Editor’s Note: This interview was originally conducted in Spanish for ADocPR.com. To read the article in its original language, click here.

Talking to Cristian Carretero and Lorraine Jones-Molina, it’s immediately clear that they’re not just filmmakers, but film buffs. Like any other movie, their feature-length debut—titled Esta Isla—borrows from a rich history of cinematic influences for its story of lovers on the run. A few weeks before its re-release in Puerto Rican theaters, we meet over a video call to discuss the film’s themes, its success in the festival circuit and feedback from local audiences. When I ask about their favorite movies, Cristian reaches behind his computer for a package that looks as though it just arrived in the mail. He opens it, and pulls out three Criterion Blu-rays.

“Look at these,” he says.

“Is that Jeanne Dielman?” I ask.

“Chantal Akerman, Rashomon…Oh, and Faya Dayi. Where’s this from again? It’s really good.”

“From Ethiopia,” Lorraine says. “That was the most recent inspiration behind our movie, you could say, because we watched it just before we began filming with our cinematographer, Cedric.”

It makes sense that the dreamlike atmosphere and coming-of-age themes of Faya Dayi would have inspired Esta Isla. But make no mistake: despite their canon of influences, the film’s cultural specificity and sociopolitical concerns make it a distinctly Puerto Rican experience. It follows Bebo (played by Zion Ortiz), a teenager who cares for his grandmother (Georgina Bori) and lives with his older brother Charlie (Xavier Morales) in a public housing complex in Mayagüez, a coastal town located in the far west part of the island. Though they fish for a living, financial problems have pushed the brothers into the business of selling drugs. On a night out at a local bar, Bebo meets Lola (Fabiola Brown), a disillusioned girl from a wealthy family with whom he connects immediately. But when his secret life catches up to him, Bebo finds himself with no choice but to flee—with Lola by his side.

Taking us from the cerulean shores of Mayagüez to its tropical forests high in the mountains, the film then introduces us to a series of characters who help Bebo and Lola on their journey. These include a dominican immigrant named Coti (Jonnie Mercedes), and Cora (Teófilo Torres), a farmer who takes them in and teaches them the ancestral methods he uses to tend his crops. These players embody a number of ideas heavy in the consciousness of Puerto Rico and the Caribbean at-large, including a history of colonialism whose effects—be it mass migration or the erasure of precious traditions—can be felt on both a macro- and microcosmic level. It comes as no surprise then, that both directors consider authenticity to be an inherent responsibility of every filmmaker.

“When we visualize and recognize ourselves, we empower ourselves,” Lorraine tells me over Zoom.

Their efforts to create something real have more than paid off. Esta Isla had its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival, where it won awards for Best Cinematography and Best New Director, on top of receiving a special jury mention. Among other accolades, the film also triumphed at the Independent Spirit Awards this past February, where it won the John Cassavetes Award, which goes to the best film made under $1 million.

You can read our full conversation below. Esta Isla is currently showing in select cinemas, and is set to release digitally this August.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

First off, congratulations on everything you’ve accomplished with Esta Isla. How does it feel to bring the film to theaters, and for Puerto Ricans to have the opportunity to see it?

CRISTIAN CARRETERO: After Tribeca, we traveled to several countries and festivals, to understand the effect that the film is having on audiences, and see its messages and the more implicit elements of it reflected in its reception. But ultimately, bringing it here, to Puerto Rico, was the original goal. It’s nice to see how people react, and to watch the film come to life, in a way. Many have gone on to see it three or four times, and have found a part of themselves in it.

LORRAINE JONES-MOLINA: That whole journey was incredible. The awards, the recognition and the validation were magical. But it wasn’t until after that first press screening [in Puerto Rico] that I started to cry. When we got home that night and some of the press reactions started coming in, I understood that this was the real goal: for the film to connect deeply with Puerto Ricans, first and foremost. Many are taking it to other levels that surpass even our expectations or intentions, giving it another life. That’s the purpose of making [films], right? For each person to take it for themselves, and create something new from it.

CC: Yeah, for the film to grow inside the person. That they continue to think about it, that they talk about it, and that they want to see it again.

LJM: It’s like the films we enjoy.

Was there a particular reaction that spoke to you?

LJM: We’ve received so many beautiful messages. After one of the first screenings in New York, this girl came up to me, gave me a hug and said, “I’m from Venezuela, and it touched me too.” I feel that there’s a lot of disconnection in Puerto Rico. Sometimes we’re more connected to the United States but not with our closest brethren, who we share similar experiences with. But in that moment, I felt her pain, and my own as well. There was so much healing. That’s part of the reason why I believe so much in cinema.

[The Puerto Rican actor] René Monclova also said some beautiful things about the movie on Chente [Yadrach’s] program. He’s someone we admire a lot, and I loved what he said about Puerto Rico—about being able to appreciate all these beautiful things, but also the things that don’t work due to the chaos and crises we experience. There are also people who say things like, “That’s my grandfather!” or “That’s my grandmother!” or who connect with characters like Lola, Bebo and Moreno.

CC: I’m always interested in how people take art and make it their own. How you assimilate [to a movie] depends on your life, your background and whatever you are experiencing in that moment.

I think that, since [Esta Isla] is set up in a very intimate way, people manage to penetrate the screen and enter the story, whereas other films are maybe told more from the outside, or their artifice doesn’t allow the audience to enter. We were very careful about that, in terms of the realism being shown in a way that’s visually poetic.

I like the story about the Venezuelan fan, partly because my family is also from there, but more so because I think it connects to the themes of Esta Isla, which also touches on the issue of immigration and the topic of cultural exchange. In addition to the Coti character being Dominican, Bebo also mentions that his father was from the DR. Did you write the film hoping that people in other parts of the world would identify with it?

CC: It was more that we wanted to say something. I have had the opportunity to travel to many of the Caribbean islands—this giant archipelago that we have. It was the dream of many of our leaders in Puerto Rico—like [Ramón Emeterio] Betances—and the Caribbean at-large to unify the Caribbean and see ourselves as one land. Although we have different histories and we sometimes speak different languages, we’re all here and it would be beautiful if we had a greater connection, culturally, politically, economically and socially.

There is also the idea of ​​the Caribbean as a fluid space: Dominicans move here, Puerto Ricans go there, etc. We wanted to explore that Antillean idea and, in some way, through those characters, show that connection we have with the rest of the Caribbean and with Latin America. We also wanted to show dignity—to recognize these connections that we have with our Dominican brothers, or those from any other country.

LJM: We tried to do something very sincere, very specific, very real and very local—and I think that through this, we can connect with our neighboring countries, because we experience so many similarities. I feel that watching each other’s cinema helps us understand how close we really are, and how much we’re alike.

Recently, we went to the Panama Film Festival, where the movie was screened twice. In the second presentation, two things happened: first, the projectionist from that theater came to me and told me that, of all the movies he’d seen, ours was his favorite. Afterwards, a girl in the audience said: “hey, I just want to tell you that everything that happened there is so like Panama.” How nice is it when we recognize how close, and how alike, we really are?

Another thing that caught my attention was the spiritual aspect of the film, starting with Bebo and Charlie’s grandmother, who lights saint candles and prays to the Virgin of Carmel. It’s a strong contrast to how Latinos are represented in so many American and European films, which typically depict faith in our communities in very superficial ways.

CC: They always show that same image of the Virgin of Guadalupe…

Yes! I always think back to the final scene of Emilia Pérez, when they show a procession with someone carrying the image of the Virgin, but it isn’t meant to signify anything other than the fact that the people of this culture are religious.

CC: Boom…Mexico!

Right. So tell me about the cultural specificity regarding the spiritual aspects of this film.

CC: We wanted to show this crazy spiritual mix that exists in the Caribbean. It’s there when those symbols appear, and also when they don’t. At the beginning, we see how [Bebo’s] grandmother is like a medium when she wakes up and says that Ceci [her deceased daughter] came into her bedroom to tell her that something [bad] will happen to Charlie.

The figure of the Virgin of Carmel gets repeated a lot; she prays to her, and then later there’s a procession, which occurs in all fishing villages. We were interested in this figure that protects the fishermen, and anyone who goes out to sea during a storm. It’s very symbolic. That’s life: when we throw ourselves into the unknown, it’s the Virgin who protects us, and helps us return safely to the port.

There are also the promises. That comes from Catholic Spain, but has been creolized. Now all kinds of figures are used—not just the king but any spiritual forces that exist, who we ask for help. There are various saints, and some mix elements of Afro-Caribbean religions. Charlie also wears some Santero necklaces when they’re around the fire and when they go fishing.

We also cover the caves, and this spiritual thing the Tainos had. I was very interested in that spiritual—not necessarily religious—aspect of all these influences that have crossed our land. It’s there in nature, in those frames where nothing is being said. Like God, who exists in the river, in the plants, in the air and in the water.

