Rígido

The scouts

A corpse on a neighbor's sofa that nobody can explain—it's a setup that should be maudlin grief-porn, but instead Miralles and López turn it into a deadpan absurdist hex. The film refuses to resolve its own mystery or earn its emotion the easy way, which is exactly why it works.

The formal restraint here is impressive: a mystery that declines to unmask itself, anchored by a measured performance and editing that respects the grotesque-mundane collision without underlining it. It sits somewhere between Haneke's cool distance and Spanish surrealist tradition—a lineage the film wears with quiet confidence.

The entire film hinges on the choice to shoot Néstor's death scene with such stillness and ordinariness that it stops reading as plot and becomes pure tone—one decision about how to frame absence transforms a dark-comedy setup into something genuinely unsettling and alive.