Spanish director Imanol Ortiz López’s 2D-animated short film, Hunger (Hambre), tells the story of a crying baby. Only his mother, Mary (Tania Fornieles), and wheelchair-bound father, Eloy (Jon Plazaola), don’t want to feed him. They want to murder him. Based on David Jasso’s short story from 20210, Innocent Victims (Victimas Inocentes), which I’ve not read, the premise is stomach-churning, and its fantastical slant is rooted in the author’s personal experiences.
By beginning the film with a close-up of Eloy’s eyes, López summons the ghosts of cinema’s past. It’s impossible not to recall the tight framing of Travis Bickle’s eyes in Martin Scorsese’s psychological drama, Taxi Driver (1976), or the tight framing of the eyes in the climactic finale of Sergio Leone’s Western epic, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966). Let’s not forget the intensity of the stare of the psychopathic Alex (played by Malcolm McDowell) in the first images of Stanley Kubrick’s dystopian sci-fi A Clockwork Orange (1971), and later, the eye was a prominent feature in Ridley Scott’s cyberpunk dystopia, Blade Runner (1982).
Opening Hunger on the character’s eyes is fitting because the emotionally impactful ten-minute short reaches into the souls of its two protagonists. There’s the adage: “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” Here they are, and they aren’t. They’re closed until the words pull back the curtains, and we see the anguish in Mary and Eloy’s eyes and on their faces. López reminds us that the words are the soul’s voice, and the eyes, even the facial expressions and body language, are the soul’s silent way of communicating.
From the opening frames, Hunger impresses visually and narratively. There’s little doubt we are in the hands of a skilled storyteller. In four successive shots, López builds the dystopian and frightening world with a visual succinctness that both services the plot and the film’s aesthetics. The use of silhouetted shadows moving across Eloy’s face is an early motif that creates tension. It collapses the space between the home’s internal sanctuary and the creatures of the night’s hunting ground.
Even with the door barricaded, we cannot help but visualize the worst-case scenario. López, in his suggestive approach, understands that storytelling is not only about what he shows his audience but also about what he invites us to imagine.
The pinnacle of these first images is the crucifix on the wall. López frames it as if from the point of view of someone kneeling before it and looking up at it in prayer. López weaves into this opening sequence the thought of praying for mercy, even a plea to St. Michael the Archangel to protect Eloy and Mary in battle as they defend the homestead and murder their bloodthirsty baby.
López effectively creates a juxtaposition between strength and weakness. The gothic image of the crucifix and silhouetted creatures stirs a nihilistic fear, but the image reminds us of the strength and conviction found in faith. Then there’s the house that repels the threat yet feels vulnerable as the door shakes in its frame when the creatures try to force their way in. Meanwhile, the wheelchair-bound Eloy is resilient despite his frail and encumbered body.
You can see the painstaking effort that has gone into each image and the ambition to elevate the storytelling. From a tear in the coffee cup to Mary telling Eloy to kill their baby boy, while we see the cup that reads, “Best mommy” in the frame. There are no happy accidents here, only a meticulous attention to detail.
The scripting is also razor sharp and does more with less. Eloy and Mary’s verbal duel is filled with arresting one-liners that strike at the heart of the emotional conflict. Their exchanges effortlessly offer insight into the broader narrative, with teasing reveals of what has brought the pair to this point.
Hunger is driven by its emotions, and the moral quandary of having to do something that might be possible to rationalize but goes against one’s instincts. At its heart, Hunger is about how love can be compromised or morally rationalized, whereas instinct tells us who we truly are. In the case of Eloy and Mary, instinct is impregnable.
It’s possible to sense the paternal oversight of López and his team. Together, they have nurtured Hunger, culminating in the film coming to life musically. What’s striking is the visceral sound design, which is restricted to only diegetic sound in the opening scene. Then, the music becomes like the whisper of the wind, building the ominous vibes as the drama plays out. It paints an image in our mind of the characters stepping onto an emotional wasteland, from which there’s no coming back.
Then, the sound of a beating heart serves to increase the tension of the scene when Eloy tries to kill his son. It also gives the impression that the music is slowly coming to life. Hunger culminates with Roberto Iniesta’s 2015 song, “Nana Cruel”, whose melody and lyrics complete the gestation of Hunger’s musical journey. It encapsulates much of what the film has been communicating emotionally and thematically. The initial chords are a resounding affirmation of Eloy and Mary’s ordeal, but it is also a tender acknowledgment of the instinctive bond between a child and its parents amid the disillusionment of struggle.