LJM: Puerto Rico and the Caribbean have this very interesting spirituality. I feel that this isn’t discussed much; there’s talk about Puerto Rico being Christian-Catholic, and that’s it. But that’s dishonest—there’s so much more. The character of the grandmother is also very personal to me. I feel like a lot of our grandmothers have that experience of feeling and knowing things. I wanted her to have that, and for it to be real: if she says something, you know it’s true, even if you don’t understand [why it’s true].

I want to talk about your decision to set the film in Mayagüez. I know that you both live in the municipality, and that Cristian grew up there—is that right?

LJM: Yes. We were observing how the cinema here feels different; what the vibe, the flow, the people, the history and the culture are like. Everything is always concentrated in the metropolitan part of Puerto Rico, and there are people who don’t know much about what happens in the other areas.

CC: That’s true. We want to decentralize film production, and leave the bubble that is the film world in San Juan. Here we have family, we’re comfortable—it’s all cool. If I want to make a movie, I connect with the community and people get pumped. They open doors for you, they tell you stories; they want to be a part of something and help in whatever way they can. Many of the stories we put in the script were things that the people here told us, or that we had experienced ourselves. I grew up watching people hunt crabs with flashlights at night, and all that stuff...

LJM: That’s very cinematic. Or for instance: Bebo bathing his horse [in the sea]. That’s something you’re not necessarily going to see in San Juan, but you see it all the time here.

CC: Also, Columbus Landing—the housing complex where Bebo lives with Charlie and his family—was the second residential complex ever built in Puerto Rico, so it’s pretty old. It has beautiful ceiba trees all over the place, and faces the sea. There is this abandoned elementary school, which has been turned into a stable compound [for livestock]. That’s already a whole microcosm that lets you visualize, for example, the kid who works taking care of the horses, crossing the slums to get to the beach—where they dunk him in the water so that he exercises, and gets stronger. All of that storytelling comes from this space. So that’s one example of how filming in these locations adds cinematic value that compliments the story.

Speaking of sources of inspiration, I caught the two of you in a Letterboxd video recently, where you talked about your favorite independent films. I remember Cristian mentioned Y tu mamá también and Amores perros being two movies that motivated him to become a filmmaker. Are there any others that influence your work?

CC: The structural basis of what we wanted to do was: “Lovers on the Run” meets “Coming-of-Age.” We were drawn to Badlands by Terrence Malick, and movies that featured young people fleeing. In a way, films like Bonnie and Clyde (and others like Thelma and Louise, which is a little different) are road movies that also get into moral dilemmas. There’s always this philosophy of what’s wrong and what’s right—and also of youth, and where we are headed. You have this combination of ingredients that lets you talk about certain topics while also maintaining this freshness of youth, and a structure that allows you to go on an adventure.

LJM: They’re deep and philosophical, but in an entertaining way. It was always our intention to talk about problems that exist in Puerto Rico, both political and historical, as well as philosophical: what is freedom? The idea was to make it for the general public, and not just the art world. That’s why we thought of these genres, and why we were influenced so much by these films.

Y tu mamá también is another one of those inspirations. We loved how, whenever [the characters] stopped at a business, we’d catch just a little bit of what the people in those communities were like, with this sense of magic [and] wonder. So that was a big influence too. And City of God is definitely another.

CC: We wanted to show the coming-of-age of not only the characters—but also of a society that’s still in the process of understanding itself, of discussing [our colonial status], and our future. In films like Y tu mamá tambien and Amores perros, context is just as important: they’re representative of Mexico during that time. You understand the contemporaneousness of when those films were made, and they remain iconic still now.

LJM: We were also inspired by Italian Neorealism and the French New Wave; Bresson’s Pickpocket is tucked in there.

CC: Italian Neorealism for its focus on working class themes, on using real locations, on recording with little equipment and working with natural actors, and for mixing documentary with fiction. And the French New Wave for its playful element—that way of breaking conventions and tricking [audiences], in a way.

There is also Andrei Tarkovsky, who has this spiritual thing in his shots, and in his themes: the use of elements like fire, water, earth and air so that they affect the scenes, and so that you feel them.

I see Italian neorealism as being very influential to Latin American cinema over the last couple of decades. Many such films have also been made in Venezuela—like Pelo malo, for example.

CC: Yeah, exactly. Well, it’s also because there’s no resources—but at the same time, it’s like a necessity. Italian Neorealism has been very influential during Latin American dictatorships. There’s also the New Latin American Cinema wave, Third Cinema, Poor Cinema and the Aesthetic of Hunger in Brazil—all these movements of using cinema to reflect reality, instead of trying to imitate that splendor of Hollywood while people die of hunger and our governments kill us or take away our resources and our indigenous cultures, damnit! [It’s about] dignifying that, by making films that don’t depend on all this machinery—just using a camera and a microphone, and that’s it. As though it could even be considered immoral to do the opposite.

Changing gears a bit, your film has obviously received tons of acclaim. Among the honors, y’all won an Independent Spirit Award (more specifically, the John Cassavetes Award for the best film made under a budget of less than $1 million). How does it feel to see your work being recognized like this, and how did you celebrate this accomplishment?

CC: Yeah, man. The thing is, we started out like that. We’ve been spoiled, because it all began in Tribeca, where they gave us three awards and we were like, “holy shit…what now?”

LJM: [laughs] It’s always a surprise.

CC: It brings a certain validation. Like, we must be doing something right if the public understands [the movie], and if these industry people—who in theory have seen a lot, and know a ton—are also finding value in it and giving it awards, despite all of this other competition.

LJM: We were obviously competing with filmmakers who were already in that world [of Hollywood]. Because it’s the Independent Spirit Awards, this prize is very special and important. We’re outsiders in a way—both in Puerto Rico and everywhere else. From the beginning, we wanted to do something different: shoot in the west. And we had a great team, but other than that, there wasn’t a lot of support. Right now, a lot of movies are getting made with funding from ARPA. The government granted us $150,000—but there are films that receive $1.7 million or more. So we’ve accomplished a lot, with much less.

When we received that award, it was like, “OK, now I get it; everything happened for a reason.” It feels nice to go against the tide and make something genuine that you really believe in, and not not give up—and then, at the end of the day, for that to get acknowledged. It’s been really beautiful. And to go so far as to not only get recognized, but also awarded, has been incredible. It was the first time a Puerto Rican film entered that space—and we won!

CC: It was awesome, because we were watching the show, everyone was having a great time and all of the sudden this guy from the production team comes over and asks us, “um, are you guys the Esta Isla crew? There’s two more awards and then it’s your guys’ award, so don’t go anywhere.” So I asked Lori, “does this mean we’re winning?” and she was like, “I don’t know.” And then this camera operator came to set up in front of us, and I was like, “oh shit. Prepare yourself Lori, because I think it’s happening.” Thank God the speech flowed well, because we had [written] something in case we needed it.

Afterwards, we went backstage and Kate Hudson was there, and she congratulated us. At the afterparty, people kept telling us that this was the most important award ‘cause that’s like the spirit of independent filmmaking, baby: going out there, guerilla-style, and just doing it. It’s super cool that, in your journey of admiring Hollywood, you then get these actors and directors who are also attending the Oscars, coming up to you and saying: “I love what you’ve done.” At the same time, it goes to show that sometimes we have to listen to our own voices, and trust what it is we have to say. This is a film from Mayagüez, about class and the daily struggles of these two kids who fall in love. That the industry recognized it means that the game is not played trying to be like them, but by making something of your own that they understand and respect. ■

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Four years ago, I came across an opportunity I never thought I’d get: the chance to interview the great John Waters. It was 2022, and I was a freelance writer for The Miami New Times’ arts and culture section. When I learned that the self-proclaimed “Pope of Trash” would be attending the Miami Book Fair to promote his latest novel Liarmouth: A Feel-Bad Romance, I jumped at the chance to reach out. To my surprise, I was granted a 15-minute phone interview with him, during which we discussed the book, his career and other shenanigans he was all too happy to entertain me with.

It was a year of considerable acclaim for the then-76-year-old author, artist and filmmaker, who had made a name for himself directing prurient, shoestring-budget shock comedies from the 1970s through the early 2000s. Following the 50th anniversary of his monumental Pink Flamingos (1972), the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce announced his induction into the Walk of Fame and the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures unveiled an 11,400-square-foot exhibition dedicated to his filmography. Just a few months prior, the Library of Congress had added the movie to its National Film Registry.

On a national scale, things were a lot less festive in 2022. This was a midterm election year, in which Republicans won Florida by a landslide—something Waters did not hesitate to remind me about. The openly gay director has never been one to mince words, even if he refuses to take himself seriously, delivering his observations as wisecracks. Known for their outrageous humor and signature kitsch, Waters’ films are no different. From his “Trash Trilogy” starring Divine the drag queen, to more mainstream titles like Hairspray (1988) and Serial Mom (1994), his films transgress social norms, lampooning American monoculture in an effort to highlight our differences and get us to laugh at ourselves.

