Pan's Labyrinth and Del Toro's Auteur style
Questions of authorship are quite simple for narrative literature. In the written and published word, the author is (often) the sole creative force of the writing in question, however, it is not as clear when we consider cinematic productions. There, we must explore the idea from a different perspective. Put simply, ‘Auteur Theory’ determines that the creation of a film is helmed by a significant and domineering creative force - the Director – who assumes authorship and authorial intent – he or she is quite literally the ‘author of a film’ (Morrison, p. 1) in its entirety. Much like authors of literature, the ‘origins of the policy’ are determined from the belief of the ‘camera-pen’ - Alexandre Astruc’s idea that the ‘film director should use the camera as an instrument of personal expression just as the writer does a pen’ (p. 25).
These first labels of Auteurship were coined and subsequently applied by Cahiers writers, a French film magazine (1951 - ) whose contributors and critics were crucial to engendering the understanding of film as a scholarly medium, identifying many important movements and developments in the cinematic field – for example, they are responsible for the first understandings of New Wave and Film Noir. This cadre of writers and scholars notably included those who were also filmmakers themselves, like Godard, Chabrol, or Truffaut. Looking at these directors now, their authorial intent, and recognisable style seems less clear than a contemporary ‘Auteur’ director like Wes Anderson or David Lynch, but it is worth noting that, historically, the concept of auteurism was connected to the directors’ work having ‘been deemed modern’ (p.34), and, subsequently, the understanding of this term was frequently subject to alteration and change. Surprisingly a large percentage of understanding of the true “author” of a film text has to do with legislative restrictions – US case law fundamentally disregards the director, passing the mantle of author onto the film’s producers, as the owners of copyright, whereas across Europe, there was an understanding of co-authorship shared between multiple contributors (the director, writer and composer, cinematographer, etc.), with the legality of ‘Moral Rights’ referring to the director as author wholly. This distinction can still be reflected in the modern day promotion and marketing – often a poster or trailer will frustratingly refer to the producer first, relegating the director to lesser importance.
Of course, taken at face value, this theory is fraught with many complications and contradictions, not least because it neglects the fundamental fact that almost all filmmaking is a collaborative exercise, with many alternative perspectives and interpretations from various individuals contributing to the final piece – the directors’ decisions must always play ‘in tandem with multiple intersecting facets’ (p. 23), and thus, their vision is diluted further with each subsequent secession. Although, in some regards, it is just these restrictions from various invading collaborators that can help to highlight exactly what makes a director an auteur – through the application of an ‘intertextual understanding of film’, exploring a body of work within the ‘filmmakers’ oeuvres’, we can identify the single authoritative voice (if it exists), ‘asserting its embeddedness in networks of meaning’ and various collaborative efforts. Irrelevant to the degree of truth to the theory, it is an incredibly useful resource for cinematic analysis. Let’s highlight some examples.
Applying the understanding of a certain director’s ‘Auteur’ style to films within their oeuvre can sometimes dramatically change their meaning, or ‘condition basic understanding’ (p. 23) of true authorial intent. As a case study, we could consider Martin Scorsese, within The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), a film that is, as Scorsese tends to, focused on critiquing toxic masculinity through its portrayal of the exuberance and exaggerated extravagance of these capitalist exploiters. Whilst in the modern day, lacking this understanding of Scorsese’s vitriol for these capitalistic characters can breed misplaced idolisation and failure in understanding, exploring his oeuvre of work and the ideology behind the work he creates, it is clear he holds a different opinion. Another Scorsese example: you may even get a contrast between two “supposed auteurs”, whose unique identities clash, causing incoherence in messaging and intent - Scorsese directs Taxi Driver (1976), but it is penned by Paul Schrader who has a distinct, nihilistic style of his own, dedicating a lot of his writing to troubled men and explosions of violence. Subsequently, the intent of the film has been under significant consideration and debate as a result (Berliner, 2010) breeding cinema that is unclear and incoherent in its own messaging and meaning.
Arguably, the auteur can be seen mostly in the visual style, being that cinema is a visual medium and provides immediacy of understanding within this format, which explains why it is so easily recognisable, and applicable to other unrelated visuals – referring to a shot or sequence as “Lynchian” or “Wes-Anderson-esque” highlights this distinction. However, as we have identified, there are auteurs who are mostly focused on writing, such as Charlie Kaufman, or even cinematographers whose distinctive shooting style marks them as unique and gives a film an identity, an example being in Benoît Debie (Gaspar Noé’s principal photographer). There are even producers who are renowned for their choice of films to finance, such as Jason Blum and his focus on small-scale horror. An auteur is not necessarily a director, but they always have a distinct voice that is clear to hear through the cacophony of creative inputs.
