Tin & Tina (2023)

Tin & Tina is the kind of horror-thriller that gets under your skin not with cheap shocks, but with a beautifully controlled sense of dread—like a lullaby sung just a little too sweetly. Set in early-’80s Spain, it wraps grief, faith, and motherhood into an unsettling fairy tale, where pristine convent imagery and meticulous visuals make every quiet moment feel charged. Milena Smit and Jaime Lorente ground the film in raw, bruised emotion, while the twins’ eerie sincerity turns innocence into something genuinely frightening, all guided by Rubin Stein’s confident, distinctive style. It’s a slow-burn that leans into discomfort and moral unease, so it won’t be for everyone—especially given its intense child-related peril—but if you like your genre cinema elegant, provocative, and hard to shake, this one delivers.

Tin & Tina is clearly aiming for an unsettling, religiously charged psychological thriller about grief, faith, and the terror of taking “innocence” at face value, and the premise has real bite. The problem is it often takes its time getting to the point, then asks you to swallow character decisions that feel more like plot requirements than human behavior, which drains tension instead of building it. When it works, it’s because the atmosphere is strong and the twins’ eerie, literal devotion is genuinely unnerving, but the story can drift into overwrought territory where the shocks start to feel forced. If you’re sensitive to child-on-animal violence, pregnancy/baby peril, or you need tight, believable writing to stay invested, this one may test your patience more than your nerves.