Obex is the kind of singularly odd film you can only get at a specific budget. It is both immensely familiar and oddly touching, but also bizarre enough that a part of it holds the viewer at arm's length. Still, despite these contradictory elements, it has so much heart that, by the end, it's hard not to be charmed by such an inherently sweet story.
Directed, co-written, and starring Albert Birney, Obex is a film of two distinct portions. They both center around Conor Marsh (Birney), a reclusive and timid man in his undefined-thirties, who spends his days collecting analog media, playing with his dog, and avoiding contact with the outside world.
He gets the weekly visit from Mary (Callie Hernandez), his neighbor, who brings his groceries along with news of the world, but their interactions are limited to talking through the closed door. Conor isn't, strictly speaking, a weirdo or dangerous. By all accounts, he seems like a gentle and kind person. He's just built differently enough that all of this normality business feels overwhelming.
Then, he gets an advertisement for a game called Obex, a virtual fantasy world where his likeness serves as the hero. All he needs to do is send a videotape of himself and an introduction of what matters most to him.
When the game finally arrives, Conor's dog, Sandy, goes missing, and Conor begins to suspect Obex is somehow to blame.
The second part of the story goes off the rails quickly, but not unexpectedly. The smart script by Birney and Pete Ohs (who also directed the wonderfully odd The True Beauty of Being Bitten by a Tick) sets up just enough of magical realism that when anything happens, it feels earned and almost logical. There are elements of books like Coraline and even the animated series Adventure Time in the way that Obex unfolds its fantastical narrative.
Yet Obex never breaks into outlandish absurdity, even when it toys with its audience. There's a groundedness to this adventure that feels traditional in the best kind of way. More than once, I felt the same way as I did as a child when I first read The Phantom Tollbooth, where a young boy learns about life from anthropomorphic creatures within his playset. Obex has that same sense of timeless magical realism that binds the narrative to something universal.
At the same time, Obex isn't a preachy Sunday-school special. It doesn't present Conor's obsession with collecting as a hard negative. There's no preaching about the evils of gaming or imagination. Instead, it's a surprisingly thoughtful and empathetic meditation on the ways we cope with trauma, isolation, and loss. It frames our failures as opportunities to grow as people, and our fears as the legendary monsters we've built in our minds that can only be slain with the help of others.
Like other great coming-of-age stories, Obex is as scary as it is comforting. It treats its audience with great care, even when it refuses easy answers.