Guillermo del Toro is such an auteur, and an intriguing case who could be argued to fall into many of these categories – his directorial work has a distinct vision, and is often penned by himself with a co-writer and produced by the help of his own financing – even the work he simply produces is of a certain mould and tone. But what defines del Toro’s Auteur style?
Del Toro has worked on twelve feature films as director, dabbling in personal projects, studio-fare and commissioned work. As with all directors, he has engaged with the freedom and constraints of filmmaking to various degrees, resulting in an oeuvre of films that are imbued with his fingerprint to varying degrees of success. Del Toro cites Mimic (1997) as a ‘less-than-wholly rewarding experience’ (Jones, p. 9), wherein regular clashes with producers, Dimension Films, led to a feeling of diminishing creative control, resulting in the film lacking a feeling of his signature output – famously, this same issue was shared by David Lynch throughout the making of Dune (1984), leading both creators to return to a production company that allows them the freedom they need for full auteur exploration. Irrelevant of his cinematic successes and failures, almost all of del Toro’s work is drawn and inspired by a large body of historical reference, artistic endeavours and personal experience, utilising ‘classic mythology, literature, art, popular culture and folklore’ in direct contrast with the ‘horror of a specific historical reality’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 19). This ‘juxtaposition and tension’ between pleasant cultural imagery and unpleasant historical tragedy ‘make the images simultaneously repulsive and alluring’, providing that beautiful and horrifying aesthetic that populates most of his films.
With this contextual backdrop established, the reality of these horrors is further juxtaposed through an integration of the fantastical, blending genres, atmosphere and moods to craft a post-modern, intertextual piece that refers to a variety of sources and influences. Often, his films find their realistic historical setting invaded by a magical, fantastical force, populating these worlds with vampires, fairytale villains, ghosts, aliens or monsters. Crucial, however, to del Toro’s work, is the handling of these fantastical creatures – they are regularly placed as protagonists and central characters; subjects of sympathy and audience surrogates, as opposed to the villainous centres of evil. With this great focus placed towards “the outsider”, del Toro subverts expectations of the ‘Other’ (a term used for the understanding of the antagonists and their cinematic representations as deviants from the hegemonic “status-quo”, whether that be race, gender or sexuality, etc.), positing the belief that the monster and outsider is misunderstood and the recipient of much unjust ridicule and harassment. This monstrous allegory for the marginalised and mistreated can be seen most explicitly in The Shape of Water (2017), which sees the aquatic creature, representative of ‘aspects of impurity that [contemporary] society wishes to get rid of’ (Adji, p. 56), finding solace and friendship in the collection of Gay, Black and Disabled protagonists to combat the ostracising American Cold War Government and escape to peaceful freedom. Examples here can be seen throughout del Toro’s work – Hellboy (2004), though produced under studio requirements, equally focused on a ‘lonely, abused and ostracised child’ within the combined backdrop of ‘fantasy, horror and gothic horror’ (Jones, p. 9), and realistic modern setting. Instead, by situating the realist, human forces as antagonistic and villainous, del Toro’s stories are given a ‘unique political slant’, marking one of his ‘most recognisable trademarks’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 19) – using the ‘fairytale iconography and horror’ in order to ‘allude to unspeakable historical atrocities’ (Hubner, p. 28) and comment on the state of historical affairs with a relatively inexplicit allusion. Here, the ‘elasticity of the fantasy world enables unspeakable or taboo subject matter to be addressed’ (Hubner, p. 10), and the themes found within the fantastical genres, ‘curiosity; disguise and transformation; jealousy and cruelty; love and desire; nature and the wild; power and greed; pride and vanity’, can be utilised to ‘convey fundamental, universal or timeless concerns’ and ‘can draw in and engage audiences from a broader, more global reach’ (p. 15).
