The confined space of a car sets the stage for the unfolding drama in this film directed by Carlos Martín Ferrera. Born in Huelva and based in Barcelona, Ferrera made his debut with the short film "The Barber" in 2001 and broke into feature-length films with "Zulo" in 2005, showcasing a bold knack for creating claustrophobic spaces designed to unsettle the audience.
In "The Pack," with the collaboration of cinematographer José Luis Bernal Ibáñez - a previous partner in "Code 60" from 2011 - Martín Ferrera keeps us on edge for the film's 72-minute runtime. Despite the wise choice of a concise duration, a bit more footage to delve into the situations, circumstances, and backstories of the five characters involved wouldn't have gone amiss, portrayed by actors whose performances are hit or miss. The setting alone carries the narrative.
For Bernal Ibáñez, it's a true test of skill to craft a visual palette with such limited space and lighting. He leaves no corner of the Volvo unexplored by the camera, demonstrating mastery and expertise in handling transitions between shots, considering the limited space doesn't allow for grand camera acrobatics like wide angles or low-angle shots. Bernal achieves a comprehensive effect without resorting to bizarre experiments or outlandish attractions. Add to this the surrounding forest, brimming with a taciturn gothic beauty, bathed in minimal lumens and perpetually at a low temperature, and we get an exceptional work of photography and, therefore, an outstanding ambiance. The time span of the story, from night to almost mid-morning the next day, is enough to place the audience in coordinates that are chilling in their own right. It's a shame that this magnificent work is overshadowed by irregularities in other aspects of the production.
The cast's performance in "The Pack" should be one of its fundamental pillars. Actors like Lluís Soler, whose mere screen presence captivates the audience, and Adam Quintero, whose role is pivotal in driving the plot. Their dialogues and performances not only assure or substantiate but carry the full weight of the drama on their shoulders. Carlos Fábrega and the young Ferran Vilajosana, despite the latter's undeniable sexual magnetism in every frame he graces, exert a much lesser force than the aforementioned actors. And Liah O'Prey, despite the fawning praise from some starved critics drooling over her, ends up more covered and seems more demure than the mother superior of a convent in her scene. These actors, who should play an essential role in the plot, do not live up to the potential this production deserves, whether due to a lack of talent, which is undeniable, stage apathy, which is also present, or a lack of actor direction. O'Prey's performance, in particular, is hardly convincing. Unless, as her meticulously planned revenge victims maintain, she's batshit crazy.
However, the portrayal of the femme fatale in her mise-en-scène is one of the elements that inevitably contribute to the collapse of the promise of a continuous and unstoppable crescendo in this somewhat homemade production, which had promised much more than its actual capabilities allowed (it's a story that could even have been performed on a theater stage). O'Prey's forced performance is not limited to her bland appearances, as if she were the Archangel Gabriel on a wild night out in Ibiza, but also to the stale and tiresome plot of sexual harassment. The harmless women who wander the internet are portrayed as victims of some sexual predator looking to satisfy his perverse appetites. The theme, in itself, is not uninteresting, but it's introduced in the film's climax in such an ambiguous, confused, and contrived manner that the viewer, faced with the smoky ending presented, can only think that they're witnessing the rant of a lunatic fresh out of the asylum.
More than representing a supposed victim seeking justice, the woman comes across as an erratic and unclear figure, whose actions obscure any hint of clarity in her intentions. From the moment she starts to needle her four captives, seeking the emergence of the alleged culprit (but, culprit of what, exactly?), the level of confusion is such that it seems we are witnessing the complete delirium of a madwoman who has not resolved her Electra complexes. This degree of indefiniteness persists from the moment the crazed woman pulls the youngest, Iván, from the car to tie him to a tree and scorch his privates, until the alpha male, Adam Quintero, manages to free himself to confront the rebellious female who, incidentally, has dispatched with a crossbow the one who hurled insults and a variety of slurs like "whore's daughter" at her. These events lead us to a turning point that foreshadows the rushed conclusion.
The claustrophobic diegesis within the vehicle (curious that it's a Volvo, whose logo is the distinctive symbol of the male) expands to the lair of the unhinged teenager, where the psychologist - a profession that, along with priests, always seems to fare poorly - briefly liberates himself to uncover the demented and pathological intimacies of the aforementioned woman. Yet, we are scarcely given an explanation of what the hell exactly happened. Secondly, it serves as the fuse for us to witness the end of the film, which concludes much as it began, but this time with a "twist of fate": Iván, the youth, beside the madwoman, insinuating "it was surely him," referring to Quintero's character, without fully disclosing the actual sin that would narratively justify the woman appointing herself as judge and executioner. On the second occasion, it is anticipated that with the chains and tubes at the car window, Quinteiro - the psychologist - will not escape.
