Pan's Labyrinth

I was not thinking about psychoanalytic theory as I watched the credits roll at the end of Pan's Labyrinth (del Toro, 2006). I was experiencing the power of the elusive—best described by the Spanish word duende—which moves through this captivating film, in its content and in director Guillermo del Toro's dazzling artistry. Literally defined as “elf, goblin or ghost” (Williams, 1967), duende expresses the sense of an inner spirit liberated by powerful, passionate involvement. It is a word that Garcia Lorca (1980) referred to as the hidden spirit of wounded Spain, the “mysterious force that everyone feels and no philosopher has explained… in sum, the spirit of the earth” (p. 43). The duende is cruel yet beautiful, whispering around death and rebirth, whimsical and mysterious. It is nowhere more consistently present than in the timelessness of fairy tales, where winds rustle through treetops, where forests are dark and ominous, and where creatures both frightening and wonderful appear out of nowhere. This luminous film of fairy tales, scary creatures, and darkness touched my unconscious and left me feeling more rooted and keenly alive.

After leaving the theatre, I wondered if del Toro meant the fairy world of his movie to be seen by viewers as “real,” then realized that this was not a question to be asked. The vivid fantasies of 11-year-old Ofelia, the main character, could be understood as both real and not real: real to her, certainly, but perhaps not to every member of the audience. Suddenly, I was thinking about psychoanalytic theory—specifically about Winnicott (1985) and his writings on transitional experience.