It’s a great shame then, that Waters never received the funding to make Liarmouth into a film, even after optioning the novel, penning a screenplay, and casting Aubrey Plaza in the lead role. At the time of our interview, he had expressed enthusiasm about the project, which would have been his first feature since 2004’s A Dirty Shame. If Variety’s recent update is anything to go by, it sounds like he’s still up for it, so here’s hoping it happens.

My story ended up running as a short profile that November. Although I delivered on the assignment, which was meant to double as a preview for the Miami Book Fair, I’ve always regretted not asking my editor whether we could run it in a Q&A format. From Waters poking fun at my questions, to a—er—revealing comment about Steve-O’s nethers, there were just so many great sound bites I wished I’d shared. So I figured, why not pull that interview out of the archives, and publish it here, at the start of Pride? It’s not Pulitzer-worthy reporting, but I hope it brings you some amusement.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

URSULA MUÑOZ S.: Thank you so much for setting aside the time to chat. You’ve become something of a fixture at the Miami Book Fair now, with this being your fourth year as guest. Is that right?

JOHN WATERS: It might be. I have gone there lots of times, and it’s good! It’s always a great audience. It’s by-the-book and I’m in good company, so I’m looking forward to it—even though Florida after the election is not my top choice of states to go to.

UMS: You’ve published several books now, but Liarmouth is your first novel. What was it like to make that switch?

JW: Well, they’re basically all fiction. With Carsick, almost two-thirds of the book was fiction because I imagined the worst rides you could have, then the best, and then I did the real trip.

Liarmouth took three years to write. To me, it was just a new way to tell a story, where I could go much deeper into a character’s feelings and the description of their craziness. My favorite comment I’ve gotten was from Graham Norton, who [after reading it] said to me: “Who knew that movies held you back?” [laughs] The book is even more crazy than my movies, maybe.

UMS: I’m curious to know where the concept of facelifts for dogs came from.

JW: I go to Los Angeles a lot, and people are more and more extreme every time—they all look alike, like one race of aliens. I think there probably already is pet surgery. It’s not so far in the future. I exaggerate everything for comedy, [but] I believe that will happen very soon.

UMS: For what it’s worth, there are already dog breeds that can only give birth via C-section.

JW: Oh God, I know. I did an art piece once, called “Reconstructed Lassie.” I think that gave me the idea to go even further [in Liarmouth], with this dog that’s trapped in a cat’s body. Her name is “Surprize” with a Z.

UMS: I cannot wait to get this in the mail. Is it true that you’re making Liarmouth into a movie?

JW: I mean, people act like I’m gonna shoot tomorrow. It was optioned by a production company. There’s a lot of green lights ahead, and I have to write the script—which I’m going to do right after my 20 city Christmas tour. Then it has to go through the system, it has to get budgeted, it has to get cast—you know, all the things that take forever. It’s very exciting, especially since this movie is so crazy. I mean, it had to be crazy enough to jumpstart my career!

UMS: What do you mean by “jumpstart”?

JW: The rest of my career. I’ve never been so busy in my entire life! I have more jobs than I’ve ever had, so it’s not like I’m looking for work. I’m looking forward to making a movie again.

UMS: You had said in a previous Miami New Times interview that A Dirty Shame was your final movie. What made you want to return to filmmaking?

JW: Well there’s another movie I’ve been trying to make for years, called Fruitcake. It’s a children’s Christmas adventure. I was also paid to write three different sequels to Hairspray—one as a musical, one as a TV show and one as a TV movie. So it’s not like I haven’t been in the movie business.

Criterion has released a lot of my films in the last five years or so: they released Multiple Maniacs, Pink Flamingos, Polyester and Female Trouble, restored them beautifully and [found] a completely new audience for these movies. When I toured with Pink Flamingos, the audience was like 20 years old. They’d never seen it! So that’s exciting. I’m infecting a new generation—not with COVID, but with humor.

UMS: I read another interview you recently did with Little White Lies, where you talked about longevity and young audiences who are just now discovering your work.

JW: That’s really important. That’s the only thing you can’t buy!

UMS: What’s it like, seeing younger generations resonate with the likes of Pink Flamingos and Multiple Maniacs?

JW: It’s a great compliment because obviously they don’t feel like it’s old cash. It still works!

UMS: One thing I love about your work is that, by pushing the boundaries of taste, you challenge this commonly held notion that queer people should make themselves more palatable for the rest of society, in order to “earn” respect. In the half-century since Pink Flamingos released, there’s certainly been an increase of queer stories in mainstream media, but I (personally) feel like a lot of them are guilty of trying to placate everybody at once. How do you feel about respectability politics?

JW: The most ironic thing about my career is that I’m now, I’d say, respectable. The Academy Awards Museum has given me a giant show set for 2023. I’m getting a star on the Hollywood Boulevard. The National Registry listed Pink Flamingos as one of the great American films. All those things are very flattering, and I preserve them with no irony, but it is the exact opposite of how my career started when I got all bad reviews and was arrested for making the movies. And they’re the same! I haven’t changed, but society has, humor has and American humor has.

I think I got away with it for 50 years because I make fun of the rules that people believe outsiders live by—not the rules they’ve led. We have to make fun of ourselves or else we become self-righteous, and that is when we lose the battle. I’m not trying to just “offend”—I’m trying to make people laugh. It’s easy to shock. I try to use shock value to get people’s attention, ‘cause that’s how you’ll change people’s opinions: you make ‘em laugh. They don’t want you preaching and standing on a soapbox. The dumbest thing is to make your audience feel stupid. Even if they are stupid!

UMS: I like what you said about having to be able to make fun of ourselves. Could you expand on this philosophy as it pertains to your work?

JW: I made fun of myself from the beginning by calling my movies “trash.” I based my career on negative reviews that I got. One critic said to me, “you beat us to the typewriter. We can’t say anything ‘cause you’ve already said it!” But I was embracing words that they used against me, the same way all minorities do; they take back that word. One thing that the overly politically correct don’t ever do is make fun of themselves.

I think I actually am politically correct. People choke when I say that, but the right people win in my movies. But I do think that we have to be able to not be so self-righteous about it. That’s the downfall. That’s why your governor wins—because people hear stuff like, “you shouldn’t have a candy cane because it suggests the impoverished shepherd’s crook.”

UMS: This reminds me of a phrase that people online use when someone gets really offended about something unimportant: “touch grass.” Ironically, I saw someone say this was ableist the other day, the reason being that not everyone is able to go outside and do that.

JW: Oh God. Or like, ‘manhole’—you’re not allowed to say that either. You have to call it something else, because it’s “men over women.”

UMS: Really? That’s so funny.

JW: It is funny! But the people that care about it—they don’t think it’s funny. They’re serious, and it makes them more lightweight. In the other direction too, there’s this reactionism.

UMS: I’d like to go back to Pink Flamingos for a moment, since it just turned 50. How do you feel about its lasting impact?

JW: I’ve thought about it. There are [offensive] things in it that don’t seem to matter, because it’s so ridiculous and it’s making fun of all tastes and rules, and everything. It’s about anarchy. The only movie that’s close to Pink Flamingos is Johnny Knoxville’s Jackass. That’s why I put him in my last movie, [A Dirty Shame]. I think he shares that sense of humor, which is based on people’s nervousness and ability to laugh at things that they never laughed about before.

UMS: I’ve always admired your mutual friendship. Did you see the most recent Jackass movie?

JW: I did. I saw it in London on opening day, in an IMAX theater. So we had to look at Steve-O’s testicles larger than I’d ever hoped to see.

UMS: Amazing. Before we go, is there anything you’d like to add that we didn’t cover in this interview?

JW: No! I always tell every journalist, they should teach you to never ask that question in journalism school. If I have to pick the questions, I should get your paycheck too! [laughs]

UMS: That’s fair. I would’ve touched upon Liarmouth more, but it was only just mailed out to me yesterday, so I haven’t had the chance to read it!

JW: We’re gonna talk about it at the Miami Book Fair! I think the book is a page-turner. I think it’s crazy. I think you’ll laugh. I think I’ll startle you, and I think it has a happy ending—a weird happy ending. I haven’t met anybody who said they were bored, and it got (surprisingly) very nice reviews.

UMS: I mean, I can’t imagine getting bored by that subject matter.

JW: You may not like it, but you won’t be bored! ■

If you came of age during the 2010s glued to YouTube and Vine, there’s a good chance you’re familiar with Brandon Rogers. The actor-writer-multihyphenate rose to fame during the decade, when he became known for his outrageous sketch comedies, many of which parodied familiar archetypes like suburban WASP moms and villainous CEOs set on destroying the world. But even at the height of his viral success, he knew he wanted more.

“I tried every other type of media on the internet—except porn, probably,” he tells me over a video call. “Remember vlogging in, like, 2010? I tried that. And then I realized—don’t show people your life. Show them your art, and let your life be for you.”

