La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House)

A small village in the Chilean countryside produces honey while Pinochet reigns, every aspect of its communal existence preconceived and strictly monitored.

Membership is clad eternal, there's no straying from the austere flock, misunderstandings engendering punishment, belittling and quite severe.

Maria is independent and cares not for the steady routine, her daydreams encouraging sharp reprimands as she counterintuitively seeks expression.

One day she sets off into the forbidding forested horizon, determined to vigorously make it, her wits attuned to the luscious wilderness.

She locates an abandoned house wherein which emancipated pigs survive, who soon become her dearest friends, cherished reliant agreeable confidants.

But a wolf haunts the exterior terrain with fierce frightening ravenous omnipresence, their harmonious improvised alternative shyly persisting under hostile constraint.

They endure and emphatically matriculate.

Maria sharing her knowledge.

For a time it's quite idyllic.

Until provisions start to run out.

A chilling parable harrowingly composed to accentuate psychology torn asunder, La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House) smotheringly provokes consternation as it stifles difference.

A rigid blueprint rigorously scripted to ensure precise uncompromised obedience, with neither tolerance nor mediation written into its prescriptive views.

As individuality materializes it must be situated within specific limitations, to ensure no one is ever distracted from the necessary work at hand.

Maria loosens the fatalistic fastenings through the elevation of critical spirits, whose ethereal intangible substance slowly fades when faced with hunger.

The paranoia through which she's been nurtured then manifests itself in menace, deconstructing heartfelt amelioration with crazed drab bitter anxious conformity.

The pigs are no longer her friends.

They are trying to duplicitously subvert her.

She can no longer teach them new things.

She must adopt a less subversive role.

Aligning aggrieved spiritual discontent with physical unsettling pressures, La Casa Lobo presents totalitarianism to distressingly shock anew.

Imagining what things would be like if there was nowhere else to go, and you didn't fit in, it laments the loss of wonder as genius evokes in flower.

The most visually stunning film I've seen since Loving Vincent, its form brilliantly defies the wolf while its content solemnizes desperation.

One part distraught exposition, another typical of insular world views, it magnifies ideological indoctrination, with grim innocent startling despondency.