But the script here could not be otherwise. In productions that, by use or fashion, have followed the same pattern since the mid-2000s, gaps are left; many of which are nothing more than the result of not delving deep enough into the characters' backgrounds. The script leaves the audience engulfed in a vast complex of idiocy over the mystery of what happens in the end to the priest, a character played by Lluís Soler. We don't know if he ends up keeping the madman company in his final fate, or from where the hell comes the sudden and last-minute revealed complicity between the crossbow-wielding psychopath and the young computer technician Iván (Vilajosana), from which it is inferred that the torch torture act is nothing more than that, a crude theatricalization.
For me, these blunders in the storyline and holes in the fabric of the plot turn "The Pack" into an apple with a worm, of which few pieces can be salvaged, and those only to be consumed boiled with sugar and cinnamon. After a few minutes of reflection to come to one's senses after the last frame, one realizes that all the effort has been for naught. The lackluster soundtrack by Sergio de Oteiza, which with a little over two thousand five hundred euros, could have at least found a decent string quartet (and I speak from experience) that could have provided a somewhat more dignified score, does not help this fiasco.
Other follies like the "attempt" at a visual effect of the car's exhaust gases diverted with a hose into the interior of the car through the window; or that with all the crap they've already inhaled (not just carbon monoxide; imagine if it had been cyanide...), they have time to wake up (I was under the impression that once you're knocked out by CO, you don't come to), fight for a good while to free themselves with more strength than a weightlifter in the gym until their veins pop, and open the window with their foot, as if they were chimpanzees. Things that, despite the artistic license a screenwriter may have (Martín himself, co-writing with Fernando Polanco), go beyond what an audience that's not sucking its thumb anymore will swallow, and detract from the credibility of the matter.
We are faced with a filmmaker whose servile masculinity once again succumbs to the forced political instrumentalization of the "purple coats," that militant and vindictive victimhood that, as my mother used to say about fish, stinks after three days. It's the worn-out and hackneyed pamphlet of the Spanish film farce, which, always clinging to the skirts of supposedly leftist parties to scrape a few euros from the subsidies that bleed us workers dry in the form of taxes, repeat the same old song and dance, until the color purple provokes the same reaction in us as red does to bulls. A waste of squandered talents.
In short, if you're into group "hard bondage" sessions where the male plays the submissive to the fantasy of the sadistic dominatrix with a crossbow, this is your film; a day of entertainment for suited-up urban executives with cash to burn, who have nothing better to do on a weekend, fleeing from their tyrannical wives.
In "The Pack," with the collaboration of cinematographer José Luis Bernal Ibáñez - a previous partner in "Code 60" from 2011 - Martín Ferrera keeps us on edge for the film's 72-minute runtime. Despite the wise choice of a concise duration, a bit more footage to delve into the situations, circumstances, and backstories of the five characters involved wouldn't have gone amiss, portrayed by actors whose performances are hit or miss. The setting alone carries the narrative.
For Bernal Ibáñez, it's a true test of skill to craft a visual palette with such limited space and lighting. He leaves no corner of the Volvo unexplored by the camera, demonstrating mastery and expertise in handling transitions between shots, considering the limited space doesn't allow for grand camera acrobatics like wide angles or low-angle shots. Bernal achieves a comprehensive effect without resorting to bizarre experiments or outlandish attractions. Add to this the surrounding forest, brimming with a taciturn gothic beauty, bathed in minimal lumens and perpetually at a low temperature, and we get an exceptional work of photography and, therefore, an outstanding ambiance. The time span of the story, from night to almost mid-morning the next day, is enough to place the audience in coordinates that are chilling in their own right. It's a shame that this magnificent work is overshadowed by irregularities in other aspects of the production.
The cast's performance in "The Pack" should be one of its fundamental pillars. Actors like Lluís Soler, whose mere screen presence captivates the audience, and Adam Quintero, whose role is pivotal in driving the plot. Their dialogues and performances not only assure or substantiate but carry the full weight of the drama on their shoulders. Carlos Fábrega and the young Ferran Vilajosana, despite the latter's undeniable sexual magnetism in every frame he graces, exert a much lesser force than the aforementioned actors. And Liah O'Prey, despite the fawning praise from some starved critics drooling over her, ends up more covered and seems more demure than the mother superior of a convent in her scene. These actors, who should play an essential role in the plot, do not live up to the potential this production deserves, whether due to a lack of talent, which is undeniable, stage apathy, which is also present, or a lack of actor direction. O'Prey's performance, in particular, is hardly convincing. Unless, as her meticulously planned revenge victims maintain, she's batshit crazy.
