Tin & Tina

In the quiet outskirts of 1980s Spain, a modest home sits beneath the watchful stone walls of a convent orphanage, its rhythm marked by the cadence of daily prayers and the lingering scent of incense. The world feels both intimate and suffocating, a place where tradition holds a firm grip on every conversation, and the line between devotion and obsession is subtly blurred.

Lola is a young woman whose life has been shattered by a devastating loss, leaving her adrift in a deep well of sorrow. Beside her, Adolfo offers steady, if sometimes uneasy, support, trying to rebuild a sense of purpose after the trauma. Their marriage, formed under the shadow of grief, becomes a fragile refuge that they both yearn to fill, even if it means stepping into a realm far from their own secular comforts.

When the couple opens their home to two albino siblings—Tin and Tina—the dynamic shifts dramatically. The twins arrive with a quiet, musical grace and an unwavering commitment to the literal teachings of the Holy Bible, a conviction shaped by their strict ultra‑Catholic upbringing. Their belief system seeps into every corner of the household, turning ordinary moments into rituals that feel both earnest and oddly disquieting, challenging the parents’ pretenses and pushing the boundaries of what they are willing to accommodate.

The film unfolds as a slow‑burning study of faith, grief, and the uneasy choreography of a family trying to reconcile disparate worlds. A tone of restrained tension lingers, flavored with a subtle, almost palpable dread that hints at deeper conflicts without ever revealing them outright. As the characters navigate their intertwined hopes and anxieties, the audience is left to wonder how far devotion can stretch before it begins to unravel the fragile peace they all seek.

Last Updated: August 28, 2025 at 18:51