It’s no surprise then, that when writer-director-animator Vivienne Medrano (known online as VivziePop) approached him about leading and co-writing a new series, his answer was a resounding yes. At the time, Medrano was a rising animation talent with a fiercely loyal YouTube following. The two would go on to collaborate on several projects, including her breakout web series Hazbin Hotel, for which Rogers voices a host of supporting characters, and its spin-off, Helluva Boss, which he co-writes with Medrano and Adam Neylan and in which he stars.

A queer, R-rated musical comedy, Hazbin Hotel is set in a neon-tinged version of Hell and centers on Lucifer’s daughter Charlie, who sets out to solve the underworld’s overpopulation problem by building a boarding house that rehabilitates sinners to earn them a passage to Heaven. Its spinoff, Helluva Boss, trades showstopping musical numbers for ultraviolence, following an imp-run assassination company that offers hitman services to the people of Hell. Rogers voices its protagonist, Blitzo (the “O” is silent), the enterprise’s flamboyant, pansexual and foul-mouthed founder, who leads a ragtag team of outcasts as they carry their assignments out on Earth, most of which involve murder.

The original premise of both shows no doubt served as a breath of fresh air to the young adults who consume them voraciously online. Rogers was equally impressed.

“I don’t remember [Vivienne] ever giving a shit about views before she was famous,” he says. “Frankly, I think she made it for her, knowing that there were enough people out there like her, that would like her show.”

Evidently, an animated series as gleefully blasphemous and genre-bending as these was always going to be an acquired taste. Both have their critics, who balk at their mix of abrasive language and juvenile humor, but regardless of where they land on the shows the breakout success of the “Hellaverse” project marks a significant milestone for independent animation and the small-scale creator economy.

Medrano had spent the 2010s financing the pilots on Patreon, and produced them alongside a team of independent artists before releasing them on her YouTube channel in 2019. Both quickly gained traction on the video-sharing platform: the pilot for Hazbin Hotel has since surpassed 100 million views, while Helluva Boss’ followed with an impressive 71 million. Their popularity earned them a groundbreaking licensing deal with Prime Video, which allows creators to retain full creative control while expanding their reach to new audiences on the platform.

Since then, Rogers has become a staple of pop-culture conventions, where he runs into Blitzo cosplayers on the regular. He also continues to run his YouTube channel, entertaining an audience of 11-million subscribers. 2025 proved especially busy for him, marked by the release of his newest short, A Night at the Park, and the second seasons of both Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss on Prime Video. I sat down with the creator to discuss his career, influences and creative process.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

First off, congratulations on such a busy year! I read an interview of yours recently, in which you talked about your approach to making your newest short film, A Night at the Park, and how that differed from some of your older videos, where you prioritized virality and spent less time writing and editing. What has changed in your artistic approach between then and now, and what’s driving this desire to strive for perfection?

Well, for a large part of before I was famous, I was trying to be famous. I was trying to get noticed, to make whatever I thought would blow up, whatever serviced the algorithm at the time. Now I’m at a point in my life where I’m no longer trying to prove myself in that way. When that voice isn’t so prevalent in your mind, it allows you to focus on what you really love. You can take your time, without trying to prove to anyone how fast you work or how unique your stuff is. All that matters is: how good is it? The internet knows I’m here, they know it’ll come out when it comes out, and there’s an audience ready for it.

Since day one, I’ve wanted to do what I’m doing now: be a storyteller. I don’t think of myself as just a writer, or any one part of a thing. I feel like a lot of my film heroes are of that same mindset. John Waters doesn’t see it as being a director, being a writer or being a producer—he sees it as being a filmmaker. He makes movies. Walt Disney wasn’t like, “I want the best theme park, or the best rides, or the best food.” He was like, “I want this to be one unified experience.” It’s one big clump.

You also cosplayed as Blitzo for A Night at the Park. I take it that fans of Helluva Boss had been wanting to see a live-action version of this character for a long time, so I wanted to ask: what has the response been like?

Surprisingly positive! I was very nervous about how people were gonna perceive him, because the standard is really high for Helluva in terms of cosplaying. We have, in my opinion, some of the best cosplayers in the world, and as the voice actor there’s this expectation that you have to be better than all of them because you’re the official source of the character. Over time, I started to meet cosplayers who’d give me pieces of their costumes—or I’d buy them. Each piece of my costume was individually made by a different cosplayer. It really is an amalgamation—like a Frankenstein of love from all over the world.

On top of voicing Blitzo, you also have multiple supporting characters in the Hellaverse. I was wondering if you had a favorite, or one that you think is under-appreciated?

I play a little French maid in the second season of Helluva Boss. She goes, [imitates French accent] “dinner is served.”

I also just love Katie Killjoy from Hazbin. Katie was my favorite character before I even got offered the role. I just loved her design, and I kind of always knew she was based off of one of my [YouTube] characters, Bryce Tankthrust. The more I watched that first pilot, I would notice her mannerisms were the same as my character’s, who also cracks her neck, and who has that smile and that outfit with the black trim. Then Viv was just straight up like, “yeah, Bryce was definitely the inspiration. Do you want to voice her?” That was cool, because it felt like one of my YouTube characters found its way onto the screen in one of the biggest independent animations out there—and playing her is easy because I just play showbiz Bryce!

As a journalist, I have to say “Katie Killjoy” is such a great name for an evil newscaster.

I think between us, we can kind of assume which journalist—or journalists—and which news station she’s inspired by. But that’s what I love about her; she’s a journalist who pokes and prods.

She’s not an honorable journalist.

No, and if anything, she’s also contributing to the degradation of Hell by reporting things that fit her interests, and that she has a lot of persuasion in. Viv was very generous with my screen time [in Season 2]. I was very happy when I saw the script, and I saw how much Katie was in there. We only ever saw her demeanor on-air before, so it’s interesting playing this character when the cameras aren’t rolling.

It makes me happy that there’s more Katie in Season 2, because she is also one of my favorites. What’s your favorite thing about the new season of Hazbin?

I think the songs definitely are a lot catchier. I loved the songs in Season 1, but I almost started Shazam-ing one of the songs during an early screening, because it was so good—and then I realized Shazam wouldn’t know these songs because they’re not out yet.

I really like “Whatever It Takes” from Season 1.

They feel like songs that you’d hear in a Disney movie, or on Broadway. And that’s largely Sam Haft. He’s actually a genius, and one of the most unsung heroes (no pun intended) of our show, because the singers get all the credit but a large part of why people love the songs is because of the melodies and Sam’s ability to transcend genres. He puts so much love and care into the music for these shows, and we’re very lucky to have him. Anyways, I’m done sucking his dick, that’s all he gets.

The maximalism of your YouTube sketches fits so well with Vivian’s style, it’s easy to see why you’re such frequent collaborators. What makes you so in-tune with each other, creatively?

It’s crazy that Viv can circumnavigate both shows at the same time. I respect the hell out of any director who has their hands on every detail of the production like Tarantino or Tim Burton, and Viv is that. She scrutinizes and analyzes every little thing that makes its way into an episode. And she’s also very collaborative. If someone has a suggestion and that’s the funnier option, it’s always “yes.” The fact that she could do that for two shows that feel very different in tone is very impressive to me.

I’m not a big animation person as an adult, but I grew up on nothing but animation, so [I have a] sensibility [to the] timing. There are less jokes in a live-action half hour than an animated half hour because it takes longer for people to physically get from point A to point B, and I try to keep my videos fast-paced. I think that’s a big reason why Viv and I—our scripts look the same. [They’re] long because they’re staccato. It’s very short lines that go by very quickly, so the page count looks daunting.

This is just my personal bias because I’m only a writer on Helluva, but I think Helluva grabs your attention quicker because it’s more slapstick, the episodes start with the stakes all crazy, and they’re more self-contained. If someone who I think wouldn’t like my work asked what I do, I would show them [the episode] “Mission Zero” from Helluva Boss, because even if they are the most conservative person in the world, they can’t deny the blood and guts it starts out with.

Is that the one with the creepy southern family? I’m a big horror nut so that’s my favorite, and I am also a little more partial to Helluva Boss for that reason.

Yeah, Helluva is just more nitty-gritty. Well, here’s the thing: I love Hazbin for exactly how it is, and I wouldn’t change it. Hazbin has a more enchanted vibe to it, the stakes are much higher and it’s more comic book-y. Helluva feels more like real-life. It’s more of a sitcom drama, the gore is visceral, what the characters go through is more relatable—something about it just feels more tangible to me. They’re not characters dealing with war, they’re dealing with interpersonal conflicts like divorce and having a baby.

That’s an interesting comparison—it does feel like a workplace sitcom in a lot of ways. Do you and Vivian draw inspiration from any particular shows?

Well first of all, Viv and I are massive fans of The Office. I’m not saying that’s where it came from, but it does speak to our larger appreciation for workplace comedy. She had just made Hazbin Hotel’s pilot and wanted a spin-off about the lower-class imps. She was looking for someone who could write a workplace comedy, and at that time, I had done web series like Blame the Hero and Theater Class, and a lot of the stuff that I had worked on dealt with situational comedy. When she brought me on board, we realized this was a violent workplace comedy. What makes the show stand out from Hazbin, is that we’ll have that juxtaposition of the brightly colored human world versus the dark, neon underworld of Hell. So that’s sort of how that came into existence.