This concoction of historical realism and fictional fantasticism is a key component of the Magical Realist, or Dark Fantasy genre that del Toro frequently dabbles in. These genres are steeped in the aesthetic qualities of, and borrow their narrative content from, fairy tales or classic gothic literature. In the world of the fairytale: their protagonists are often children, emphasising the innocence and making sure that the ‘viewer is even more aware of the innocence that can be lost’ (Jones, p. 9); their active characters are defined by their unambiguous moral standing, ‘rigidly connoting good and evil’ (Hubner, p. 10) with little variation; ‘initiation tasks and discoveries propel the hero’s voyage’, leading them on ‘transitions between realms’ both literal and metaphorical (such as childhood to adulthood), driving them ‘towards resolution’ (p. 5), which is regularly found in a positive conclusion. In contrast, in the world of the gothic, the darkness is more muddy, more explicitly explored and, often, more psychologically worrying in its implications: the story rarely ends positively, denying ‘the final sanctuary of a “happily ever after” resolution’ (p. 2) – even if the villainous force is defeated, the ‘questions opened up by the fabric of gothic uncertainty, and the obscurities and demons unlocked and explored through the course of a gothic text remain forever’ (p. 43); its dour narratives are infused with Freud’s fear of the Uncanny, emerging in ‘struggles between the rational and irrational, the conscious and the unconscious, or the civilised and the wild’, and a constant impression of duality through doubled figures like the ‘the split self and the doppelgänger’ (p. 66); it is characterised and ‘propelled by a perpetual cycle of repression, triggering a return of the repressed’ (p. 45), giving it the ‘capacity for it to consider our relationship to the turbulences of the past, and to allow for the notion that these turbulences resonate in the present’ (p. 57) just as strongly. This ‘conversation between the ancient/mythic/historic and the present’ is itself a ‘repeated trope in del Toro’s oeuvre’, visible in the ghosts of Crimson Peak (2015), as much as the combat ‘between machine-led modernity and near-primordial monsters’ (Clark, McDonald, p. 154) in Pacific Rim (2013).
Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), often seen as del Toro’s masterpiece, is a ‘culmination’ of all of his thematic preoccupations: ‘family, children, horror, violence, the solitary hero/heroine and, above all, ‘the permeability of the membrane between reality and fantasy’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 10) as the gripping, depressing setting of the post-Spanish Civil War is contrasted with the magic of the Faun’s labyrinth. And indeed, in all its engagements with the tenets of auteur theory, the fairy tale and the gothic film and del Toro’s own body of work, it may well be the film that best encompasses the title of his masterpiece. Let’s explore why.
The historical backdrop found within Pan’s Labyrinth is shared by The Devil’s Backbone (2001), which del Toro frequently refers to as a related duology of films – in The Devil’s Backbone, the Spanish Civil War of 1936 - 1939, and in Pan’s Labyrinth, the Francoist reign, and all its horrible implications that followed it. This dreadful period of oppressive fascism, often paradoxically referred to as the ‘Peace Years’, provides the film its historical realist setting, and true antagonistic force in the brutal Captain Vidal and his oppressive, obedient cadre, hunting, murdering, and clashing against the Spanish Freedom Fighters, the Maquis, who are hiding in the nearby forest. Against this truth, del Toro invites the fantastical to populate, allowing him to contrast the horrors of the real world with that of the fairytale and gothic world.
Here, the fairytale-like, rigid structure of unambiguous morality is maintained, but reserved only for the realist world – Vidal and his Fascist oppressors are unquestionably evil; the Maquis and Ofelia are unquestionably good. Perhaps this is because the ‘brutality of the subject matter of the “real” world is difficult to speak of’, and thus, ‘fairytale simplicity is used to convey’ (Hubner, p. 160) these atrocities, though it is important to note that, as Hogan (p. 188) indicates, this could be accused of dangerously disguising the ‘political violence and the militarisation of their twelve-year-old protagonists with graphic novel-style aesthetics that may [ultimately] encourage de-politicised readings of childhood’.
Irrelevant of its challenges, it is truly through Ofelia’s subjective viewpoint that we experience the film – del Toro loads the film with much ocular-based iconography: the film opens zooming through Ofelia’s dying black eye, the first task she undertakes is the restoration of the statues vision, the Pale Man becomes an oppressive threat only once they apply their vision to their hands. A clear shot near the conclusion of the film shows us Vidal’s perspective for once, where we can see Ofelia, standing alone, imagining the Faun that isn’t really there.
