The Spider

Growing up surrounded by psychoanalytic discourse, I developed an instinct to dissect human behavior—first through observation, then through storytelling. The Spider is a manifestation of that impulse, a film that interrogates repression, duality, and the fractured self through a character study wrapped in allegory.

At its core, The Spider is about identity—how it is shaped, concealed, and, ultimately, confronted. The protagonist exists in a state of perpetual conflict, trapped between opposing forces: desire and guilt, performance and authenticity, the individual and the collective. He moves through spaces that reflect his inner turmoil—a nightclub that feels both liberating and claustrophobic, a family home where silence speaks louder than words, and finally, the body itself as a battleground. The image of the spider crawling from his wounds is not just horror or surrealism; it is a metaphor for the things we try to suppress, only for them to manifest in unexpected and grotesque ways.

My approach to filmmaking is rooted in tension—between naturalism and stylization, structure and chaos, the intimate and the political. Visually, The Spider borrows from Soviet aesthetics and the raw, unpolished energy of Cinema Novo, rejecting the sleekness of commercial filmmaking in favor of something rougher, more alive. Glauber Rocha’s Aesthetic of Hunger remains a touchstone, not as nostalgia but as a challenge: How do you create cinema that is unafraid to be ugly, uncomfortable, and politically charged?

I tend to write with subtext first, narrative second—something that doesn’t always sit well with conventional storytelling norms. The Spider embraces ambiguity, allowing themes to emerge through visual language and performance rather than exposition. Its irony is deliberate, a reflection of the absurdity in self-denial and the contradictions we carry. I am less interested in offering answers than in posing questions—about repression, masculinity, class, and the unconscious forces that govern us.

My goal with The Spider, and with every film I make, is to craft an experience that lingers—not through spectacle, but through something more insidious, more difficult to shake. This film is, in many ways, an exorcism. But as with all things buried deep, what emerges is not just horror, but recognition.