In this digital era, locating a movie tailored to your immediate preference has become exceptionally straightforward. For instance, if you’re making a romantic dinner and planning to watch a film with the object of your affection, a quick visit to the streamers will offer you a plethora of movies designed to captivate even the most unyielding of hearts. Alternatively, if you find yourself in a situation similar to mine, spending an entire week initially reserved for a brief vacation confined to your home due to illness, love is certainly not on your mind. You yearn for something more intense, something on the edge, something that elicits the thought, “Thank God that’s not my reality.”
In such a scenario, you gravitate toward the horror section of your preferred streaming service.
This week, I reactivated my Netflix subscription to explore what I had been missing out on. A swift browse through the horror section proved to be quite an indulgence. There’s an abundance of films to select from, and if you happen to use a VPN, your options expand even further. However, if there’s one insight I’ve gained during my years as a Netflix subscriber, it’s this: there’s a surplus of quantity and a scarcity of quality.
It’s not Netflix’s fault; the company needs to maintain a vast film selection to satisfy its subscriber base. What one person might consider trash; another might see as treasure. Yet, as a connoisseur of creepy, I possess rather discerning tastes. Consequently, much of my week was spent starting a movie, growing disinterested, and moving on to another one. I was on the brink of giving up when I stumbled upon a Spanish horror film.
Tin & Tina is a psychological horror film directed by Rubin Stein, set in the 1980s and centered around Lola (Milena Smit) and Adolfo (Jaime Lorente). Their wedding day takes a tragic turn when Lola experiences a miscarriage, sending her spiraling into a profound depression. Adolfo, unable to help her recover, grows increasingly frustrated, eventually proposing a shocking solution — they should adopt a replacement child. Initially hesitant, Lola eventually agrees, and they visit a local convent orphanage. There, they meet Tin (Carlos González Morollón) and Tina (Anastasia Russo), two siblings with a rare albino condition and devout religious beliefs.
Despite Lola’s initial unease with their behavior and appearance, the brother and sister effectively guilt-trip her into adopting them. However, the children’s religious fervor begins to cause problems at home. It starts with strange games where Tina tries to harm Tin. The family dog is brutally killed and disemboweled in an attempt to cleanse its soul after biting Lola. Later, a school bully falls into a coma shortly after an encounter with the twins. Although Lola can’t definitively blame Tin and Tina, all evidence points to their involvement. Shockingly, when she seeks support from Adolfo, he refuses to believe her.
As the couple discovers they are expecting a biological child, the twins’ actions take a sinister turn. In a chilling attempt to “feed the baby,” the albino siblings nearly administer poison to Lola, but she defends herself with a knife, inadvertently triggering her labor. Shortly afterward, the twins inquire if Lola intends to have the child baptized. When Lola declines, they take it upon themselves to perform the ritual, almost drowning the baby in a swimming pool. This final straw prompts Lola and Adolfo to return the siblings to the orphanage. Subsequently, Lola and Adolfo’s marriage crumbles.
As a parent, this movie unearthed a fear I never anticipated experiencing. While I have a strong desire to expand my family with more children, the passage of time has begun to make adoption seem like my only feasible option. However, after viewing Tin & Tina, I find myself grappling with concerns about the potential drawbacks of this choice.
Let me clarify that I don’t view adoption, itself, as inherently negative. My concern lies in the prospect of welcoming a child into my family who may grapple with deep emotional issues. This prospect is deeply distressing to me. I want to emphasize that I’m not apprehensive about the possibility of dealing with problematic children. What truly concerns me is the awareness that children with mental health challenges might struggle to contain their emotional burdens, leading to behavioral difficulties.
In this film, I felt a strong connection to Lola. I understand her sincere desire to be a loving and supportive mother to the siblings, but the combination of her own depression and the psychological challenges the children presented creates a volatile mix from the outset. The thought of not being able to provide a nurturing and stable environment for any child I bring into my home would shatter my heart. The idea of having to return a child, as if they were flawed or damaged goods, is a concept I find profoundly disheartening.
Tin & Tina isn’t a movie that will necessarily appeal to everyone. The film isn’t excessively terrifying. The siblings come across as religious zealots, exuding a creepy aura, but for the most part, they would likely be manageable, even if they were to turn unexpectedly aggressive. I actually found their exaggerated smiles to be quite amusing the first time I encountered them, giving a campy feel to what is labelled as a psychological horror film. For these reasons, many viewers might not invest much time in giving this movie a chance to grow on them, a sentiment I can relate to, based on my initial reactions to several films watched before Tin & Tina.
I give Tin & Tina three out of five stars. The storyline may not connect with all viewers, but it has a particular resonance for parents, delving into the fear of being unable to create a nurturing environment for their children and assisting them in adapting to the world. There are moments that will make you scream at the screen — not out of fear, but out of sheer astonishment at how certain situations unfold, not only between Lola and the children, but also between Lola and Adolfo.
Tin & Tina decidedly emphasizes the psychological aspect of the genre, even though it doesn’t fall into the traditional category of pure horror.