Last night I watched Pan's Labyrinth; an award-winning 2006 Spanish-language fantasy film written and directed by Mexican film-maker Guillermo del Toro. It had been recommended to me by a good pal who's big into "foreign films" which I also love, but sometimes admit to being a bit slovenly about taking on subtitles. It's like going out on a date with someone you know is less intelligent than you. Just having to make that extra bit of effort can make you switch speedily over to docu-reality TV instead. Hate to sound like a complete idiot but you know what I mean?
Also, I'd heard that the backdrop to the story severs to post-Civil War Spain in 1944, after Francisco Franco has come into power, and feeling terminally ignorant about history after making a concerted effort never to concentrate in school… I felt intimidated. However, after an hour-long episode of Eastenders where Stacey went into meltdown about that red-pubed ugly fuck Max, and having to endure really bad storyline inputs to integrate the smoking ban into the lethargic UK psyche, I was ready for something with a bit more mega-bite. I reefed out cow blankie and ransacked a few fake-fur cushions and steadied myself for the film.
Jaysus, it was not what I expected… it was a dependable mix of Schindlers' List & Narnia pooled into one beautiful hectic mind-fuck. I'd expected cos it was a 'fairytale' something a bit more child friendly, but not so. However, it's a fascinating entirely beautiful film – I would categorise it as an anti-fairytale, the 'magic' being that it melds the horror of adult war with a child's relatable imagination in getting through it. You know the score… as a child you believed in magic (I certainly did, at times still do).
The preamble tells of Princess Moanna, daughter to the king of the underworld. She became probing about the world above and scampered to the surface, where the brightness of the sun blotted out her memories. Growing old as a human, she died, causing turmoil in her kingdom. However, the king always believed that her spirit would one day return, reincarnated in the form of another. Cut straight to a young kid with a weak pregnant mother en route to stay with a Fascist captain Vidal, her new stepfather. She meets an insect who turns out to be a fairy and while the rebels are getting cut up (badly) all around the near tranquil setting of a country army camp, she discovers a labyrinth that turns out to be her ancient father's portal to receive back the mortal soul of his long-lost daughter.
Inbetween domestic abuse, the brutal army-shenanigans of a hatchet-job fascist she agrees to carry out 'three tests' to try to get herself back to the underworld. The child, Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), is totally absorbed in her task, but her fairy tale never veers too far away from the reality of the war that is going on around her, and dealing with her sick mother. But still it thrives on the magical. There's a fat toad in a tree, a Faun who does her head in (he reminded me of a modern trade unionist), fairies that are minuscule and manipulative and a paedophile who sleeps at a table full of tempting food. Her tests align themselves so squarely with the war that's happening outside her fortified imagination that the film ends up working on two levels. The brutality of war Vs the endlessly sad optimism of a child who has no real idea how to make it through.
The filming is so wonderful that even the effortless special effects make Hollywood look like an eBay botched relic. The main fascist character, just like Hitler, and every other mad man who suffered in childhood, takes out his anger on the anti-fascist rebels he has been assigned to seek out and eliminate while stationed at a countryside mill. He doesn't give a bollix about Ofelia's mother, just his unborn son - an extenstion to his ego - but Ofelia sets out to save the day, and fails, but ends up in the Kingdom anyway.
It's an anti-fairytale because it's honest enough to acknowledge that fairytales are horseshit, but it still ends up giving you a fairytale ending while fucking up your head totally. I thought it was marvellous. Just what a malcontent requires on a Tuesday night. However, this morning I woke up and felt that bit more enchanted, hard to explain, but it has left an unusual sprinkle all about me. One of those moments where you realise, yet again, that the world is wedged with repulsion and splendour in equal measure. And that it's OK to be forever conflicted.
Also, I'd heard that the backdrop to the story severs to post-Civil War Spain in 1944, after Francisco Franco has come into power, and feeling terminally ignorant about history after making a concerted effort never to concentrate in school… I felt intimidated. However, after an hour-long episode of Eastenders where Stacey went into meltdown about that red-pubed ugly fuck Max, and having to endure really bad storyline inputs to integrate the smoking ban into the lethargic UK psyche, I was ready for something with a bit more mega-bite. I reefed out cow blankie and ransacked a few fake-fur cushions and steadied myself for the film.
Jaysus, it was not what I expected… it was a dependable mix of Schindlers' List & Narnia pooled into one beautiful hectic mind-fuck. I'd expected cos it was a 'fairytale' something a bit more child friendly, but not so. However, it's a fascinating entirely beautiful film – I would categorise it as an anti-fairytale, the 'magic' being that it melds the horror of adult war with a child's relatable imagination in getting through it. You know the score… as a child you believed in magic (I certainly did, at times still do).
The preamble tells of Princess Moanna, daughter to the king of the underworld. She became probing about the world above and scampered to the surface, where the brightness of the sun blotted out her memories. Growing old as a human, she died, causing turmoil in her kingdom. However, the king always believed that her spirit would one day return, reincarnated in the form of another. Cut straight to a young kid with a weak pregnant mother en route to stay with a Fascist captain Vidal, her new stepfather. She meets an insect who turns out to be a fairy and while the rebels are getting cut up (badly) all around the near tranquil setting of a country army camp, she discovers a labyrinth that turns out to be her ancient father's portal to receive back the mortal soul of his long-lost daughter.
Inbetween domestic abuse, the brutal army-shenanigans of a hatchet-job fascist she agrees to carry out 'three tests' to try to get herself back to the underworld. The child, Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), is totally absorbed in her task, but her fairy tale never veers too far away from the reality of the war that is going on around her, and dealing with her sick mother. But still it thrives on the magical. There's a fat toad in a tree, a Faun who does her head in (he reminded me of a modern trade unionist), fairies that are minuscule and manipulative and a paedophile who sleeps at a table full of tempting food. Her tests align themselves so squarely with the war that's happening outside her fortified imagination that the film ends up working on two levels. The brutality of war Vs the endlessly sad optimism of a child who has no real idea how to make it through.
The filming is so wonderful that even the effortless special effects make Hollywood look like an eBay botched relic. The main fascist character, just like Hitler, and every other mad man who suffered in childhood, takes out his anger on the anti-fascist rebels he has been assigned to seek out and eliminate while stationed at a countryside mill. He doesn't give a bollix about Ofelia's mother, just his unborn son - an extenstion to his ego - but Ofelia sets out to save the day, and fails, but ends up in the Kingdom anyway.
It's an anti-fairytale because it's honest enough to acknowledge that fairytales are horseshit, but it still ends up giving you a fairytale ending while fucking up your head totally. I thought it was marvellous. Just what a malcontent requires on a Tuesday night. However, this morning I woke up and felt that bit more enchanted, hard to explain, but it has left an unusual sprinkle all about me. One of those moments where you realise, yet again, that the world is wedged with repulsion and splendour in equal measure. And that it's OK to be forever conflicted.
No comments:
Post a Comment