If you look at the original, no-longer-canon pilot that we made, you see glimpses of that initial workplace comedy flavor. There’s a lot of, like, “hey, the butter in the fridge is expired,” and conference room stuff. I don’t know if just them in the office was what we were originally trying to go for, but the shorts ended up being these wacky, self-contained adventures. We realized there was drama, and extra characters that have lore, and we saw that the darkness was where the show really started to, ironically, light up.

Now we have this vessel where I oversee the funny scenes and she oversees the dramatic scenes. Her strength is writing drama, and really understating it. She’s really good at breaking hearts—in the script, not in real life. I love writing the comedic moments because my videos have been so staccato, I’m used to writing that quick, rapid-fire [dialogue] and I have a good eye for what can be tightened. That’s what I’m always telling my actors on set: “tighten it, fasten it.” Because in real life, we talk at a certain pace, but in Hazbin and Helluva, it would seem slow if the [characters] spoke normally.

The actress Jean Smart has said that “faster and funnier” is the the no. 1 note she always gets on the set of her show Hacks.

Faster and funnier, yeah! No, that’s true because I’ve never had an actor say something faster than I wanted them to. In real life, we don’t talk as fast as characters do in cartoons. So that makes sense, “faster and funnier,” because you also need to remember what parts of the sentence are punchy. It’s very easy to forget that when you’re focused only on if you’re timing it right. But anyway, comedy is a waltz.

One thing I really like about Helluva Boss—and also Hazbin, to an extent—is that it reminds me of the Cartoon Network stuff I watched as a kid.

Yeah, it doesn’t feel like adult animation in the sense that it’s not in a relatable, muted setting. I would say the maximalism is adjacent to Smiling Friends. Smiling Friends has that Cartoon Network vibe—it’s clearly for adults, but it’s poppy and loud. Helluva [also] has a Looney Tunes flavor to it. We’re not above doing, like, anvil-on-the-foot-type comedy, but at the same time, it deals with very adult things.

I think that Gen X and Millennials can ingest silly slapstick cartoons but also take them with seriousness, because animated shows were such a part of our upbringing. Twenty years ago, a lot of people would have been afraid to mix Looney Tunes-style animation with really intense, adult tones, because what’s the audience for that? We are the audience for that.

Richard Horvitz is a big reason why it feels like a Cartoon Network show, honestly. Every time I hear his voice, it’s crazy to think that, like, Billy or Zim is in Hell with us. I grew up with him as Alpha 5 from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. At our very first con together, he came to my table and he gave me this [autographed] picture that said, “Brandon, the Power Rangers are in trouble. [Signed,] Alpha,” and then, “[Signed,] Richard.”

@silvianeacsu98Richard you are the coolest good shot for Brandon If it was accurate and in the helluva boss series it would be great #BrandonRogers #blitzo 🦎😈💜🖤💪♂️ #richardhorvitz #moxxie 🐐😈💜🖤💪♂️ 🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂😂😅😅😅😅

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That’s so sweet!

We’ve gone on so many adventures together. He is one of my favorite people, and I have gotten to know the man extremely well. He has become one of my biggest inspirations, because I’m 37. I’m sitting here, looking around me going, wow, this is all so great but who knows how long it’s gonna last, so I better enjoy it now. But then I look at Richard, and he’s still signing shit from Invader Zim and Power Rangers, and it gives me a sense of what to aspire down the road. Richard is a really good example of someone who’s very successful and very happy. We’re lucky to have someone like him on our show, who has been through the wringer and come back the other side, and is still a wonderful person. Also, I love his wife, Kristen. They’re the it-couple of every convention.

Through Richard, I’ve gotten to meet so many other wonderful voice actors. I love Christian Boyholt, the voice actor for Vox, who has rapidly grown to be one of my favorite human beings. Erica Lindbeck, who plays Luna, is honestly one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. Do not tell her I said that—I would never say that to her face. But she can do an impression of anybody, and she’s also from Smiling Friends!

Not everyone can do a deadpan voice with the same amount of personality.

She does it really well in real life, too. As much as I am Blitzo, I can say that she is also Luna. I don’t know if Viv creates these characters based on actors she has in mind, but Moxxie is Richard Horvitz, and I would say that the most fiery one of all of us is Vivian Williams, who [plays] Millie. The same goes for Hazbin. A lot of those characters and the actors who play them are very similar, both in appearance and in the way that they behave. It’s cool, and the fans love it. I also just think it makes for more believable acting. Actors resembling their characters is something that’s very common in both my work and in Viv’s.

Is that common? I read that some studios will cast characters, then design them with the voice actor in mind.

The road between character and actor should be met halfway. I feel like, as a writer, you should have in mind at least two people to play a role as you write it. At least that’s how I work. Once the actor is confirmed and I know who’s saying the words, I know how to write for them. It’s a fascinating thing, when you can tell that an actor influenced some of their characters’ choices, or their look. It’s also fun as an actor, to lean into things that other people see in you—when a character has something you already have, and you can amplify that part of you for fiction.

Blitzo is very unfiltered, which I feel can be said about most of your characters. With the far right’s constant stigmatizing of LGBTQ+ folks, there’s a narrative being pushed that people in the community must adopt respectability politics at all times, so that others don’t get the wrong idea. But amid the ongoing discourse of how to properly do jokes, you make fun of everyone and it continues to feel fresh. Could you talk a little bit about your no-holds-barred approach to comedy, whether it’s writing for Helluva Boss, or your sketches?

Yeah! Since day one, I’ve always tried to show the world that comedy unites us more than we think. This administration has been very successful at dividing us—or, I shouldn’t say they’ve been successful in dividing us, but it certainly seems to be their goal. Just like pizza or sports, comedy is one of those universal things that no matter what your political viewpoint is, we all laugh at the same things. There’s this idea on both sides of, like, “right-wing” humor and “woke” humor, but there is a middle ground where we don’t have to punch down.

I think that audiences, first of all, are very smart. That’s why I’ve survived this long: people can see I’m not punching down. I honestly think queer people are some of the funniest fucking people on the planet. I learned that when I watched The Birdcage as a child. There’s a world where someone could watch something and laugh or cry, or just be invested in some way emotionally—and then suddenly realize [they’re] watching a trans person, or a gay person, or a lesbian, you know? It’s not about being preachy.

It’s very easy to push people away, but it’s also easy to say, “you just laughed at my joke because it’s funny, and we didn’t have to look at our political differences for you to appreciate this story, or to feel for the character.” We have characters who are outwardly queer, but they never talk about it. The show is never about that. The show is about the conflicts they’re going through, and if you can see that—if you could look through this person who is not like you, and relate to what they’re going through, or laugh [with them], that’s ultimately what the goal is, for me. ■

The following article includes major spoilers for the film Weapons.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about watching a horror movie and realizing, during a particularly gory sequence, that you’re witnessing the birth of a genre classic. From chest-bursting aliens to head-spinning demons, every great horror film boasts its own defining scare, and amid the flood of creative and commercial developments horror has enjoyed over the past decade, many recent releases have given us moments destined for the canon. Who among us hasn’t thought of Hereditary’s infamous decapitation scene when passing a telephone pole, or flinched at the sound of a teaspoon hitting porcelain in our post–Get Out world? One of 2025’s biggest surprises, Zach Cregger’s Weapons offers several such moments—perhaps most memorably, its iconic villain reveal at the Miller household.

Revolving around the residents of a small Pennsylvania town reeling from the disappearance of seventeen schoolchildren, Weapons unfolds in six chapters, each following the perspective of a different character who unknowingly plays a part in the mystery. These include Ms. Gandy (Julia Garner), a caring yet emotionally unstable elementary school teacher who finds herself an unfortunate position as the town scapegoat, and Archer (Josh Brolin), a desperate father on a quest for answers. Written and directed by Cregger, the film does something rare in a genre that has historically received criticisms of diatomic moralizing: its characters are nowhere near perfect, but their flaws make them more relatable. In them, we see people at the end of their rope, navigating a disaster nothing could have prepared them for.

Played by Clayton Farris and Benedict Wong, Terry and Marcus Miller are no exception. As Maybrook Elementary’s well-meaning, by-the-book principal, Marcus becomes the victim of some powerful witchcraft when the guardian of one of his students turns out not to be who she seems. If bureaucracy allowed for the film’s now-iconic villain—the terrifying “Aunt” Gladys (Amy Madigan)—to take control of Marcus, then the naïvité of his jolly husband, Terry, sealed the deal. When Terry invites Gladys into their home for a glass (sorry, a bowl) of water, shit hits the fan, leading to one of the most gruesome deaths in a movie full of wince-inducing moments.

