the film appear to be at or around that age. While watching the movie, I became immersed and found myself in sympathy with the characters, basically seeing events unfold through their eyes. But at odd moments I would pull back and think, “These are kids. I’m middle-aged. I’m old!” I couldn’t help but notice how their eyes contained a glint that has already dimmed in mine, that the early signs of inevitable decay—some obvious and some more subtle—have not even begun to manifest in them. The acceptance of eventual failure—death—has still not sunk in with them yet. I bet, I found myself thinking, their bodies don’t hurt every morning when they wake up. They can get drunk tonight and eat whatever they want and not suffer the consequences in the middle of the night.
Second, and more unsettling was how much time I spent with my attention divided between the story and the beauty of Inde Navarrete, the girl who plays Nikki.
I understand it’s normal and makes biological sense to find younger women attractive—and it’s not like I’m not attracted to older women as well—but my response to her beauty was a little jarring. It was most unsettling in those moments where her behavior was off, or we as audience were made most conscious that she was basically a somnambulist acting under a spell. At such moments I didn’t think, “This is terrible what is being done to this girl,” but, “Man, she has really nice legs,” or “nice hair” or “eyes” or “breasts” or “lips.”
It makes me think of what that one feminist comix artist said of R. Crumb, and his depiction of vulture women or even more disturbing, that headless Devil-Girl. The head of females in Crumb’s comix is many times removed or distorted in some way, reflecting a deeper male desire to have only the body, which of course you can do whatever you want with.
Notice that in the “arms race” to create the most beautiful and realistic sex doll, almost all of the designers at these creepy conventions are men, and almost all of the dolls are female. These female poppets rarely have the sneering poise of a dominatrix or the joyful look of a woman who derives her own gratification via the sex act. Instead these facsimiles wear the blank and demure look of lobotomized sex slaves, without will or even consciousness. Despite all the “progress” made in creating these things, the expression is still the same as it was on those novelty blowup dolls, moony eyes and a puckered "O” of a mouth.  
I find myself drawn to these things, sometimes as much as real women. And I don’t really like that. At least, though, I have not reached the point where I would prefer fucking the things to an actual living and breathing woman. Hopefully, that day never comes…
Every one of my emotions functions well enough in every other kind of relationship I have—with my parents, with strangers, with women who I only know professionally. But something is simply haywire with my circuitry when it comes to my romantic relationships with women.
Almost all of these relationships have followed roughly the same pattern. I hook up with a girl, we have some fun, she grows more serious while something in me gets colder and shuts down. Soon she is crying and I feel miserable but I'm not sure how to change the situation. Sometimes, at that point, the relationship dies of natural causes. Sometimes I cut it off, feeling ashamed, embarrassed, guilty, but also confused by the intensity of whatever emotion the female in question is enduring. And almost all of these girls had fathers who either died when they were young or who abandoned them, which makes me wonder what kind of absent father pheromone I must be exuding to keep attracting the same type.
And after a few too many of these miserable experiences I eventually resolved to basically live the life of a hermit. Frankly, it hasn’t hurt too much, for, like the writer Karl Kraus, I have a good imagination and subscribe to the notion that “Sex is a poor substitute for masturbation.”
I suppose that I should be grateful at least that I’m in my forties and not my twenties, and that sex is no longer some great unknown mystery that I fixate on as if it might be a solution to the human condition, rather than something that just makes the complicated and painful world a little more complicated and painful.
I guess, then, there are some good things about getting old, and some bad—and very painful—things about being young, and even worse, young and beautiful.