In the hallowed halls of the Palais des Festivals, where cinematic legends are born and buried within the span of minutes, applause isn’t just a polite gesture—it’s a barometer of reverence. In 2006, as the credits rolled on Guillermo del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth, the room erupted into a surreal, near-religious ritual of unrelenting applause. The audience stood—then stood some more. For 22 uninterrupted minutes, they clapped. That moment etched itself into Cannes folklore, marking the longest standing ovation in the festival’s history.
But how did a $14 million Spanish-language fantasy film earn such a celestial reception at the world’s most prestigious film festival? The answer lies in the powerful alchemy of storytelling, trauma, and del Toro’s singular ability to transmute personal nightmares into universal poetry.
Set in fascist Spain in 1944, Pan’s Labyrinth is no ordinary fantasy. It lures you in with the promise of magical realms and fauns, but never lets you forget the blood-soaked boots of history trampling just outside the frame. The story follows Ofelia, a young girl whose mother marries a cruel authoritarian captain. To escape the horrors of her waking life, Ofelia stumbles into a hauntingly beautiful labyrinth—home to mythical creatures and dark fates.
This was not a fantasy to be watched with wide eyes; it was a labyrinth to be navigated. Every twist in its moss-covered corridors was soaked with metaphor. The film’s blend of brutal realism and delicate fantasy wasn’t a gimmick—it was del Toro’s cry of defiance, rooted in his own experiences growing up in politically turbulent Mexico.
That this poetic, Spanish-language tale even made it to Cannes was something of a miracle. Del Toro had to fight tooth and nail to preserve his vision. He famously gave up his entire salary to secure final cut rights and poured four years into designing the film’s creatures, storyboards, and mythology—until disaster nearly struck. He once left his treasured notebook, filled with every sketch and note for the film, in the backseat of a London cab. Miraculously, the driver returned it.
Even the casting required leaps of faith. American actor Doug Jones, who portrayed both the Faun and the terrifying Pale Man, didn’t speak a word of Spanish. Still, he learned every line phonetically and delivered a haunting performance that would go on to define creature acting in cinema.
Pan’s Labyrinth was shot in just 85 days, a marvel for a film with such complex visual and practical effects. It was a labor of love, yes—but also a labor of obsession.
When the film premiered at Cannes, something strange happened. It wasn’t just admiration; it was catharsis. As the final credits faded into darkness, the room exploded. Clapping cascaded down the aisles like thunder rolling over the sea.
“It’s hard to describe what it is, to go that long,” del Toro recalled in a 2015 GQ interview. “Because the first three, four minutes, you’re bathed in a sort of realm of acceptance and joy. Ten minutes in, you don’t know what to do.” Standing beside him was close friend Alfonso Cuarón, who leaned over and whispered, “Allow yourself to be loved, man.”
And he did. Twenty-two minutes later, the applause only ended because the Palais staff opened the doors, as if to gently remind the audience that time still existed outside del Toro’s fable.
Cannes ovations have since become part sport, part spectacle. A 7-minute ovation? Too short. A 12-minute one? Maybe just polite. A 17-minute standing ovation for Killers of the Flower Moon in 2023 caused eyebrows to rise—but only because Pan’s Labyrinth had set a gold standard that remains unmatched.
Critics and observers have labeled these lengthy ovations a form of mob mentality, driven by peer pressure and pageantry. “Do you want to stop clapping before Christopher Nolan does?” one attendee was once overheard saying. The logic is equal parts absurd and addictive: the applause isn’t just for the film—it’s a moment of collective self-congratulation, an audience bathing in the radiance of shared awe.
But Pan’s Labyrinth earned its applause the old-fashioned way—through cinematic sorcery.
The Pale Man’s Terrifying Origin: The film’s most nightmarish creature, the Pale Man—gaunt, eyeless, with sagging skin and eyeballs in his palms—was inspired by del Toro’s repulsion toward institutional cruelty. He’s a literal consumer of children, a symbol of authority unchecked.
Stephen King Was Shaken: At a private screening, horror legend Stephen King was reportedly so unnerved by the Pale Man scene that he audibly gasped. Del Toro later said it was one of his proudest moments as a filmmaker.
A Voice of Love: While the Faun appears neutral or even sinister in tone, del Toro revealed that he never wanted to give audiences clear answers about the creature’s morality. “Like many mythological beings, the Faun is not good or evil. He is a creature of nature,” he once said.
Ofelia’s Real Fate? The ending has sparked debate for years. Did Ofelia really escape to the underworld kingdom, or did she simply die, dreaming of a happier ending? Del Toro has consistently maintained that both interpretations are valid—and that ambiguity is the soul of myth.
Pan’s Labyrinth went on to win three Academy Awards, including Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, and Best Makeup. But its true legacy lies beyond trophies. It redefined what a fantasy film could be—heartbreaking, political, uncompromising.
Nearly two decades later, that 22-minute ovation still echoes—not just in Cannes, but in the hearts of cinephiles who remember what it felt like to lose themselves in a fable that dared to be as brutal as it was beautiful.
In del Toro’s labyrinth, fantasy is not an escape from reality—it is its fiercest mirror.