Not everyone is cut out for parenting. Caye Casas’ most recent work The Coffee Table depicts this uncomfortable truth to its most horrifying extent. For an all-too-quick 87 minutes, Casas throws the audience headfirst into the most terrifying anxieties about becoming a new parent, with the extra spice of a failing relationship thrown in for good measure. Between the actual plot beats, the claustrophobic setting, and the stellar cinematography, The Coffee Table does not let up on its dreadful, shocking atmosphere, providing one of the most anxiety-inducing viewing experiences of the year.

Jesús (David Pareja) and his wife María (Estefanía de los Santos) recently undertook a surprise move while juggling a newborn. They’ve mostly finished sorting out their new apartment, sans one key piece of furniture: a coffee table. After a convincing presentation from a sleazy furniture salesman, and despite María’s fervent protestations, Jesús purchases perhaps the gaudiest coffee table possible. But it turns out that buying an unappealing, heavy glass coffee table out of sheer pride and defiance is not a good choice. Jesús learns this shortly after the supposedly sturdy coffee table voids its warranty and causes a tragic, premature death. Jesús must scramble to cover up the accident catalyzed by his hubris, changing the trajectory of his and María’s lives forever.

The Coffee Table hangs in the nebulous space between family drama, psychological horror, and comedy of errors. The oppressive sense of grief and anguish that hangs over the film suffocates the viewer with no sense of reprieve. Jesús deals with the consequences of his actions on his own, having to ensure nobody else -– least of all María -– learns about the freak accident that befell their newborn. He’s forced to place his own grief on the back burner as horrible timing and coincidences threaten to thwart his efforts to hide the terrible fate of their child from his already upset wife. 

The elements of black comedy arise from the aforementioned coincidences that would be normal frustrations on an ordinary day but are world-ending after the coffee table incident. On a normal day, a nosy neighbor and her daughter’s wildly inappropriate crush on Jesús, and an undoubtedly uncomfortable dinner with Jesús’ slimy brother Carlos (Josep Maria Riera) with his barely legal girlfriend begin intertwining rapidly and horrifically with no reprieve.

Casas and co-writer Cristina Borobia’s script leaves almost no room for Jesús or the viewers to breathe. The few moments where Jesús is allowed to sit in his own grief manage to feel slightly out of place; the chaos of the rest of the film carries the action at a breakneck pace, making the few moments of respite grind the pace to a halt. Pareja sells every bit of a man mere seconds away from a nervous breakdown. The oppressive agony maintains itself throughout the film through its singular setting. Outside of the dingy furniture warehouse in the opening scene, the film takes place entirely in the couple’s apartment and the outside hallway. 

The claustrophobia of the small apartment amplifies the dread Jesús feels in a constant feedback loop. We’re all trapped in the same room where the tragedy took place. Alberto Morago’s cinematography adds to this caged feeling even further. The carnage of the broken table gets teased constantly but is never shown -– a decision made in very good taste since it’s one of the more shocking cinematic decapitations–just short of the infamous one in Ari Aster’s Hereditary (2018). A liberal use of handheld shots and slow zooms firmly push the audience into Jesús’ headspace as he slowly oscillates from shock to panic to paranoia.

Exploring a decaying marriage or a less-than-pleasant relationship with parenthood seems to be common fare for psychological horror. However, The Coffee Table goes at these issues from a wildly underexplored angle. Jesús and María are both middle-aged, approximately in their early forties, yet they’re facing life changes typically associated with couples at least a decade younger. Becoming a new parent much later in life comes with its own set of challenges, as seemingly everyone in the couple’s lives seems to remind them. Neither María nor Jesús are as saintly or as forgiving as their namesakes. Their relationship seems like it’s been fizzling out for a while, and the birth of their child hasn’t helped. They’re tired, they’re in a cramped high rise, and they have a newborn–not a great set of factors for maintaining healthy boundaries or fostering productive conversation. 

It’s obvious that both parties want to put in the effort to repair their relationship. After the coffee table breaks and Jesús elects to cover up the carnage, their chances at reconciliation dwindle by the minute. By trying to protect her from the horrors he caused, he winds up making María progressively angrier. It’s nauseating to watch her comment on or laugh at his incompetence or rude behavior after the audience witnesses his catastrophic mistake. It’s another barrier of communication they can’t quite break down, but it becomes the only thing holding their relationship together for the majority of the film.

The Coffee Table takes a relatively novel approach to exploring the horrors of a failing relationship and new parenthood. Watching María and Jesús’ lives and relationship quickly fall to shambles because of one horrific piece of furniture is viscerally distressing. The film’s rapid pace and oppressively claustrophobic atmosphere make for an effectively upsetting viewing experience for nearly its entire runtime. Caye Casas has created an incredibly engaging yet utterly unbearable feel-bad film for the ages.

Review Courtesy of Red Broadwell

Feature Image Credit to La Charito Films via IMdB