As it is a (fairy) tale from Ofelia’s perspective, the film is also tinged with large amounts of imagery exploring her own development into womanhood – uterine iconography can be found littered throughout the film, ‘allusions to female reproductive organs’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 22) such as the Faun’s head, the arch at the entrance to the labyrinth itself, the Giant Toad’s tree and subsequent entranceway, and perhaps most explicitly, in the bleeding book that begins her mother’s pathway to death. Sexual themes and the development of one’s womanhood are not uncommon to the fairytale story; indeed, they are usually ‘couched in a more stylised symbolism’ (Hubner, p. 180), where a Red Riding Hood may stand for blood and menstruation as much as it does a coat.
In fact, del Toro utilises a variety of stylistic and production decisions to explore different ideological iconography. He ‘juxtaposes light and dark, both in terms of mise-en-scene and ideology’ (Jones , p. 20), placing the Fascist oppressors – housed in their decrepit mill, and shot in ‘predominantly blue and grey’ tones, decorated with depressing ‘bare walls’ and photographed with uninteresting ‘still camera takes’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 24) - in direct opposition with the Maquis populating the forest. A place of magical possibility, near-equal to that of the Labyrinth itself, the forest is filmed with extravagant cinematography: gorgeous golden tones filter through the trees, fairy-like motes of dust float around, fluid dolly-shots spin around, flowing between the trees with the same fluidity that evokes the ‘unfettered movement of the imagination’ (Jones, p. 46), or the turning of a storybook page. It is worth pointing out that, much like the creatures that inhabit these fantastical spaces, the wild woodland is ambiguous in its morality, functioning as ‘both oppressor and liberator’ (Hubner, p. 166). It is at once a place of relative freedom and prison, trapping the fighters to remain at the whims and necessity of the Fascists living at the mill – they must steal resources to survive, their temporary living quarters are remarkably unsustainable and under great attack.
Likewise, Pan’s Labyrinth is a film characterised, as in the tradition of the Gothic, by a constant impression of duality. Characters have doubled representatives, multiple cinematic sequences are explicitly mirrored, the settings are split into two principal locations, even the worlds of reality and fantasy may find themselves echoing their moods, blurring the lines between what is real and what is fictional throughout the film. This concept finds its origins in the integration of the Uncanny, crafting a mood through ‘editing; lighting; framing; dialogue’ that is key to constructing the ‘gothic tone and atmosphere’ (Hubner, p. 70). Each character ‘either lives a divided reality or constructs their own version of reality’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 13) in order to reconcile the difficulties of the world they are living in. The secretly Maquis-sympathetic characters of Mercedes and Dr Ferrerio live dangerous double lives, Ofelia (influenced by the power of her imagination) lives a double life between the realms of reality and fantasy, and, equally, Captain Vidal himself lives in a realm of fantasy – his ‘own twisted sensibility is based on fascist ideologies of unity and cleanliness, as fictional in their own way as the world Ofelia imagines’. However, as he is the antagonistic force, Captain Vidal finds himself a ‘mythical mirror image’, reflected in Ofelia’s imagined antagonistic creatures – most explicitly in that of the Giant Toad and the Pale Man, together creating the ‘figure of the Ogre’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 43).
Indeed, the Giant Toad and Pale Man are fantastical mirrors of Vidal (and by extension, Franco’s Fascist regime), with their respective cinematic sequences and fairytale tasks specifically chosen to mirror their actions and oppressions in the real world. The Giant Toad, Ofelia’s first task, is hiding beneath a fig tree, getting fat whilst the tree dies – much like ‘the Francoist regime that was sucking the life out of Spain, literally starving insurgents in the post-war hunger years’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 69) – this scene is intercut with the ongoing, exuberant meal between the Fascist forces in the mill. Upon defeating the Giant Toad, Ofelia gains a Golden key, that, in the fantastical, she must use in the next task, but in the real world, clearly represents Vidal’s storeroom key, wherein Mercedes will later gain the vital supplies to assist the Maquis, and fairly distribute the great stores of food and healthcare. This gluttonous meal is then further mirrored in the Pale Man’s task – the Pale Man, the fire blazing behind him, sits directly at the head of a table, a decadent display of disposable desserts laid in front of his watchful, protective gaze. The parallels could not be clearer. It is also here, with the piles of shoes and burning furnace that we can see the universalling of trauma and oppression that marks del Toro’s work – though Pan’s Labyrinth may be set within Franco’s Spain, these relations to the famous imagery of the Holocaust are openly transparent. Del Toro’s use of parallel editing and conscious scene mirroring here is explicitly indicative of the methods of allegory he uses – in Cronos (1993), and further in The Devil’s Backbone, he looks to explore ‘how a political conflict, such as the Spanish Civil War, can suck the life blood out of a country’ (Jones, p. 9), through their respective creatures and critters.