“I think that’s the paradox of something like this: unfortunately, in horror movies, people have to die,” Farris tells me over a Zoom interview. “There’s humor in the scene, but it’s also where the energy shifts, and it all becomes really intense.”

As one of Weapons’ most unassuming characters, Terry is endearingly mundane—a testament to the comfort and familiarity of American suburbia that contrasts the film’s more distrusting attitude towards small-town secrecy. Cheerful and friendly, Farris plays him with the easygoing affect of someone you wouldn’t mind running into at the water cooler. The actor and TikToker was kind enough to chat with me ahead of Weapons’ digital release (the film is now available to stream on HBO Max), and walk me through his scene with Gladys. Read on for our beat-by-beat breakdown of what went down while filming one of the year’s most infamous horror sequences.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Before we start, I just wanted to say congrats on Weapons. I watched the film back in August, and can’t emphasize how much fun it was to see it with a large audience at a crowded screening.

Oh, good!

One of the film’s most discussed scenes is the one where Gladys shows up at Marcus and Terry’s house and we finally get to see what her whole deal is. Before she arrives to disturb the peace, everything from the characters’ matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse shirts, to what they eat, helps paint a colorful picture of those two. Any insight on how these details came about? And how much of a say did you get when it came to developing your character?

Zach [Cregger], the director, was very open to our thoughts, and he definitely wanted it to feel lived-in. That was really my goal as an actor—to make this character likable with not a lot of screen time or dialogue, so his fate is more impactful. I don’t 100% [know about the shirts], but during the fitting, the talk was all about how it just adds this extra layer to these characters if they’re Disney adults. We all know Disney adults, and it’s such a bonding thing when two people who really love Disneyland go there. The idea that maybe they got married at Disneyland—or they definitely honeymooned there—is just a playful nod. I’ve also heard people talk about consumerism with these characters, because they’re into junk food, they’re watching television and they’re into Disney. I feel like that element could also be part of the story, maybe?

The seven hot dogs on the tray became this kind of meme that blew up, but it has a specific meaning. Trevor [Moore], Zach’s friend [and sketch comedy partner] from The Whitest Kids U’ Know, passed away, and they had a sketch where [Trevor] talked about eating seven hot dogs a day. From what Zach has said, this movie is about his grieving process, but it’s interesting to me that the script does not say “seven hot dogs.” It just says: Terry prepares a tray of elaborately arranged junk food. Hot dogs, cookies, and sodas. He hums to himself as he carries it into the living room. Terry sets the tray on the table, next to the couch. They smile and watch some stupid shit on TV. It was through the process of talking about how the tray’s gonna look, that this became a fun throwback.

In the movie, the two of you watch a documentary about a parasite that infects and controls ants. There’s obviously a situational irony to your character saying “that’s disgusting,” right before Aunt Gladys rings the doorbell and does the same thing to you guys.

And as we saw, the script doesn’t mention the parasite thing! They added that in post. But yeah, it’s a very clear nod to the fact that Gladys acts as a parasite in a way. She survives by sucking the energy out of other people. That was very intentional from the director.

She’s someone people don’t seem to take very seriously at a first glance. Obviously, there’s this creepy uncanniness to the way she looks, but for all the talk amongst fans about how Terry shouldn’t have let her in, I can’t picture anyone denying this little old woman a glass of water. What do you think it is about people’s underestimation of Gladys that makes her so threatening?

I think what my character Terry saw was, like, this interesting, traveled, older lady. I can relate to that love of meeting people like Gladys, who have a lot of history and a lot to share. If I had my druthers, I would always hang out with older people, because they’re not insecure, they have more experience than you and they have really interesting stories. Now with Gladys, it’s different because she will kill you. But before that, everything about her was interesting and exciting to Terry. He regretted that decision in the end, I’m sure.

I think that as you get older, you do feel a little bit less taken care of by the world. Or maybe you wonder whether you have a true place in the world, because everyone’s obsessed with youth. I think that’s a good thing for a villain-type character, because she can move more quietly and be unassuming. And the truth is, she’s not unassuming! She’s a powerful witch who’s smart and uses people’s flawed perception of older people to get what she wants.

I read a Vanity Fair article about the creation of Aunt Gladys, in which Zach is quoted saying that he let Amy choose between two potential backstories to make sense of the character (one of which implied that she might not be a human after all). As someone who lived in Florida for a couple of years, I was also amused by his take on Gladys stealing her wardrobe from the elderly women of Boca Raton.

Yes! [laughs]

Do you have your own Gladys lore? Who do you believe her to be?

I see her as a witch that’s been around forever, moving to different places and sucking the energy from younger people to try to maintain her own youth. I’ve come to see Weapons as a modern retelling of classic storybooks, told through a newer lens.

This is your only scene with Amy Madigan. Did you know what that character was going to look like before you guys shot it, or was it a complete surprise seeing her on set?

All I had was what I read in the script. She’s described as “clownish,” I believe. I saw the wig ahead of time in the makeup trailer, but no—I did not see her until that very moment. It was a surprise but the second I saw her, I was like, “this is an iconic character.”

I just know the costume is gonna be everywhere on Halloween. In your opinion, what is it about the look of this character that made her such a horror icon overnight?

I think the reason it resonates so much is because they made her a fashion-style icon. I always call her a “hipster witch.” She looks like a hipster lady that lives in Echo Park. What Zach Cregger does so well is he indulges and has fun. And why not have fun with this character? It’s the playfulness between him, the makeup artist, the costume designer and everyone who came together to make this iconic character—and I’m glad they leaned into something colorful, and not just a basic, boring, spooky thing.

I love how chatty she is as she makes her way around the house, and how startled that leaves the two of you. Were you all free to bounce off each other and improvise during that sequence?

That was [Amy] playing a lot. I’ve pulled up the script because I haven’t looked at it in a while, but basically, she barges in, pushes towards the kitchen and says, “you two have a lovely home.” So a lot of that was improvised, and I remember that specific take, because [Zach] was like, “just go nuts; talk about what’s in there,” and she took in the environment and, well, went nuts with it.

What were Amy Madigan and Benedict Wong like as scene partners?

I have such respect for both of them. They were truly professional actors. They were both in a state of play, really excited to be there, curious about what this was and what it was gonna become. Zach had such an understanding of what he was making, and a lot of us involved were kind of just along for the ride. But it was cool as an actor that’s still in the process of building my career, to see how someone like Amy Madigan works, how she was so free and present in the moment and willing to change, to try new things. She didn’t know exactly what it was, and each take was different. It was like a masterclass watching her work and I loved it, because I’ve watched her movies forever.

Do you have a favorite?

Field of Dreams comes to mind. I grew up watching her play, like, the mom in a bunch of movies, but she’s always kind of had this energy that’s a little different—a little left of center—and I really appreciate that about her. I am a strong believer that she’s gonna be nominated for an Oscar.

I really hope so.

Yeah! Horror movies need their due. So many horror movies have broken through recently, but they don’t get what they deserve in terms of awards talk, in my opinion. I have this email that I sent to the casting director afterwards—she said, “how’s Amy?” And I said, “holy crap, she’s amazing, I think she’s gonna win an Oscar.” I can’t wait to share that email on my TikTok, whenever she gets nominated.

How long did it take to film the scene?

That whole scene was very intricate. I believe everything from the hot dogs until [my character’s] death, was filmed over two days. We had a whole rehearsal the day before, with a stunt coordinator. We practiced Benedict diving on top of me and throwing me to the ground. I like to be very physical and very involved in those sorts of things but they’ll only let you do so much, so there was a stunt double. They made four different [synthetic] versions of my head that got worse as [the sequence] went along, and added this black bile for when he pukes on me—which is funny because once the puke came up, you couldn’t see the heads. They shot the progression of my head getting bashed, but didn’t really show much of it in the end because it was so brutal and violent.

One thing I wanna add is, when I first met with Zach about doing this movie, he said, “just so you’re aware, this death is gonna be brutal. Are you okay with that?” And I was like, “hell yeah, I’m okay with that! In fact, I am excited about that.”

Why were you excited?

I was a fan of Barbarian before I got involved in this project. When I saw Barbarian, I was like, “oh my God, I would kill to be in a movie like this, and work with this director.” So when the role came about, I was very aware of Weapons, the lore around the script, how it was sold and all that sort of stuff. No matter what the role was, I would have been excited to do it.

But also, one of my goals at the time was to have a really cool death in a horror movie—even if it was, like, some B-horror movie that was maybe not that great. The fact that I got to have the coolest death in a really great movie was just iconic. I like horror; I appreciate interesting kills. Of all the kills in the movie, it’s kind of the most intense and impactful. That was really fun for me.

Do you think that’s an underrated notch for actors to have on their belt—to die in a horror movie?

[laughs] I think every actor should be striving to have that notch! I mean, I love the horror genre, and I love working in the genre. It just makes for more fun in terms of filmmaking, because you get to elevate your emotions, you get covered in blood—all these things are really cool.

Any idea what the bile was made of?

