The Corpse of Anna Fritz

The Corpse of Anna Fritz is a provocative and claustrophobic Spanish thriller directed by Hèctor Hernández Vicens. It centers on a morally twisted moment of opportunity and the consequences that unfold when three men encounter the body of a famous actress. Adapted from a short story by Ramsey Campbell, the film explores power, consent, and the darkness lurking behind admiration.

The story begins in a morgue late at night. Anna Fritz, a beloved young actress who died unexpectedly, lies on a slab. Her fame and beauty are key—she’s not just any dead woman. News of her death has been a national shock. Through the eyes of one morgue attendant, Joel, the audience senses both reverence and discomfort. As he leaves to fetch refreshments, his colleagues arrive: Albert and his cousin Enrique. Both are thirty-something men who grew up idolizing Anna.

When Albert and Enrique return, they propose something horrific: to move Anna’s body, undress her, and photograph her. What begins as voyeurism quickly escalates. Joel, initially horrified, finds himself complicit—first by helping, then by resisting, then by committing. Their actions reflect a deeper irony: Anna’s body is treated as an object, her voice silenced, her identity irrelevant.

The film’s tension is rooted in its moral claustrophobia. In a single room with no exit, masked by dark humor, the men cycle through denial, fear, shame, and aggression. Albert is the hound of bravado—insistent and belligerent. Enrique starts eager, then freezes as their deed detaches from fantasy. Joel vacillates between obedience and conscience. Their conflict becomes psychological torture.

A turning point arrives when Anna suddenly blinks—she's alive. Suffering from a coma, she regains consciousness with terror in her eyes. The power dynamics shift instantly: now there’s a voice to speak, a mind to bargain with, and three preying men caught in a triangle of panic, desperation, and negotiation.

Anna’s presence transforms the film into a darker, more complex exploration of consent and survival. Joel drops to his knees, begging forgiveness and trying to nourish her. Enrique oscillates between helping and abetting Albert. Albert’s arrogance peaks—he is both predator and nemesis. Their differing responses become moral fault lines.

With Anna conscious, they must decide: kill her to silence the evidence, release her and face arrest, or manipulate her further. The tension escalates until a final, morally ambiguous climax forces both men and viewers to question where the line between complicit witness and violent participant really lies.

Technically, the film achieves most of its power through its setting and tone. The morgue is cold, sterile, and gravitational—the walls close in. Claustrophobic cinematography places viewers directly in the tension-filled room, alternating extreme close-ups with long-held frames, emphasizing both human cruelty and frailty. The sparse soundscape—dripping water, panicked breath, distant hallways—reinforces the sense that beyond those walls, real life continues, ignorant of what’s happening inside.

This is a film built on contrast: the purity of Anna’s lifeless face against the flawed and dehumanized behavior of her tormentors; the quiet of death disrupted by acts of violation; power flipping instantly when the seemingly powerless – Anna – regains consciousness.

What makes The Corpse of Anna Fritz memorable is its refusal to let viewers distance themselves. Every character is flawed. Anna is not a symbol but a person—she pleads, confuses, resists. Her trauma is immediate, not cinematic. Every male character is ugly in emotional terms: Albert is predatory without remorse, Alvin; Enrique is cowardly and conflicted; Joel is weak yet sympathetic. Their moral compasses break under pressure.

Critics are divided: some praise the film’s intensity and ethical provocation; others feel it revels in moral degravity without sufficient resolution or commentary. But nearly all agree that it’s hard to watch—and made that way intentionally. It hunts your conscience, makes you uncomfortable, and confronts the viewer with questions about voyeurism, entitlement, and the fragility of consent.

The film’s conclusion is as unsettling as its premise. Far from neat or felt, it leaves both Anna and her assailants in a state of uneasy stasis. Viewers are left asking: does exposure equal justice? Does survival equate to salvation? And when violence slips into silence, does the truth even matter?