Even the thematic preoccupation is divided into two. Tackling the central ideology of Fascism as it does, a strong, running motif of Pan’s Labyrinth is the perils and cowardice of obedience, and the bravery and necessity of disobedience in the face of uncompromising evil – the central argument for methods of resistance to the Fascist ideology. Indeed, Ofelia’s central heroic characteristic is her instinct to disobey, whether this is done with intention or accidental strength. It sets her directly apart from those who obey without question – the Fascists, who, in following the orders given to them, have ‘devolved responsibility for their actions to an ideology’ (Jones, p. 50). With this central theme, the true ‘tragic pitfalls of obeying blindly’ are exposed, implicating Ofelia’s weak mother, Vidal, and both ‘religion and facism’ as ‘vehicles of authority and repression, since they both demand a certain degree of unquestioning obedience’ (Diestro-Dopido, p. 36). Even the Faun’s own ambiguity can be seen reflected in this ideology – Ofelia’s “success” by the end of the film is only made possible by her rejection of his own obedience-necessary task. She transgresses and deviates from those around her who would wish her to follow the rules, at every possible appointment, and as a result of this, is entered into the golden heavenly realm – in Pan’s Labyrinth, del Toro reinstates the necessity for lacking obedience in the face of moral quandaries and challenges to ethical rationale.
Del Toro clearly applies many of the traits of the fairytale and the gothic to craft his film, and nowhere is this conflicted sense of style and differing ideologies more clear than in the conclusion. Though we may see a visual indicator of a positive ending, offering a ‘cyclical return to the fairytale realm of the father’ (Hubner, p. 184), the inherent ambiguity of the conclusion – itself a rejection of the obedience required by traditional narrative form – tells another story, one that, much like the gothic tendency to revel in long-lasting impact, lets ‘many of the true horrors and associated taboos causing and emanating from Franco’s regime remain’ (Hubner, p. 184). The fairytale and gothic conclusions clash, much like the clashing worlds of reality and fantasy, throwing ‘both the magic restoration of faith and the “real” tragedy’ (Hubner, p. 185) onto the screen at the same time – Ofelia may reign golden and happy in the fantastical world, but in the real, she lies dead, cold and blue.
Reference List
Berliner, T. (2010) Hollywood Incoherent: Narration in Seventies Cinema. Texas: University of Texas Press.
Hubner, L. (2018) Fairytale and Gothic Horror : Uncanny Transformations in Film. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Morrison, J. (2018) Auteur Theory and My Son John (Film Theory in Practice). New York: Bloomsbury Academic.
Diestro-Dopido, M. (2013) Pan's Labyrinth (BFI Film Classics). London: Palgrave Macmillan Higher Education.
Jones, T. (2010) Studying Pan's Labyrinth (Studying Films). Liverpool: Auteur.
Adji, A. N. (2019) ‘Falling for the Amphibian Man: Fantasy, Otherness, and Auteurism in del Toro’s The Shape of Water’, IAFOR Journal of Media, Communication & Film, 6(1), pp. 51 - 64.
Clark, R. and McDonald, K. (2014) Guillermo del Toro: Film as Alchemic Art. London: Bloomsbury Publishing.
Filmography
The Wolf of Wall Street, 2013. [Film]. Directed by Martin Scorsese. US: Paramount Pictures.
Taxi Driver, 1976. [Film]. Directed by Martin Scorsese. US: Columbia Pictures.
Mimic, 1997. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. US: Miramax Films.
Dune, 1984. [Film]. Directed by David Lynch. US: Universal Pictures.
The Shape of Water, 2017. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. US: Searchlight Pictures.
Hellboy, 2004. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. US: Sony Pictures Releasing.
Crimson Peak, 2015. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. US: Universal Pictures.
Pacific Rim, 2013. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. US: Warner Bros. Pictures.
Pan’s Labyrinth, 2006. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. Spain: Warner Bros. Pictures.
The Devil’s Backbone, 2001. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. Spain: Warner Sogefilms.
Cronos, 1993. [Film]. Directed by Guillermo del Toro. Spain: October Films.
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