I don’t know, maybe Hershey’s syrup or some version of that? I’m not 100% sure, but I know that it was organic, meaning I could eat it if I wanted to (not that I wanted to). But it kind of tastes like chocolate.

That’s also what they used in Hitchcock’s Psycho, if I’m not mistaken.

Yeah! The weird substances they use in horror movies always kind of taste like chocolate. But doing a scene like that is like being waterboarded. You get one take, and you can’t screw it up because the reset would take forever. So it’s a challenge to just lay there and have this substance be poured on you, but it’s also really fun. And your goal as an actor is just to not choke, not to freak out. I think I do that well.

Were you frightened at all?

Benedict is a very powerful actor, and he does these otherworldly types of things very well. When he transformed and turned towards me in this ferocious way, I wasn’t earnestly scared but I was like, “oh, this is very intense.”

The depiction of violence against queer characters in horror media has sort of been a hot-button discussion topic in recent years, and it’s no secret that Terry and Marcus have some of the most violent deaths in Weapons (save for Gladys herself). I personally didn’t take issue with this, but I’m curious to know if you have anything to add to the conversation, as an actor who has the unique experience of playing such characters.

Of course! I totally know what you’re saying. I really believe there’s no bad intent coming from Zach—he’s a big supporter of the queer community, and as a queer actor, I never even really thought about that as an issue. I think we did a good job of representing these characters in a way that we don’t see a lot in traditional media: an older, happily married gay couple living their lives and enjoying their weekend in a very low-key, chill way. They were just sitting down, watching a documentary and chowing down on some disgusting food! It’s important to showcase queer couples in very simple, almost monotonous [settings], being boring and in love like every couple in this world.

There’s a case to be made that, by virtue of making Marcus and Terry so relatable and unassuming, the film instills in audiences a sense of empathy for them, and for people like them.

It’s one of those Save the Cat! moments, I guess. Right before Terry meets his demise, he does something really nice and opens his home to this woman. He’s being very friendly and welcoming…and then she kills him. Maybe it is saying something more about the current state of our world; it’s an example of people being good neighbors, basically—and then someone takes advantage of that.

Is that something you hope people take away from your character?

Absolutely! I think that if we saw Terry’s whole life, we would see him as this kind, open, caring person. Maybe he’s the one that’s trying to lead, like, a meditation course at the local YMCA that no one’s coming to—or something like that. Someone loving to his partner, Marcus, and [nice] to this stranger who’s alone in the world. ■

Fair Use Disclaimer: This article includes images and excerpts from the film Weapons and an early version of the screenplay for the purpose of critical analysis and commentary. These materials are used under the principles of fair use as outlined in Section 107 of the U.S. Copyright Act. The mock storyboards and selected stills are presented for informational purposes only.

Editor’s Note: This interview was originally conducted in English and later translated into Spanish for SaborCoco.com. You can read the Spanish version here.

Making genre films is no easy task in this day and age, where Hollywood blockbusters have set lofty standards for action, science-fiction and fantasy. With major studio conglomerates behind the most popular franchises, IP has also saturated the market, leaving little space for competition and creating a cultural bias that favors familiarity and disfavors originality. In these conditions, crafting original stories that carve space for people who are typically left out from popular media becomes a major accomplishment.

Enter Vico Ortiz, who for years now has broken boundaries in all things action, horror, sci-fi and fantasy. Perhaps best known for portraying pirate Jim Jimenez in the popular HBO series Our Flag Means Death, the Puerto Rican actor, activist and drag performer’s vast portfolio includes credits in many popular titles, such as: S.O.Z. Soldiers or Zombies, Harley Quinn and Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake. Their most recent project, the time travel adventure Spark from writer-director Nicholas Giuricich, is now available to buy and rent on video-on-demand.

Part melodrama, part LGBTQ+ rom-com and part science-fiction thriller, Spark tells the story of Aaron (Theo Germaine), a young trans man living in Los Angeles who gets stuck in a time loop after meeting the handsome but mysterious Trevor (Danell Leyva), dooming him to repeat the same day over, and over again. A clever parable for the frustrations of dating in LA, Spark is both universally relatable and unapologetically queer, with Giuricich telling Sabor Coco he “wanted to show, among many things, that there are more similarities in our lived experiences, what we desire and what we're going after, than there are differences.” As Aaron’s quippy yet doting roommate Danny, Ortiz serves as the film’s comic relief while also contributing to its emotional core.

“My one regret is not being able to spend more time with Vico, just because we didn't have very many scenes together,” says Danell Leyva, who plays Danny’s romantic rival, Trevor. “We were super cool right away—like, cousins, basically.”

Their rapport speaks to one of the film’s greatest strengths: a diverse ensemble that’s reflective of LA’s vibrant queer scene and sizable Latino population, lending the film a sense of authenticity that’s frequently absent from Hollywood productions that dabble in tokenism. We caught up with Ortiz—who was kind enough to take a break from swashbuckling through the Atlantic and traveling through time—to talk sci-fi, queerness and the hurdles of being Latin and nonbinary in Hollywood.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. Minor spoilers ahead.

Congrats on getting Spark out into the world! I gotta say it’s refreshing for a U.S. film to feature so much Latin and LGBTQ+ talent on-screen. So often, we’re reduced to just one supporting character, when we’re part of the ensemble at all. What was it like working on such a diverse set, alongside actors like Theo Germaine and Danell Leyva?

It was amazing! And if I'm not mistaken, the casting director is also of Latin descent, and she's incredible. I auditioned for this, so I had no idea which direction they were going to go, because it was originally written—if I'm not mistaken—to be like a gaggle of cis gay men in West Hollywood, and I'm used to kind of being the wildcard in auditions. But I related to the character, because of course I've been deeply in love with my best friend. So I gave my version of that.

Then they cast me, and then they told me that Theo Germaine was plugged in. I love Theo. I'd never worked with them up until that moment, but we'd been in the same circles, so when I found out that they were offered the main role, I was like, oh, it's gonna be a kiki. Then I met Leyva on set, and we just began chit-chatting, laughing about our similarities and cracking jokes about how Theo's character has a type.

We had a lot of fun—the casting director definitely did some beautiful magic, and Nick, being a wonderful writer, director, and someone who is an amazing ally and challenger of norms, was like, "oh, hell’s yeah." At the end of the day, everyone can relate to the story. We’ve all found ourselves in a pattern of falling for the same people over and over again, regardless of where you are on the spectrum.

I'm always interested in films that use genre as a vehicle to explore greater themes, whether it’s used as an allegory for politics and social issues, or, in this case, the queer dating scene in LA. Would you say the fantastical elements of Spark help make its themes more accessible to general audiences?

Genre is an incredible way to expand on specific issue[s]. I, for one, love magical realism. I think that's a great way to, through fantastical and mythical elements, explore trauma, explore healing and explore patterns, whatever they may be. Of course, this is just two people falling into the same day over and over, but that's what happens to us, right? You are dating someone for three, four months, and then you're done with that relationship and you start a new one, and it's the same type of relationship all over again.

From The Sex Lives of College Girls to Our Flag Means Death, you’ve been in many films and TV shows with large LGBTQ+ ensembles. Is that a conscious choice you make when you choose your projects?

Most of the time, the projects choose me. [laughs] I'm glad when they align with my values as a storyteller. I want to tell stories that reflect my world, and my world is very diverse, and very queer, and very expansive. I'm not the token trans, non binary, Latine, polyamorous person. I'm one of many flavors, right? I have a lot of trans and non binary friends, and we all express ourselves differently. Whether they are cis or trans, the people in my world are all figuring out how to express and reclaim parts of themselves outside of expected structures.

I get so bored whenever I see movies or TV shows that are this very cookie-cutter, one-way [thing]. That's not life. I want to see stories that are so human that anyone can bring the nuance of their experience to a role, so that we continue as audiences to watch things that open our perspectives, and so that we’re in constant reflection of each other, learning and growing, and expanding and healing.

As someone who has been in both independent and large-scale Hollywood productions, is tokenism something you've dealt with in the past?

I've been tokenized in multiple ways. Once I came out as a trans, non-binary person, I was tokenized as that—and I was also tokenized before that, as someone who is Latin. Latinidad is not a monolith, you know? There's various ways in which you can be Latin, and being Latin American doesn't mean that you're a Spanish speaker. There are also people who speak Portuguese, French, English—a bunch of other languages, and that's not even counting the native languages from before the Spanish colonizers came.

Independent projects [are] where I've least felt tokenized. Bigger networks [are] usually where that's fallen. In some projects, I see that I'm the only queer, trans person of color, and I'm like, "okay, noted." But I've also seen how that's changed. It's very refreshing to come [to a set] and look around, and be like, "oh, I'm not the only one here!" And not just in the cast, but in the writers room, the view servers [and] other people who carry various experiences.

I like that you mentioned the people behind the scenes, because I feel like they don’t get acknowledged very often in conversations about media inclusivity, but their work is just as important. I can think of so many “Latin-led” shows and movies, for example, where the dialogue just feels…off.

