In the opening flash-forward shot of Guillermo del Toro’s, ‘Pan’s Labyrinth,’ as we watch a young girl bleed out onto a cold stone floor, we are instantly informed that we will perceive this story through a blunt and graphically unforgiving lens. Whilst most fantasy films do attempt to address the real world sins of humans, it is typically done so in a more implicit way, for instance the similarities between hitler and Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter film series. Del Toro on the other hand does not shy away from incorporating historically accurate real world crimes into his work; even before the opening shot, an inter title informs us textually of the historic context.  This is likely to make his analysis of these flaws in humanity more relatable, accessible, and ultimately real for the audience members -he wields the power which cinema has to influence and mould the virtues of audience members. Some directors, most notably Tarantino, use vivid violence for pure entertainment, contrastingly del Toro uses it as a tool to tell the audience, ‘Wake up! The real world is grim and brutal,’ perhaps not in tone with the escapism we hope to find in a fantasy. And as the narrative develops we still wait for this statement to be corrected, as we anticipate the success of the rebels and the restoration of goodness, despite the fact that we consciously or perhaps even preconsciously know that we must inevitably circle back to the chilling opening shot.

The opening shot is then followed by the opening narration which, whist not quite as intense as a Bond or Indiana Jones opening scene, is narratively dense and entertaining; we get a mini fairy tale story at the start to temporarily satisfy our desire, and impatience for narrative revelations. Through this mini narrative we are also introduced to the conflict between the real world, and the fantastical world; we are left uncertain as to whether the princess’ journey into the real world was an escape from darkness, or a tragic mistake.

The structure throughout the rest of the film is split up into two simultaneously developing narratives: the real world civil war, and Ofelia’s exploration of the fantastical realm. Like Christopher Nolan’s, ‘Memento,’ colour distinctions, and setting dichotomies are used to clearly highlight the division of these two narratives: the fantastical world features woodland features and much more naturalistic colours: greens and browns, whilst the real world is much more darkly lit and has a more industrial aesthetic. The grim lighting creates the impression that all of the life and goodness has been sucked out of this world, providing the perfect habitat for a vampire, or rather a life-sucking captain. A key moment regarding the simultaneous narratives is when the character of the Faun enters into Ofelia’s room; we realise that the forces impacting Ofelia are no longer purely her childish curiosities, but in fact the Faun is now wanting something from her, adding to his sinister mysteriousness. Additionally this really marks the beginnings of the amalgamation of the two realms; up until this point we have only witnessed Ofelia and the fairies cross the border. As the influences the two worlds have on each other grow more intense and frequent, building momentum, we are given a revelation which cements the fact that the underground realm is not an extension of Ofelia’s wondering imagination, but instead most definitely co-exists with reality. This idea is communicated through the mandrake root; as Carmen twitches in violent pain as the root burns, it is apparent that there is a definite connection between these mystical creatures and the real world.

Similarly to the hairpin structure of ‘Memento’, after influencing each other, the two narratives inevitably meet at the end, and the binary conflict as to which world Ofelia, and in turn the audience, should choose to be the superior one is addressed. But at first glance the film seems to end in tragedy; the protagonist dies and whilst the rebels take satisfaction in defeating the Captain, there is an overwhelming mood of darkness. But as Mercedes weeps over the body of Ofelia, we see her blood, he life and essence, flow out of her finger tips. Del Toro uses the weeping Mercedes as an embodiment of the audiences current feelings as they mourn the death of Ofelia, but it soon becomes apparent that Mercedes, as well as the audience, are mourning in ignorance; in fact, ‘Ofelia’ has now accessed enlightenment beyond the physical world. And in fact, the opening shot was not a spoiler of what was to come, but in fact an added reminder to look deeper at this scene, and realise that the protagonist of this film is not the real world ‘Ofelia’, but rather the soul of the princess trapped inside her body. Del Toro expresses the key belief of Plato that the physical world is grim, irrelevant, and ignorant, and perhaps that rather than try to repair something which is intrinsically broken we must instead escape. And with the final line of the film, del Toro sews the seeds in our heads that, ‘if you know where to look,’ the fantastical realm can be discovered. Perhaps this is the kind of message a young del Toro desperately needed as he fought against his catholic grandmother’s repression of his creativity, and perhaps this world of fantasy and enlightenment is the world of cinema.