Throughout the years, cinema has served as a means of protesting governments, giving voice to artists who influence the public and, hopefully, help humanity avoid repeating its mistakes. In Cría cuervos, director Carlos Saura achieves this through a remarkably clever approach. Made during a pivotal moment in Spain’s history—when the country was beginning to redefine itself after nearly 40 years under Franco’s authoritarian rule—films were still under strict censorship, limiting what Spanish filmmakers could say about the government. Instead of tackling these issues head-on, Saura used metaphor and emotional subtlety to convey how the population was feeling after the fall of the regime.
The story is told through the eyes of a quiet, introspective eight-year-old girl in Madrid. After her father, a Francoist military officer, dies, Ana finds herself adrift in a house still haunted by his presence. Her strict aunt tries to maintain control, but Ana internalizes her grief, speaks little, and retreats into a world shaped by memory and imagination. The film becomes a portrait of a child—representing the Spanish population—haunted by a past it doesn’t fully understand. Her father symbolizes the old regime, and her aunt, with her strict rules and attempts to preserve the status quo, represents the post-regime Spanish government struggling to move forward.
It’s a brilliant political metaphor at the film’s center, but funnily enough, I found myself far more invested in the metaphor itself—how Saura captures the inner life of a child with startling accuracy—than in what it was actually meant to represent. And perhaps what makes the metaphor even more powerful is that it works so well even when taken literally—as a raw, honest portrait of a child caught in a world shaped by silence and repression. I often misremember things from my own childhood—blending timelines, inserting imagined details—and Saura channels that exact sensation. Ana frequently sees her dead mother, not as a ghost, but as a projection of longing and unresolved emotion. She relives tender moments, like dancing to a song or watching her mother play piano, alongside painful ones—such as catching her father in an affair. Her desire to punish him, and the guilt she carries after his death, create a confused emotional state that feels deeply authentic to how children experience trauma.
Beyond the abstraction, the film finds room for grounded, honest moments. There’s warmth in the sibling dynamics—their games, teasing, and shared routines—and in Ana’s conversations with the household maid, who explains how to feed a baby or discusses her body with blunt, casual honesty. Even the aunt, while strict, is portrayed as overwhelmed and conflicted, trying to maintain her own life while raising her late sister’s daughters. These naturalistic scenes give the film a sense of lived-in intimacy—what I consider the highest compliment in this kind of cinema, where characters feel like real people, yet the world remains cinematically inviting.
Saura’s analysis of the Spanish government is perhaps too subtle to make a lasting political impact. It mostly limits itself to portraying how Spain felt at the time, without suggesting a path forward or a call for change. The framing device of adult Ana (also played by Geraldine Chaplin) speaking directly to the camera could have provided a more conclusive statement—something that might have added weight to both the film and its metaphor. But without a clearer reflection from adult Ana or a subtle emotional shift in the child by the end, the film feels somewhat unresolved. It’s great in its details, but lacks an overall sense of closure.
Upon its release, Cría cuervos was met with critical acclaim, though it didn’t achieve widespread international success. It received the Grand Prix at the 1976 Cannes Film Festival and Spain submitted it as its official entry for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar, but it wasn’t accepted as a nominee. The Academy never gave a reason, but the film’s quiet political undertones may have been too politically sensitive for voters at the time (the Academy has always avoided controversy). Today, however, the film is widely regarded as Saura’s masterpiece and a landmark in Spanish cinema.
For me, Cría cuervos contains one of the most affecting and authentic portrayals of childhood I’ve ever seen. Even without a traditional plot—and even if its metaphor feels incomplete—it still speaks volumes about memory, guilt, and the quiet resilience of children. Children may not have the responsibilities of adults, but we often underplay what they go through—and how often they carry a wisdom far beyond their years.