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 (010506) Brilliant
from first frame to last, “Pan’s Labyrinth,” a fancifully
aesthetic, densely rich fairy tale for adults, represents
the full blossoming of Mexican Guillermo del Toro as a
filmmaker of the first rank. It’s easily the most visionary,
haunting, and expressive film I’ve seen this year. A
mid-career summation work, “Pan’s Labyrinth” raises the bar
considerably for del Toro (what will he do next?) as well as
for the fantasy-fable genre. Before analyzing the film, I’d
like to say that “Pan’s Labyrinth” is a fantastical work, in
both senses of this term, and one of the best films of the
year.
Set against the backdrop of the fascist regime in 1944 rural
Spain, “Pan’s Labyrinth” centers on Ofelia, a lonely, dreamy
child living with her mother and adoptive father, a military
officer. As such, “Pan’s Labyrinth” serves as a logical
companion piece to del Toro’s period fable, “The Devil’s
Backbone,” upon which it impressively expands in narrative,
mythic, and visual ways.
In her loneliness, Ofelia creates a world filled with
fantastical creatures and secret destinies. With post-war
repression at its height, Ofelia must come to terms with the
surrounding world through a fable of her own creation.
In del Toro’s films, there is no clear demarcation between
reality and fantasy, since the former tends to be sensualist
and surreal, and the latter both realistic and gaudy. “Pan’s
Labyrinth” blends a number of seemingly contradictory
concepts to an advantage. The film is a genre and a
personal-auteurist statement. It’s both gothic horror and
fantasy. It’s historically specific and politically grounded
but also universal in its cinematic and mythic properties.
The film is set in a medieval compound in a primeval forest,
the most prevalent of fairytales' settings, and though it’s
1944, the narrative and landscape are slightly
anachronistic, lending a touch of mythic otherworldliness.
Genre-wise, “Pan’s Labyrinth” is more a fable-fantasy than a
horror yarn driven by revenge. It is an allegory, though
it’s possible to enjoy it as a purely visceral experience.
When the tale begins, Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) arrives with
her sick, pregnant mother to meet her stepfather, Captain
Vidal (Sergí Lopez), who serves in the Franco
administration. Vidal lives in a spot secluded in the
Spanish countryside, where rebel soldiers still roam around.
Vidal is the biological father of the baby, which he
declares must be and would be a son that needs to be born
close to him.
Ominous signs of a foreboding future are evident from the
first handshake. When Ofelia offers Vidal the “wrong” hand,
he reacts violently, almost breaking her arm with his firm
grip. Drawing on our familiarity with such family settings,
del Toro doesn’t elaborate on the tangled relationships
between Ofelia, her good mother, and her nasty stepfather.
Taking a walk into a labyrinth next to her house, Ofelia and
slips into a world of fantasy. The split between the story's
disparate realms is sharp. The new realm accentuates the
disparity from Ofelia's “real” world, which is defined by
insensitivity and cruel violence. To del Toro’s credit, both
world are meticulously crafted and sumptuously imagined to
the point where there is no need to elaborate on the
tensions between them.
Ofelia discovers an ancient pagan idol and a fairy that
leads her to a maze standing behind the building, a
labyrinth predates Christianity. A satyr tells Ofelia that
she’s the lost princess of the fairy realm, assigning her
three tasks to accomplish before she can return home. Ofelia
must get an item at the dangerous banquet but must not eat
the food, and the giant toad has to be fed a magic stone.
All tasks have to be executed by the full moon, which may
signal Ofelia’s first menstruation.
Del Toro effectively conveys the callous violence of Vidal's
political dominion. The war between Vidal and the rebels
takes place in a cold, mechanical setting. The woods
surrounding the outpost are filled with rebels who have
moles inside Vidal’s unit. Captain Vidal underestimates the
rebels’ strength—a conscious allusion to Bush’s and the War
in Iraq? The rebels harass the outpost and raid its
supplies; Vidal strikes back with brutality, even when it's
clear that those captured aren’t members of the rebels.
Vidal’s world has its own rigid logic, a product of fascist
ideology rather than dreams. Utterly committed, Vidal
believes that his cause justifies any means; he’s a victim
of blind obedience to a horrible ideology. Vidal executes
torture sessions with cruel brutality, beating a man with a
wine bottle. The cut Vidal gets on his face gives him a
sinister smile that turns him into a ghoulish-looking
monster.
Ofelia believes in the world of fairies and in what the
satyr tells her, despite his creepy look; he has hooves for
feet and horns on his head. Unlike Vidal, however, Ofelia is
not blindly committed to the satyr, which proves to be her
redemption and salvation.
While the fate of her mother and stepfather are preordained,
Ofelia’s is not; she’s the only character with a free will
to make choices. As a young girl, Ofelia is hung between
childhood and adolescence; she’s told she’s too old for
fairy tales, yet she still finds them alluring.
The theme of duality recurs throughout the movie. The center
of the labyrinth shifts from magical to non-magical
elements; the rebel moles have double identities; and
Vidal’s few honest moments all occur when he faces the
looking-glass, a mirror.
Doug Jones (Abe Sapien in “Hellboy”) plays a dual role, as
the satyr and as Pan, a horrible monster whose eyes are in
his palms and legs are atrocities. In his speech, Pan relies
heavily on the “vosotros” form, a classic touch that evokes
a bygone tradition. Pan’s world includes strange, playful
fairies, and a grotesque giant toad. The film's fantasy
sequences are seductive spectacles of spiritual and cultural
nuance.
The film's creatures seem to have come from the dark spots
of del Toro’s subconscious imagination. The fantasy worlds
that Ofelia visits--the huge interior of a tree, or a castle
with a dining room set for a dangerous banquet--are not too
removed from the reality of the outpost.
You couldn’t tell from del Toro’s American movies (“Blade
II,” “Hellboy”), but you could infer from his Mexican ones
(“Cronos”) that he is not just a great visual artist but
also a consummate storyteller. Intellectually and
emotionally, “Pan’s Labyrinth” is del Toro’s most resonant
film to date. The film exudes a chilly vision that
nonetheless masks a warm spiritual center.
A film of breathtaking visual splendor, “Pan’s Labyrinth”
should be experienced as viscerally as possible—on a big
screen, in the dark, collectively. Watching “Pan’s
Labyrinth” reaffirms our sense in the possibilities of film
as a medium, the wonder of a darkly beautiful fantasy that’s
vividly realized.
The movie offers the excitement of watching a filmmaker, who
rightfully assumes his place alongside other masters of
world cinema. The bar has been raised not just for del Toro,
but also for other directors (Peter Jackson and Tim Burton
included) working in the fantasy genre. “Pan’s Labyrinth” is
a unique work, one with strong allusions to literature,
painting, film, and music. Guillermo del Toro has made his
masterpiece.
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