Todos estos narradores interactúan creando confusión; nos llevan a la oscuridad de la casa, a su magia y, sobre todo, nos hacen desconfiar constantemente del otro narrador, a pesar de que los ves esporádicamente colaborando entre sí para construirte el mundo que uno u otro quiere que veas. Y es ahí donde yace uno de los mensajes más frecuentes en diferentes niveles: quién o quiénes están contando la historia. Cuentan la historia porque tienen el poder de hacerlo y, al contarla, la hacen realidad. Un juego que se inventan para hacer realidad sueños y cambiar la realidad con ayuda de una pelota mágica.

En el plano de la historia, me pregunto si María convirtió a los cerdos en niños chilenos porque en realidad siempre lo fueron (¿o ella los vio así por cómo la educaron?), o si genuinamente estamos viendo magia. Tal vez ambas. El hecho de que, luego de que se quemaran, los sanó con miel —la cual los volvió niños arios, "más grandes, fuertes y bonitos"— me genera una sensación extraña. ¿Qué tan mala es María? Tal vez quedó atrapada entre escapar del lobo de afuera y el lobo que se ocultaba en su sombra.

María cerró todas las puertas para protegerse y proteger a los niños, pero los alimentó con lo mismo que el lobo la alimentó a ella: esta miel de pureza que te hace sentir que todo está bien siempre y cuando cumplas las reglas de la casa. Ahora los niños son la casa y María es el perrito que quiere salir. Dentro de una casa con las ventanas cerradas no hay nada más que tu propia sombra, así sea dorada como la miel.

En sus últimos momentos, María oró en alemán hacia su dios, el que alguna vez le enseñaron. ¿Y cuál fue la voz que contestó? Pues la voz del amable señor alemán, a quien se refiere como "lobo", el cual, según lo que narró, la rescató como un dios misericordioso para hacerla volver sana y salva a cuidar niños desamparados en su colonia. Cuando María reza, lo hace agradeciendo al "Lobo" por salvarla del "mundo exterior malo". Es el triunfo total del adoctrinamiento: ella regresa a la boca del lobo creyendo que es su hogar. Pienso en esta obra como una fábula sobre las fábulas. Saber quién cuenta la historia, quién domina la narrativa, domina el destino.

La capacidad narrativa de esta pieza está por la estratosfera, dejándome con una consternación y una búsqueda de preguntas que la hacen, sencillamente, una pieza de arte maravillosa.

I believe a good film is one that has the power to confuse you and make you want to know more about what's happening in that world. The beginning of the film is similar to the way educational films broadcast by government agencies start, and it repelled me, because, in a way, I saw it as something nice and felt sympathy for this kind German gentleman who only wants the best for the people of his colony.

I think the use of this hopeful sound, which transports you to seemingly simpler times, helped a lot, which is wonderful. It's a great piece of work, and the contrast with what follows—the cut to black and the appearance of narration—reminds me of how very old black and white films like Nosferatu, an iconic piece of German cinema and a masterful example of what would become German Expressionism, begin.

This style often uses unrealistic, angular, and contrasting painted walls to immerse you in the feeling of the world they represent, along with the use of animation and the German language, which makes you think you're genuinely watching a film restored with the help of the Chilean government.

It's funny, because I was able to understand a word or two since I'm learning German; what little I know about these old German children's stories is that they are indeed quite unsettling: children who burn themselves alive playing with matches and are eaten by their cats, or a boy who keeps biting his thumbs until a tailor comes along and cuts them off with giant scissors.

Who is narrating the story? Whose story are we seeing? Is it something historical? Something purely imaginary and childish for our entertainment? Symbolism? Jodorowsky's psychomagic?

The film has many narrators: the voice of someone who can be perceived as a kind German gentleman who genuinely wanted the best for his colony; the voice of Maria as a character, and this same Maria who becomes the narrator of her experiences, painting a picture of the world as she sees it within the house—the stories of her life—only to contrast with another narrator. We then discover that the voice of the kind German gentleman is also the voice of another character within the restored film. Just as Maria and this other narrator are present, there are other narrating and creative entities: the walls painting themselves in time-lapse (remember when I said that Maria spoke and painted her way of seeing the world? Well, this other narrator does the same).

The walls painting themselves are one, the puppets moving in stop-motion are another narrator, and the music is yet another. This music, which by itself manages to give tones to the work that make you feel that everything is alright, that it is just a children's story, then stops and fills you with loud foleys of the house roaring, breaking, painting itself, arranging itself and keeping silences that leave you astonished and even make you feel disturbed; I call it the narrator sound.

All these narrators interact, creating confusion; they draw us into the darkness of the house, into its magic, and above all, they make us constantly distrust the other narrator, even though we sporadically see them collaborating to construct the world that one or the other wants you to see. And that's where one of the most frequent messages lies, on different levels: who is telling the story? They tell the story because they have the power to do so, and by telling it, they make it real. A game they invent to make dreams come true and change reality with the help of a magic ball.

On the level of the story, I wonder if María turned the pigs into Chilean children because they always were (or did she see them that way because of how she was raised?), or if we are genuinely witnessing magic. Perhaps both. The fact that, after they were burned, she healed them with honey—which turned them into Aryan children, "bigger, stronger, and more beautiful"—gives me a strange feeling. How evil is María? Perhaps she was caught between escaping the wolf outside and the wolf that hid in her shadow.

Maria closed all the doors to protect herself and the children, but she fed them the same thing the wolf fed her: this honey of purity that makes you feel everything is alright as long as you follow the house rules. Now the children are in the house, and Maria is the little dog who wants to get out. Inside a house with closed windows, there is nothing but your own shadow, even if it is golden like honey.

SPOILER ALERT

In her final moments, Maria prayed in German to her god, the one she had once been taught. And whose voice answered? The voice of the kind German man, whom she refers to as "the wolf," who, according to her account, rescued her like a merciful god, bringing her back safe and sound to care for orphaned children in his colony. When Maria prays, she thanks the "wolf" for saving her from the "evil outside world." It is the complete triumph of indoctrination: she returns to the wolf's den believing it to be her home. I think of this work as a fable about fables. Knowing who tells the story, who controls the narrative, controls destiny.

The narrative power of this piece is stratospheric, leaving me with a dismay and a search for questions that make it, quite simply, a marvelous work of art.