



There’s something oddly cheering about an apocalypse story fuelled by pure stupidity. A priest cracks a supposed end-times code and decides the only way to stop the Antichrist is to get his hands dirty — virtue as sabotage, carried out with all the grace of a shopping trolley on a hill.
The Day of the Beast really kicks in once Álex Angulo’s frantic cleric links up with Santiago Segura’s hopeless metalhead and a TV psychic grifter who sells dread with studio lighting. The comedy comes from incompetence: these aren’t chosen warriors, they’re three idiots improvising theology and making everything worse.
It wears horror trimmings, but it runs on farce — plans collapsing on contact with reality, bodies ricocheting through Madrid like the city’s enjoying the joke. Loud, grubby, and strangely warm: a nativity scene defaced, then hugged back into place.