Arrebato opens with the packing of a film reel, shot in close-up, the delicate machinery of filmmaking in full focus. The reel, a spare key, and a cassette are delivered to horror filmmaker José Sirgado (Eusebio Poncela). A voice recorded on the cassette informs him that “no one will send you the last film.” Simultaneously mundane and eerie, these three objects cause the unraveling of a hypnotic, horrific secret regarding the power and appeal of cinema.
Recently restored in 4K, Iván Zulueta’s 1979 cult horror film Arrebato feels oddly timeless. The restoration is releasing amidst the rise of an emergent subgenre termed “analog horror,” and, when placed alongside contemporary examples, feels much like an early precursor of the subgenre. Analog horror is best defined by its medium, using outdated analog technology such as VHS or film footage, handheld tape recorders, and low-quality CRT displays to create an unsettling atmosphere in stories often involving lost media and found footage. Stories in the genre are often told retroactively as found footage, largely preying on fear of the unknown, particularly our fear of technology. By using analog techniques to see through the cracks of our reality, analog horror filmmakers highlight not a fear of the antiquated or outdated, but of the modern and innovative. The subgenre posits that by moving into the digital age — away from analog methods of recording and communication — we lose our ability to understand the technology we use, putting ourselves at the mercy of the unknowable. Arrebato engages with these ideas in a less contemporary yet uniquely compelling way, strikingly indicative of the subgenre to come. The film uses its technology, which has only become outdated in retrospect, to offer a compelling, cosmically terrifying exploration of indulgence and the creative psyche.
Arrebato is primarily delivered via flashback, as the scratchy voice of Pedro (Will More) murmurs through the cassette to José, reciting the details of his life before, during, and after José’s two encounters with the enigmatic man. Pedro is a filmmaker who sees in José a kindred spirit, one driven to create by an insatiable need to pursue a feeling of elation that only cinema can satisfy. Pedro’s driving purpose is to capture the perfect cinematic rhythm, a rhythm that upon projection will induce a rapturous state onto the viewer. His obsession even lends the film its title, as “arrebato” is the Spanish translation of that with which Pedro is obsessed – “rapture.” When José provides Pedro with an interval timer to surmount the frustration of human error, Pedro is catapulted down the rabbit hole of his discovery — the rapture works. As the narrative hurtles towards the present, the surreal horror of the film increases: Pedro’s camera has started recording him sleeping, seemingly of its own volition, and contained in the developed film are red frames that appear to have captured nothing. Pedro becomes convinced that these frames hold the key to becoming permanently enraptured and tasks José with finishing what he started by uncovering the final reel from Pedro’s apartment after his apparent disappearance.
The restoration of Zulueta’s film is immaculate, with careful attention paid to the prominence of different forms of filmmaking throughout. The film retains its color and grain in vivid, tactile detail, and the meta-films contained within the narrative even take on their own distinct look through changes in color and quality. There is a clear love for the medium of film both behind the restoration and within the film itself, as Arrebato probes what it means to love cinema and the obsessive desire to create that accompanies this love. Within the film, there is a fascination with projected images that reflects Zulueta’s other work as an experimental filmmaker. Short films Masaje (1972) and Frank Stein (1972) both heavily utilize montaged television recordings and news images, an artistic obsession that carries on into Arrebato. José and Pedro’s personal projectors, the lenses of cameras, and television screens all contribute to the constant presence of secondary images in the film, as Arrebato turns the substance of film itself into something terrifying. Even Pedro’s various explanations of “rapture” borrow language from the act of watching and filming, as he describes his goal as a state of perpetual pause, slow, or stall.
As the film progresses, Pedro’s search for rhythms takes on an invariably Lovecraftian quality. His overarching narration captures that essence, reminiscent of the diary entries that comprise Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu (1926) or even the letters and various artifacts used to narrate Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897). By attempting to translate the epistolary format these stories employ to the screen, Zulueta creates an immediacy that draws the viewer into Pedro’s obsessive quest for the perfect high. Other elements contribute to the film’s immersion as well; in fact, Arrebato is best described as markedly hypnotic, all of its elements converging to create an experience that is nearly impossible to look away from once it has begun. The narrative progresses in a slow yet even rhythm, wonderfully paced to create in the viewer a similar trancelike effect that Pedro seems to be seeking. The music, too, contributes to the trance — the score is intensely minimalist, consisting of very little beyond modulated binaural beats and the occasional motif of a surreal, carnival-esque tune. The usage of binaural beats also seems pursuant of Pedro’s “hidden rhythms,” slowing and accelerating in tandem with Pedro’s cinematic highs and lows. Will More is exceptional in the role, embodying the paradox of enthrallment and repulsion that José sees in Pedro to perfection. By all accounts, he is off-putting at his best and terrifying at his worst, yet More is able to sell Pedro as infinitely compelling regardless. As his addiction to cinema grows, so too does the viewer’s fascination with him.
The parallel between cinema as a practice and an addiction is the foundation of the film’s core message, as Pedro’s “raptures” are both depicted and described as similar to the highs of heroin. This parallel is carried further in José’s own tumultuous relationship with his work, as his seeming disillusionment with filmmaking comes into conflict with his inability to resist the beauty of Pedro’s work. Pedro even goes so far as to describe the moment his camera is turned off while he is sleeping, leaving him unable to achieve his usual enrapturement, as something akin to the process of withdrawal. For Zulueta, filmmaking is a difficult process, one that can often come at the cost of one’s own wellbeing, yet the high is ever-compelling. The camera itself is even depicted as a vampire of sorts, absorbing life from those around it. José works on a vampire flick at the start of the film, arguing with a co-producer whether or not a take of the vampiric lead actress should be included because she is staring directly into the camera. He contends that her willingness to embrace the stare of the lens shows the audience that she adores being a vampire, thus delivering the perfect final shot of his film. In Pedro’s sleep recordings, too, there is an air of the vampiric; Pedro notes that the red frames only continue to grow, and as they do, so too do his raptures. For every moment he is filmed, he becomes more engrossed in the act, his will slowly absorbed by the camera and manifesting in an ever-growing number of absent red frames. He even begins to physically deteriorate, the dual metaphor of vampirism and addiction colliding under the watchful eye of the camera’s lens.
For all of its trancelike beauty, the film is not without its flaws. The hypnotic pacing comes to a screeching halt as Pedro’s narration arrives in the present, leaving the final 20 minutes of the film feeling remarkably out of place with what has come before it. The film’s ending, too, feels out of place, leaving many questions unanswered — though this is more the result of the ambiguity of Zulueta’s questions than an inability to tie up the story. Ultimately, Arrebato is a masterful work of experimental horror filmmaking that finds itself among good company in the modern era of analog horror. Zulueta’s probing questions about the nature of cinema offer compelling insight into both the process of filmmaking and viewing, while still maintaining a sense of surreal horror. To create is to embrace the horrible unknown; to watch is to explore that unknown, regardless of what one may unearth.
