The first Mexican film to be nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar, Roberto Gavaldón’s religious fantasy Macario was based on the story The Third Guest by the German writer B. Traven (author of the 1927 novel The Treasure of the Sierra Madre), which itself was derived from the Brothers Grimm’s fairy story Der Gevatter Tod/Godfather Death. It’s long been regarded as one of the finest films ever to come from Mexico and at the time, it was a huge box office hit on home turf on its original release.

The story is set in Colonial Mexico, though that isn’t immediately obvious, and follows the misfortunes of the poor woodcutter Macario (Ignacio López Tarso). What he wants most of all is a roast turkey for the Day of the Dead, but he’s so impoverished that he has do without food to ensure that his family can eat. He vows never to eat again until he gets his wish leading to his worried wife (Pina Pellicer) stealing a turkey and giving it to him as he heads to the mountains to work. On his way through the forest, he’s approached separately by three men – the Devil (José Gálvez) disguised as a wealthy gentleman, God (José Luis Jiménez) in the guise of an old man and Death itself (Enrique Lucero) passing itself off as a peasant. All three want to share Macario’s turkey, but he refuses all of them except Death, reasoning that if he can keep Death busy and happy, he won’t claim his life. As a reward, he’s given magical water that will allow him to heal any disease, but it comes with a warning – If Death appears at the feet of the sick person, they can be healed with the water; if Death appears at their head, they are doomed. Returning home, he heals his son who has fallen down a well, becomes rich making use of the water and soon comes to the attention of both the Inquisition and the Viceroy (Eduardo Fajardo) who wants him to cure his own son. In desperation, Macario visits Death in his cavern to plead for the boy’s life and finds that he may not be long for this world himself…

Gavaldón’s direction is deceptively simple and unobtrusive. He’s not a particularly flashy director, yet he creates indelible images of poetic beauty, as he would do right through his distinguished career. There’s a strange nightmare sequence featuring hungry skeleton marionettes (courtesy of “Pepe y sus marionetas”) and a remarkable finale in which Macario flees through the fog-shrouded woods into Death’s cavern, filmed at the breath-takingly beautiful network of caves at the The Grutas de Cacahuamilpa National Park in Guerrero, illuminated by endless fields of candles that represent the lives of every person on Earth. The scene may have been influenced by a similar moment in Fritz Lang’s Der müde Tod/Destiny (1921) and the entire film owes something to Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece Det sjunde inseglet/The Seventh Seal (1957), which also features a man’s encounter with Death.

For the most part, it’s a fantasy, the first half a fable, the second a morality play, but there are moments along the way that are almost, though not quite, horror. The cave is an eerie setting, but the most chilling moment is reserved, rightly, for the Inquisition, monstrous figures determined to crush Macario for his unasked-for good fortune. One of them can barely contain his sadistic delight when it’s suggested that Macario be put to death. It’s a quietly frightening performance, just one of many great turns throughout the film. Tarso is very good indeed in the lead role, but the most affecting performance comes from Pellicer as his long-suffering wife. It was her first film, and she went on to appear opposite Marlon Brando in One-Eyed Jacks (1961) and made appearances in television series like The Fugitive (1963-1967) and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour (1955-1965) and seemed to have a successful career ahead of her. Sadly, she took her own life in a drug overdose aged just 30 but has been credited with introducing a more naturalistic style of acting to Mexican cinema, hitherto known for a more melodramatic approach.

Macario could be accused, with some justification, of being a very conservative film, a dire warning about the corrupting power of wealth in which the eponymous peasant can never expect to rise above his station and must, in the end, be punished for trying to better himself. It’s a valid criticism, but it’s easy to overlook this “failing” – very much a product of its time and place, a very Catholic country in the late 1950s – thanks to its many strengths. Not least of these is the stunning photography from Gabriel Figueroa, one of the finest and most prolific of Mexican cinematographers. It’s a gorgeous looking film that makes highly atmospheric use of its lonely, isolated locations, bringing an almost fairy tale feel to scenes like the climactic encounter in the cavern.

Although the film is named for its human protagonist, the key player in the story is Death. The film takes place around the Day of the Dead festival, there’s much talk of mortality and our relationship with the departed (“We have to be nice to the dead… we spend more time dead than alive”) and even before we meet its personification, Death is ever-present. An opening caption tells us that “the Day of the Dead is celebrated in Mexico in a special way because the Mexican has a deep-rooted and unique sense about death. He makes toys in the form of skeletons and commemorative pastries; skulls are created from candy and chocolate.” We see this in an early scene where Macario’s children are excited by their cakes in the shape of skulls, and his macabre – to non-Mexicans at least -fascination with death runs throughout the film.

Which is one of the things that makes Macario so fascinating. It’s a dark fairy tale (its roots in both a Brothers Grimm story and a local folk legend make perfect sense) which skirts around the edges of full-blown horror. Beautifully shot, compelling acted and featuring an unforgettable finale, it fully deserves its reputation as one of Mexico’s finest films.