In 1996, two films emerged that grappled with the nature of horror cinema and its uneasy relationship with reality: Wes Craven’s *Scream* and Alejandro Amenábar’s *Tesis* (*Thesis*). Both films, in their own ways, interrogated the conventions of the horror genre and the medium of film itself, exploring how cinema can blur the boundaries between fiction and reality. While *Scream* redefined the slasher genre with its sharp, self-aware wit, becoming a cultural touchstone that remains a playful, if now overstretched, postmodern joke, *Tesis* took a darker, more introspective path. Amenábar’s debut feature, a chilling Spanish thriller, tackles the taboo subject of snuff films with a restraint that amplifies its visceral dread. Twenty-nine years later, *Scream*’s legacy endures as a clever deconstruction of genre tropes, but its sequels and reboots have diluted its bite. In contrast, *Tesis* retains its unsettling potency, weaving a haunting meditation on the seductive power of violence captured on film and the moral ambiguities of spectatorship. Through its meticulous pacing, psychological depth, and refusal to sensationalize its subject, *Tesis* remains a singular exploration of cinema’s capacity to both reflect and distort the human fascination with death. At its core, *Tesis* is a film about looking—about the act of watching, the desire to see, and the consequences of crossing ethical lines in pursuit of forbidden knowledge. The story follows Ángela (Ana Torrent), a university student writing her thesis on violence in audiovisual media. Her academic curiosity leads her to seek out the most extreme material she can find, a quest that takes a sinister turn when she discovers a videotape depicting the brutal murder of a fellow student. As Ángela is drawn deeper into a shadowy underworld of snuff films, her investigation becomes a descent into a moral and psychological abyss. Amenábar, only 23 at the time of the film’s release, displays remarkable control, crafting a narrative that is as intellectually rigorous as it is emotionally harrowing. Unlike *Scream*, which uses humor and genre savvy to keep viewers at a safe distance, *Tesis* pulls us uncomfortably close to its subject, forcing us to confront our own complicity as spectators. The film opens with a striking scene that sets the tone for its exploration of voyeurism. Ángela, riding a Madrid metro train, is caught in a crowd drawn to the spectacle of a man who has thrown himself under a train. The authorities urge passengers to look away, but Ángela’s curiosity—shared, perhaps, by the audience—compels her to steal a glance. This moment encapsulates the film’s central question: why are we drawn to images of violence and death? Amenábar does not shy away from implicating the viewer, suggesting that the urge to look, even fleetingly, is a universal impulse with potentially devastating consequences. Ángela’s initial curiosity, framed as academic, soon spirals into an obsession that mirrors the viewer’s own engagement with the film. By refusing to show the snuff footage in graphic detail, Amenábar avoids exploiting his subject, instead relying on suggestion and atmosphere to evoke dread. The result is a film that is profoundly disturbing without ever crossing into gratuitous excess. In contrast, *Scream* thrives on its explicit engagement with horror conventions. Craven’s film is a love letter to the slasher genre, dissecting its rules through characters who are acutely aware of the tropes they inhabit. Released in the same year as *Tesis*, *Scream* was a cultural phenomenon, revitalizing a stagnant genre with its blend of irony, scares, and pop-culture references. Yet, for all its brilliance, *Scream* is not a film that lingers in the psyche. Its scares are tempered by its knowing humor, and its violence, while graphic, is stylized to the point of detachment. By 2025, the *Scream* franchise has stretched its premise thin, with multiple sequels and reboots that struggle to recapture the original’s freshness. *Tesis*, however, feels timeless. Its restraint and psychological focus allow it to transcend the era in which it was made, speaking to universal questions about media, morality, and the human condition. One of *Tesis*’s greatest strengths is its refusal to moralize. Amenábar does not lecture his audience or reduce the film to a simplistic cautionary tale. Instead, he explores the allure of violence with a clear-eyed curiosity, acknowledging its seductive power while exposing its dangers. Early in the film, a character remarks that cinema is “an industry, a business, money.” This cynical observation grounds *Tesis* in a reality where art and commerce are inextricably linked, and where the pursuit of profit can lead to ethical compromises. The snuff films at the heart of the story represent the darkest extreme of this dynamic, a perverse commodification of human suffering. Yet Amenábar is careful not to demonize the medium itself. Cinema, he suggests, is neither inherently good nor evil—it is a tool, capable of profound beauty or unspeakable horror depending on how it is wielded. Ángela’s journey reflects this ambivalence. Played with haunting vulnerability by Ana Torrent, whose wide-eyed intensity recalls her iconic role in *The Spirit of the Beehive* (1973), Ángela is both a victim and a participant in the world she uncovers. Her academic pursuit of knowledge becomes a personal obsession, blurring the line between observer and accomplice. As she navigates a web of suspicion involving her professor, a creepy classmate named Chema (Fele Martínez), and a charismatic fellow student, Bosco (Eduardo Noriega), Ángela’s moral compass is tested. Amenábar uses her character to probe the ethics of spectatorship, asking whether the act of watching violence—whether in a snuff film, a horror movie, or a news broadcast—implicates the viewer in the act itself. This question resonates even more powerfully