Veneciafrenia

The sight of a massive, multi-story cruise ship looming over the terracotta rooftops of Venice is one of the most polarizing images in modern travel. To the people on the boat, it’s a floating palace; to the locals on the ground, it’s a colonizing beast vomiting thousands of selfie-stick-wielding invaders into their fragile streets. Álex de la Iglesia, the Spanish maestro of the macabre, looks at this tension and sees exactly what you’d expect him to see: a perfect excuse for a bloodbath.

Veneciafrenia isn’t just a slasher movie; it’s a scream of frustration directed at the "Disneyfication" of European history. I watched this while wearing an itchy wool sweater that made me nearly as irritable as the film’s murderous Venetians, and honestly, that mood was the perfect companion for this mean-spirited little exercise in "tourist-trap" horror.

The Sinking City’s Revenge

The setup is classic slasher fodder. A group of Spanish friends, led by the bride-to-be Isa (Ingrid García Jonsson) and her high-energy pals Susana (Silvia Alonso) and Arantza (Goize Blanco), arrive in Venice for a bachelorette weekend. They are loud, they are wearing cheap wigs, and they are immediately, intensely annoying. They represent the exact kind of tourism that locals despise—the kind that treats a thousand-year-old city like a private backdrop for a TikTok dance.

De la Iglesia doesn't waste time making us like them. In fact, the characters are so grating you’ll find yourself rooting for the guys in the plague doctor masks. When they run into a group of locals dressed in traditional Commedia dell'arte costumes, the "performance" turns out to be a lethal protest. One by one, the tourists start disappearing, but the city is so crowded and the costumes are so ubiquitous that nobody notices the murders happening in plain sight.

The film excels when it leans into this theatricality. There is a sequence involving a theatrical performance of Rigoletto that is genuinely clever, blending the staged tragedy with real-life carnage in a way that feels very "Giallo." The cinematography by Pablo Rosso (the man behind the shaky-cam brilliance of [REC]) captures Venice not as a romantic getaway, but as a claustrophobic, rotting labyrinth of damp stone and deceptive shadows.

A Giallo for the Instagram Era

While the film is undeniably a contemporary product, it breathes the air of 1970s Italian thrillers. You can feel the influence of Dario Argento in the bold color palettes and the creative, almost artistic deaths. However, De la Iglesia updates the subtext. In an era of over-tourism and climate anxiety, the "monster" isn't a supernatural entity; it’s the collective rage of a community that feels its home has been turned into a museum gift shop.

There’s a pointed irony in the fact that Nicolás Illoro, Alberto Bang, and the rest of the cast spend half their time looking through the lenses of their phones. When a character is being murdered in the middle of a crowded square, the bystanders don't help—they film it, assuming it’s just another piece of street theater designed for their entertainment. It’s a cynical take on our current "pics or it didn't happen" culture, and while it isn't exactly subtle, it’s effective.

Interestingly, the film was part of "The Fear Collection," a collaborative project between Sony, Amazon Prime, and De la Iglesia’s Pokeepsie Films. It was designed to revitalize mid-budget Spanish horror for a global streaming audience. This explains the film's polished look despite its relatively modest box office returns. It feels like a movie made for a Friday night on the couch—short, punchy, and visually arresting enough to keep you off your own phone for 100 minutes.

The Problem with the Return Trip

As much as I enjoyed the vibe and the "eat the tourists" energy, Veneciafrenia does start to leak water in its final act. The screenplay, co-written by De la Iglesia's long-time collaborator Jorge Guerricaechevarría, tries to pivot from a straightforward slasher into a larger conspiracy thriller involving a secret society of Venetian elite.

This is where the movie loses its footing. The grounded, gritty tension of being lost in a hostile city is replaced by a plot that feels a bit rushed and underdeveloped. It’s a common trope in De la Iglesia’s filmography—he’s a director who loves a big, chaotic finale, but sometimes the chaos overwhelms the logic. I found myself wishing it had stayed a bit smaller and more intimate, focusing on the nightmare of being hunted through those narrow alleys.

Still, there is something admirable about a film that refuses to play nice. In an age of "elevated horror" where every monster is a metaphor for grief, it’s refreshing to see a movie that is just the cinematic equivalent of a Yelp review written in human blood. It’s loud, it’s colorful, and it has a very clear message: if you're going to visit Venice, at least have the decency to be terrified.

Veneciafrenia is a stylish, mean-spirited vacation from the usual slasher tropes. It doesn't quite stick the landing, and the characters are intentionally difficult to love, but the visual flair and the biting commentary on over-tourism make it a trip worth taking. If you’ve ever felt the urge to push a selfie-stick into the Grand Canal, this is the movie for you. Just don't expect a refund if you don't like where the boat ends up.