However, the portrayal of the femme fatale in her mise-en-scène is one of the elements that inevitably contribute to the collapse of the promise of a continuous and unstoppable crescendo in this somewhat homemade production, which had promised much more than its actual capabilities allowed (it's a story that could even have been performed on a theater stage). O'Prey's forced performance is not limited to her bland appearances, as if she were the Archangel Gabriel on a wild night out in Ibiza, but also to the stale and tiresome plot of sexual harassment. The harmless women who wander the internet are portrayed as victims of some sexual predator looking to satisfy his perverse appetites. The theme, in itself, is not uninteresting, but it's introduced in the film's climax in such an ambiguous, confused, and contrived manner that the viewer, faced with the smoky ending presented, can only think that they're witnessing the rant of a lunatic fresh out of the asylum.
More than representing a supposed victim seeking justice, the woman comes across as an erratic and unclear figure, whose actions obscure any hint of clarity in her intentions. From the moment she starts to needle her four captives, seeking the emergence of the alleged culprit (but, culprit of what, exactly?), the level of confusion is such that it seems we are witnessing the complete delirium of a madwoman who has not resolved her Electra complexes. This degree of indefiniteness persists from the moment the crazed woman pulls the youngest, Iván, from the car to tie him to a tree and scorch his privates, until the alpha male, Adam Quintero, manages to free himself to confront the rebellious female who, incidentally, has dispatched with a crossbow the one who hurled insults and a variety of slurs like "whore's daughter" at her. These events lead us to a turning point that foreshadows the rushed conclusion.
The claustrophobic diegesis within the vehicle (curious that it's a Volvo, whose logo is the distinctive symbol of the male) expands to the lair of the unhinged teenager, where the psychologist - a profession that, along with priests, always seems to fare poorly - briefly liberates himself to uncover the demented and pathological intimacies of the aforementioned woman. Yet, we are scarcely given an explanation of what the hell exactly happened. Secondly, it serves as the fuse for us to witness the end of the film, which concludes much as it began, but this time with a "twist of fate": Iván, the youth, beside the madwoman, insinuating "it was surely him," referring to Quintero's character, without fully disclosing the actual sin that would narratively justify the woman appointing herself as judge and executioner. On the second occasion, it is anticipated that with the chains and tubes at the car window, Quinteiro - the psychologist - will not escape.
But the script here could not be otherwise. In productions that, by use or fashion, have followed the same pattern since the mid-2000s, gaps are left; many of which are nothing more than the result of not delving deep enough into the characters' backgrounds. The script leaves the audience engulfed in a vast complex of idiocy over the mystery of what happens in the end to the priest, a character played by Lluís Soler. We don't know if he ends up keeping the madman company in his final fate, or from where the hell comes the sudden and last-minute revealed complicity between the crossbow-wielding psychopath and the young computer technician Iván (Vilajosana), from which it is inferred that the torch torture act is nothing more than that, a crude theatricalization.
For me, these blunders in the storyline and holes in the fabric of the plot turn "The Pack" into an apple with a worm, of which few pieces can be salvaged, and those only to be consumed boiled with sugar and cinnamon. After a few minutes of reflection to come to one's senses after the last frame, one realizes that all the effort has been for naught. The lackluster soundtrack by Sergio de Oteiza, which with a little over two thousand five hundred euros, could have at least found a decent string quartet (and I speak from experience) that could have provided a somewhat more dignified score, does not help this fiasco.
Other follies like the "attempt" at a visual effect of the car's exhaust gases diverted with a hose into the interior of the car through the window; or that with all the crap they've already inhaled (not just carbon monoxide; imagine if it had been cyanide...), they have time to wake up (I was under the impression that once you're knocked out by CO, you don't come to), fight for a good while to free themselves with more strength than a weightlifter in the gym until their veins pop, and open the window with their foot, as if they were chimpanzees. Things that, despite the artistic license a screenwriter may have (Martín himself, co-writing with Fernando Polanco), go beyond what an audience that's not sucking its thumb anymore will swallow, and detract from the credibility of the matter.
We are faced with a filmmaker whose servile masculinity once again succumbs to the forced political instrumentalization of the "purple coats," that militant and vindictive victimhood that, as my mother used to say about fish, stinks after three days. It's the worn-out and hackneyed pamphlet of the Spanish film farce, which, always clinging to the skirts of supposedly leftist parties to scrape a few euros from the subsidies that bleed us workers dry in the form of taxes, repeat the same old song and dance, until the color purple provokes the same reaction in us as red does to bulls. A waste of squandered talents.
In short, if you're into group "hard bondage" sessions where the male plays the submissive to the fantasy of the sadistic dominatrix with a crossbow, this is your film; a day of entertainment for suited-up urban executives with cash to burn, who have nothing better to do on a weekend, fleeing from their tyrannical wives.