in 2025, an era dominated by viral videos, true-crime media, and the constant availability of graphic content online. The film’s technical craftsmanship enhances its thematic depth. Amenábar, who also composed the score, creates an atmosphere of creeping unease through minimalist visuals and a haunting soundtrack. The cinematography, by Hans Burman, favors muted tones and tight framing, evoking a sense of claustrophobia that mirrors Ángela’s descent. Unlike the glossy, kinetic energy of *Scream*, *Tesis* is deliberately understated, its slow-burn pacing allowing tension to build gradually. The absence of explicit gore is a masterstroke; by keeping the snuff footage off-screen, Amenábar forces the audience to imagine the unimaginable, making the horror all the more potent. This restraint sets *Tesis* apart from many of its contemporaries, which often relied on graphic violence to shock. Instead, the film’s terror lies in its psychological realism and its ability to tap into primal fears about the unknown. Amenábar’s critique extends beyond the snuff film phenomenon to the broader culture of media consumption. The film takes subtle jabs at film scholars and critics, portraying them as detached intellectuals more concerned with theory than with the human cost of the images they analyze. Ángela’s professor, for instance, is initially dismissive of her project, while Chema, a self-proclaimed expert on violent media, revels in his knowledge with a disturbing enthusiasm. These characters reflect different facets of the cinematic ecosystem—creators, consumers, and commentators—each complicit in perpetuating a culture that fetishizes violence. Yet Amenábar does not exempt himself from this critique. As a filmmaker, he is acutely aware of his own role in crafting a thriller that invites audiences to confront their fascination with the macabre. This self-awareness gives *Tesis* a layer of complexity that elevates it above standard genre fare. In comparison, *Scream*’s self-awareness is more playful, its meta-commentary focused on the mechanics of horror rather than its ethical implications. Where *Scream* invites audiences to laugh at their own expectations, *Tesis* forces them to question their motives. This difference is evident in the films’ respective approaches to violence. In *Scream*, bloodshed is a spectacle, choreographed with a wink to the audience. In *Tesis*, violence is a specter, its presence felt but rarely seen, making its impact all the more profound. This contrast underscores the distinct ambitions of the two films: *Scream* seeks to entertain, while *Tesis* seeks to unsettle. The cultural context of 1996 adds further depth to *Tesis*. The mid-1990s were a time of growing anxiety about media violence, fueled by debates over films like *Natural Born Killers* (1994) and the rise of reality-based television. The concept of snuff films, though largely mythical at the time, tapped into these fears, representing the ultimate transgression in a media-saturated world. Amenábar’s decision to center his debut film on this subject was a bold gamble, one that could have easily veered into exploitation. Instead, he crafted a work of remarkable subtlety, using the snuff film as a metaphor for broader questions about the ethics of representation. In 2025, these questions remain urgent. The proliferation of graphic content on platforms like X and the true-crime boom have only intensified debates about the line between documentation and sensationalism. *Tesis* feels eerily prescient in its exploration of these issues, its themes resonating in an age where anyone with a smartphone can become both creator and consumer of violent imagery. The performances in *Tesis* are another key to its enduring power. Ana Torrent delivers a riveting portrayal of Ángela, capturing her transformation from naive student to haunted investigator. Her expressive eyes convey a mix of curiosity, fear, and determination, making her a compelling audience surrogate. Fele Martínez, as Chema, brings a disquieting energy to his role as a loner obsessed with violent media, while Eduardo Noriega’s Bosco exudes a dangerous charm that keeps viewers guessing. The dynamic between these characters—marked by suspicion, attraction, and betrayal—adds a layer of psychological tension that complements the film’s thematic concerns. Amenábar’s direction ensures that each performance serves the story, never overshadowing the film’s larger questions. Ultimately, *Tesis* is a film about the power of cinema to shape our perceptions of reality. It asks whether movies should strive to mimic life, as Ángela initially believes, or whether they should transcend it, offering something more profound than mere replication. In its final moments, the film delivers a chilling commentary on the media’s role in normalizing violence, suggesting that the act of watching can be as transformative—and as dangerous—as the act of creating. Unlike *Scream*, which concludes with a satisfying resolution that ties up its narrative threads, *Tesis* leaves viewers with a lingering sense of unease. Its questions are not easily answered, and its horrors are not easily forgotten. In the years since its release, *Tesis* has been somewhat overshadowed by Amenábar’s later works, such as *The Others* (2001) and *The Sea Inside* (2004). Yet it remains his most provocative film, a daring debut that announces his talent while grappling with issues that continue to resonate. Compared to *Scream*, which redefined a genre but lost its edge over time, *Tesis* feels as vital today as it did in 1996. Its exploration of voyeurism, media ethics, and the allure of violence speaks to a world increasingly defined by screens and spectacle. By refusing to sensationalize its subject, Amenábar crafted a horror film that is as thought-provoking as it is unsettling, a testament to the power of cinema to confront us with our darkest impulses.