It’s still very much Francisco Franco’s Spain when we
intrude upon the Madrid household of the recently widowed Anselmo. He dies
suddenly amidst the throes of passion with Amelia, the wife of his best friend
and fellow army officer, Nicolas. However, it appears this was no natural death
– he was poisoned! The apparent culprit of this calculated murder? None other
than the second of his three daughters, Ana (Ana Torrent, Spirit Of The
Beehive), a wise beyond her years girl who blames her father for the death of
her beloved mother. Cria Cuervos literally translates as Raise Ravens, a
Spanish proverb that reads “raise ravens and they’ll take your eyes” and is
generally used for someone who has bad luck raising children!
Out of a sense of family duty, Anselmo’s sister-in-law,
Paulina, soon moves into the large, yet moderately dilapidated house to care
for the girls and their mute grandmother, instantly instituting her own
domestic regime. The girls remain unfazed and continue with their lives in much
the same manner as before, but as their summer holiday unfolds, we become privy
not only to the family dynamic of this all woman household, but also the vivid
fantasy world of Ana. Through a myriad of daydreams and other forms of
escapism, this inquisitive, imaginative and possible deadly young girl comes to
terms with the death of her mother, whilst maintaining her staunch hatred for
her father and the oppressive regime he represented…
The most captivating element of Cria Cuervos has to be its
seamless story, which impressively blurs together fantasy and memory, whilst
maintaining a strong foothold in reality. These hauntingly vivid depictions of
Anna’s numerous flights of the imagination are beautifully conveyed as a stark
contrast to the repressed household she dwells within and the world around her.
These flashbacks, dream sequences and daytime mirages could have easily
resulted in a confusing and cluttered film, yet, through deceptively simple
shooting methods (Ana’s mother wanders into the frame nonchalantly and is
completely ignored by all except Ana), the camera work of Teodoro Escamilla
manages to capture the intimacy of these fictitious moments between Ana and her
deceased mother. This ability to let fantasy and actuality intertwine on
screen, combined with the tension created by the tentative yet relentless
movement of the camera, perfectly aligns us with Ana’s point of view. It all
culminates in not just an enjoyably honest portrayal of childhood confusion,
but a unique and exquisitely presented perspective on the gritty reality of
bereavement.
Fans of Pan’s Labyrinth’s darkly unsettling, poetic
depiction of child fantasy and fairytales, successfully mirrored against the
violent backdrop of the Spanish Civil War, will instantly fall in love with
Cria Cuervos. Both films undoubtedly share a similar thematic and stylish
template, but stand out for the astonishingly professional performances from
their young and engaging female leads. This in no way should detract from the
enjoyment of both these films, but instead underlines how effective depicting
sensitive adult themes through immature eyes can be. However, unlike Pan’s
Labyrinth’s heroine, Ofilia, a young girl who radiated with childlike
innocence, Ana Torrent’s performance is so frighteningly serious that you can’t
help but believe that she’s more than capable of the most malevolent of acts.
This, however, is a role which demands a broader range of emotion responses
than your usual pedophobia thriller, yet Torrent’s expressive and incredibly
watchful face never falters in portraying any of these.
The film was made whilst General Franco was on his deathbed,
and was naturally seen as a metaphor for the last dying gasps of fascism and
the dictator’s totalitarian regime. The film clearly stresses the disparity
between Ana’s fantasy world and the political reality of fascism though
numerous symbolic techniques. The house, whilst clearly quite grand, feels
incredibly claustrophobic, and it can be no coincidence that the blinds on the
windows seem like prison bars containing the girls from the outside world. The
empty swimming pool in the garden, which the girls play around, could also
represent the lost pleasures of the era or, indeed, their unfulfilled lives.
Ana’s father, in his military attire, is evidently here to represent fascism
within the family dynamic. His controlling nature over Ana’s mother (a once
famed concert pianist) could easily be interpreted as the repression of artists
such as Saura, making Ana’s murderous act seem almost revolutionary within this
domestic microcosm. Unfortunately, the introduction of Paulina to rule the
home, with her strict code of cleanliness and etiquette, seems to act as a
warning that Spain’s transition toward democracy may not be as smooth as hoped
for.
Paulina’s presence turns the home into an all female
household that spans three generations; each is represented with its own
distinctive soundtrack. The disparity between the girls’ incredibly catchy pop
music and the classical music, which seemingly once filled the house, shows a
shift away from tradition, which is equally apparent in their casual clothing –
a stark contrast to the elegant dresses of their elders. It has led to many
perceiving that Saura uses the female sex and their legacy of repression as a
parallel to Spain’s troubled history. It’s a tenuous link, but the fact remains
that many feminists still laud Cria Cuervos as a wonderfully subtle account of
female socialization, specifically the way in which the girls reject the roles
they are expected to fulfill. Ana’s interactions with Rosa, the maid, lead to
some humorous and well crafted examples of this, but perhaps the dress up
scene, involving the three girls recreating a domestic dispute, is the most
obviously symbolic of them all. It’s a scene that we later realise, through one
of Ana’s recollections, is an almost exact copy of an argument between her
broken down mother and nauseatingly abhorrent father. Yet, in this delightfully
charming recreation by the children, Ana’s portrayal of her mother is a far
more assured and confrontational one, perhaps signalling a time of hope
regarding women’s rights through this new rebellious generation, brought up
within a new liberated Spain. It’s a subject matter dealt with cautiously by
the director, who despite these countless depictions of youthful empowerment
presents the future Ana (though some gently interspersed, straight to camera
pieces) under an impartial light. Interestingly, Saura casts the same actress
here as plays Ana’s mother, leading us to question whether young Ana is doomed
to make the same mistakes.
The term ‘classic’ often gets thrown around too easily,
without much regard to the importance and role of the adjective within
cinematic history. Cria Cuervos, with its cultivated meditation on history,
memory and childhood, combined with an intriguing political undertone, is a
film which can be enjoyed on many, many levels. Whether you choose to view it
as a reflective parable documenting the fall of fascism, a subtle allegory
about the repressed roles of women, or just as a joyous journey into the
fantasy world of an imaginative young girl, it rightfully deserves to be
heralded as a true classic.
