Erik Matti’s Seklusyon is more than just a horror film—it is a haunting reflection of how power, when left unchallenged, can corrupt even the most sacred of spaces. Set in post-war 1947 Philippines, the story follows four deacons sent to a secluded retreat before their ordination, only to encounter a young girl named Anghela who performs so-called miracles. While the film appears to explore demonic possession and spiritual warfare on the surface, it is ultimately a critique of the failures of religious institutions, the consequences of blind faith, and the societal systems in the Philippines that discourage people from speaking out against pillars of power. Through eerie symbolism and uncomfortable parallels to real life, Seklusyon reveals how evil often thrives behind the mask of holiness. 

One of the film’s central critiques lies in its portrayal of the Catholic Church as an institution that prioritizes its image over accountability. The four deacons, each hiding personal sins, are sent to seclusion, not to repent, but to be cleansed—ritually, not morally—before entering priesthood. Instead of confronting their pasts, they hide behind their impending roles, hoping that ordination will absolve them. The Church itself enables this behaviour. The officials overseeing their retreat never truly investigate their sins or challenge their readiness. Similarly, Madre Cecilia, who is supposed to serve as a spiritual guide, turns a blind eye to Anghela’s manipulation, choosing instead to nurture her as a supposed miracle worker. Rather than act as a guardian of truth, she becomes its accomplice, bringing Anghela to different towns and spreading her false sanctity. In doing so, the Church becomes less a moral authority and more of a gatekeeper of appearances. This reflects a deeply rooted issue in the Philippines, where religious institutions are rarely questioned, and where scandals involving their leaders are often swept under the rug in the name of preserving faith. 

The dangers of blind faith are just as deeply embedded in Seklusyon. Anghela, despite her unsettling aura, is accepted by the public and the clergy as a divine figure because of her miracles. Her youth and purity make her appear trustworthy, even angelic. This unquestioned worship is what allows her evil to spread. The film makes it clear that people choose to believe not because of truth, but because belief offers comfort. In a country like the Philippines, where Catholicism has long shaped cultural identity and morality, such unexamined devotion is not uncommon. Whether it’s trusting pastors without accountability, following religious leaders with political affiliations, or turning a blind eye to questionable teachings in the name of tradition, many Filipinos often place their faith in institutions or individuals simply because they wear the veil of holiness. Anghela symbolizes how that trust, when unearned, becomes dangerous. Seklusyon warns us that miracles are not always signs of good and evil does not always appear with horns. 

Father Ricardo, one of the few who questions Anghela’s nature, serves as the voice of reason—but is silenced. When he confronts Church officials with evidence and genuine concern, he is told to stop questioning what he does not fully understand. The nun who previously tried to investigate Anghela and Madre Cecilia is left disfigured, her scar a silent warning of the cost of uncovering the truth. In the end, even after Anghela is killed, the Church still ordains the remaining deacons—men who had been manipulated by Anghela and never truly atoned for their sins. This final act seals the institution’s complicity. Truth is buried, evil continues, and appearances are upheld. This disturbing conclusion mirrors real-world systems in the Philippines, where individuals who dare speak out against powerful institutions—whether religious, political, or corporate—are often met with silence, punishment, or death—just like Father Ricardo. In a culture where pakikisama (social harmony) and hiya (shame) are deeply ingrained, speaking out is often seen as disrespect rather than courage, making it excruciatingly difficult for truth to surface. 

By the end of the film, the Church remains intact, but truth has been defeated. The final horror is not Anghela, but the fact that the institution empowered her and continued on as if nothing had happened. It suggests that the real evil lies not in demons or evil spirits, but in systems that protect themselves instead of the people they serve. The Church, which should be a symbol of hope and redemption, becomes instead a breeding ground for secrecy and control. This institutional failure becomes even more horrifying when seen against the backdrop of Philippine society, where faith is sacred, and those who question religious authority are labeled blasphemous, divisive or disrespectful. 

Seklusyon does not condemn religion itself, but rather invites its audience to reflect on the dangers of uncritical worship and the unchecked power of institutions. It forces us to confront uncomfortable questions: Who do we trust, and why? What do we allow to go unchallenged in the name of tradition or peace? In doing so, Matti offers a chilling reminder: evil often wears a holy face, and silence, when paired with blind faith, only helps it grow stronger. 

Article by Bianca Eunice Miranda Calma

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