For the sixteenth day of Nightmare Fuel, we stick with the Spanish language, but we depart Iberia’s environs for fair Mexico’s waiting embrace, courtesy of Guillermo del Toro’s feature film debut, Cronos.
Our tale is set a few centuries ago, when an alchemist develops an enigmatic little machine, a small bit of gold and gears in the shape of a bug (looks an awful lot like a scarab, but it might be something like a spider). As it turns out, this gizmo is able to grant its bearer eternal life, a courtesy said alchemist avails himself of until his heart is finally pierced in a structural collapse in the ’30s. Decades later, an antiques dealer happens upon the device in a hollowed base of a statue in his shop. He absent-mindedly activates it, and gets stabbed by the legs and an extra, scorpion-tail-like projection. To his surprise, the result is a cursed form of immortality: he feels younger, more invigorated, is slightly indestructible (remember what happened to the alchemist, kids), but his skin is peeling to reveal a harder, whiter layer beneath, and he has developed a hunger for human blood. But that’s not his only problem: Unbeknownst to him, an aging, morally (and increasingly physically) decrepit man is seeking out the device in a vain attempt (in every sense of the term) at forever forestalling the coming of the Reaper, and he’s dispatched his nephew to do his dirty work. These men struggle over the device, all with their own hopes for the future, be they spending more time with family, more time with money, and some inherited reparations, respectively.
Unlike most vampire flicks that bloodily focus on the hunger aspect of vampirism, Cronos takes a different tack, showing the downright Faustian bargain one must make in order to assume the mantle of immortality. The bloodlust is pretty much an afterthought, a manifestation of just one of the downsides of living forever, thus showing how deeply monstrous the move toward immortality by way of vampirism truly is. The divide is made more than apparent with the characterization of our elderly antiques dealer as decidedly cuddly, corny, very grandfather-like (pretty fitting, considering that his granddaughter is by his side for most of the runtime); his yen for blood and the loss of his friendly visage are so much more tragic in this light.
And that light has so much of del Toro’s trademark stylism dancing about in it. There’s a charm and warmth everywhere, including the shadows and in the wealthy man’s creepily disinfected lair. The nearly silent granddaughter screams del Toro, what with her visual similarities to other young female characters in the del Toro canon (seriously though, have you noticed how often this motif is used?) and her innate symbolism of innocence and goodness. There’s also the inclusion of Ron Perlman, another del Toro favorite, here playing the brash American nephew of the wealthy miser with such brusque charm that it’s difficult to fully hate the bastard.
While Cronos may not be the most brutal or even cerebral of vampire films, its vaunted status is indeed deserved. It’s got more heart than one would expect, del Toro’s style is strong and constant, and there’s still plenty to think and feel about when it comes to the messages about time, life, eternity, and even God (even if in a slightly oblique way).
For some additional analysis and commentary, check out Elisa Hansen’s Vampire Reviews episode on Cronos here, where she echoes some of my thoughts and goes deeper into other avenues. Good times.
Allusions of Grandeur 