Like Emilia Pérez! I was like, "did someone Google translate this?" The only thing about that movie that I [liked] was that they gave us a lesbian trans woman [protagonist]. But other than that…what the actual fuck? [laughs]

You bring up a good point. The majority of trans people I've met in real life are on the queer spectrum, but that's not something we see reflected very often in popular media, either. On that note, how did it feel to portray a T4T pairing in Spark?

Amazing, because that's my day-to-day! Of course I have fallen in love with cis people and not everyone I've been with has been trans, [but] a lot of the people I end up with are—so it's really cool to see a T4T dynamic. I feel like most people would assume that if Aaron is with a cis guy, he'll get topped but if he's with another trans person who is not on testosterone or hasn't had surgery, then Aaron would be the one topping. But expression is different from intimacy, and it's cool to see various ways in which people relate to each other, and be curious about how bodies can find care, love and surrender. Danny's a little fruity patootie, but they can top!

Before we go, I wanted to ask about the film’s time-travel element. You could say that time loop stories are in vogue right now. Palm Springs, Russian Doll and the Happy Death Day movies all come to mind as recent examples of films that engage with this concept. For those who have yet to see Spark, how would you say the movie differs from other films and series that use the time loop as a narrative tool?

Hmm. I think it’s in its own universe, of sorts. Oftentimes, time loops and time travel movies have to do with saving someone else, saving a planet, or saving a certain timeline. [Spark] asks: do you have what it takes to save yourself? Because really, it's just Aaron staying in his own time loop over, and over again. So it's not about world-saving, or about Danny saving Aaron (although they try). It's more personal. The only one that can save you, is you. ■

Editor’s Note: This interview was conducted in Spanish and originally published on SaborCoco.com on April 24, 2025. You can read the story in its original language here.

In 1941, the US Navy forcibly evicted roughly 10,000 residents from Vieques, a small island in the Puerto Rican archipelago located about eight miles east of its mainland. What had once been a thriving agricultural hub and the heart of Puerto Rico’s sugar industry was transformed into a bombing range, with its locals confined to a narrow belt at the island’s center. For the next 60 years, toxic chemical weapons were deployed on Vieques’ land and in its waters—until sustained protests finally forced the Navy to withdraw in 2003. Still, the munition items remain today, as does the high incidence of cancer among islanders exposed to the lingering toxins.

Directed by Glorimar Marrero Sánchez, The Fishbowl (née La pecera) offers a close look at the present day consequences of these developments through the story of Noelia (Isel Rodríguez), an artist from Vieques who, after her cancer metastasizes, quits her treatment on the Puerto Rican mainland and returns to the island she grew up on. Once there, she joins a group of local activists on the dangerous mission of diving into the depths of the Atlantic to film the remaining explosives surrounding the island amid warnings of a tropical storm. If juggling elements of medical drama, disaster narratives and political critique sounds like a lot for one film to handle, The Fishbowl finds that delicate balance, treating these not as three separate narrative elements, but as a Russian nesting doll of synecdoches: Noelia’s ailing body is both representative and the direct result of Puerto Rico’s open wounds, and Hurricane Irma—like Noelia’s cancer—is simultaneously a symptom of environmental catastrophe and a cataclysmic force of its own.

The drama has been lauded for its poetic realism and Rodríguez’s committed lead performance ever since its premiere at the 2023 Sundance Film Festival, where it made history as the first-ever Puerto Rican movie to screen at the fest. Its historic nomination for “Best Ibero-American Film” at last year’s Goyas (Spain’s equivalent of the Academy Awards), has also helped put the territory back on the map of world cinema more than a decade after its controversial ban from the Oscars’ “Best International Feature” category. It is currently available on video on demand and in select theaters across the US, with a streaming release set for early June. Following the news of its North American release, I met with Marrero Sánchez and Rodríguez to discuss The Fishbowl’s subject matter, what the filming process was like and where they see it fitting in the canon of Puerto Rican cinema.

This interview was conducted in two parts, and has been edited for length and clarity. The following text contains spoilers for The Fishbowl.

First off, congratulations on The Fishbowl, which just received distribution in the United States. Glorimar, you've been addressing the U.S. Navy’s occupation of Vieques and the unusually high risk of cancer among residents for years now, with this project starting out as a short film, Biopsia, in 2016. Does this interest come from a personal place for you?

GLORIMAR MARRERO SÁNCHEZ: My mother had the same cancer as the main character, and she died from it. The grief of that loss is where I reached from to write this character who has the same illness, but goes down a different path. My mother was a nurse, so my obsession with health, the human body, pollution and the Vieques theme all stem from my upbringing. I knew what it was like to work with cancer and to see guts outside [of a body].

Biopsia was born during the process of researching for The Fishbowl. It was during this investigative journey that the social psychologist Mónica Vigo introduced me to Carmen Valencia, who works as a counselor for women undergoing biopsies. I was interested in the idea of doing a [docufiction] hybrid and filming a live, uncut, biopsy—and for it to be real, not special effects. It was my first experience as a director, and allowed me to see how I would handle this at a concrete level.

Isel, you've built up an extensive comedy repertoire between your previous films and your work with [the Puerto Rican theater group] Teatro Breve; however, your performance in The Fishbowl comes across incredibly natural. Was this casting decided at the beginning of the project, or was it a decision made later? And what was it like, starring in a dramatic film like this for the first time?

ISEL RODRÍGUEZ: Getting into character is something that comes very easily to me because I enjoy it so much, although there is the long and arduous task of table work. I spoke a lot with Glorimar, with a friend who has gone through this same illness and with someone who lives with a colostomy bag. The work helped me understand what that pain feels like, where it hurts, and what it's like for a woman as well, to carry that [on your body]. That’s how I went about assigning her motives, and once I got to the set, I had a lot of that figured out. Glorimar helped me a lot with fine-tuning.

GMS: It was a decision that was brought to the table by the casting director, Gary Homs. During the writing process, I wasn't working with specific talents in mind because, in my case, I tend to focus better that way. We cast Isel, then we did a callback. Her work stood out, and it's evident in the footage we have. We're happy she agreed to make a Puerto Rican independent film, which is always a complex scenario. She's also an actress I admire, and have always admired.

I appreciated the rawness of the film; many movies that deal with terminal illnesses like cancer tend to spare the audience from the most unpleasant details of the condition.

GMS: Yes, it’s [only ever] palliative care.

In The Fishbowl, we do see the stoma on Noelia’s abdomen, but it’s not portrayed in an abject manner and she’s never made to feel ashamed about the less flattering changes her body undergoes. What made you decide to approach her cancer in this way?

GMS: That was super intentional because the tendency is usually to hide the illness, as you’ve mentioned. The vast majority of films related to cancer are tied to terminal palliative care, but we never see the reality of the illness, or how characters who are in the midst of it deal with it. That is always hidden, as if sick people have nothing to tell. So that was very clear to me from the beginning. I’d say, "this film is going to show everything." [laughs]

I had to show the illness beyond what we already know can happen to someone with cancer, not necessarily hook her to chemo. It's this idea of the visibility of the scar, of what illness is like and how that change appears on the body. It also helps me speak to the idea of a gutted country. It's literal in a sense, you know? Very visceral.

IR: What's happening to the island is also a consequence of pollution, colonization, and global warming. Before Irma, the island’s devastation wasn't visible but there was this feeling of doom—and at the same time, denial—from knowing that what's coming is horrible, but not knowing what to expect. That collective, cultural, environmental and geographic feeling is what's happening to her body.

GMS: It's the anticipation of her own grief, absolutely. There's an anguish of what's coming, and we know she's a character with sharp intellectual capacity, so she knows what's going to happen to her, too.

Did it feel vulnerable to film scenes like that final one in the bathtub—or the one where Noelia is rescued from the ocean, for example?

IR: Oh wow, of course! [laughs] There were many scenes where I was extremely exposed and vulnerable, for sure. In those moments as an actress, you have to let go of a few things and make very conscious decisions about the character's reality. I saw her as very sensorial. She's a visual artist who works with living and dead elements like hair, which she collects and preserves. She's very conscious of her body, of what's happening to her body at all times, of how her body feels. That's a big deal for her.

I'm interested in the film’s gender dynamics—especially how Noelia interacts with the men in her life. Would you say that her behavior contrasts with certain expectations the audience may have of her as a woman?

IR: Yes, definitely. I feel like I myself had prejudices when I was reading the script: she has a husband who's taking care of her—why is she suddenly running away? And in fact, having to justify those decisions as an actress, I went, “damn, she's dying. Let her do whatever she wants, honestly.” Let her feel, let her love, let her want, let her run, let her go wherever she wants to be, wherever she needs to be. The only thing that should matter to her, is her.

We get frustrated watching her because she's quite self-destructive and not entirely likable, but her situation is so particular that it's hard to judge.

IR: I was shocked at first, and deeply attracted to her at the same time. It shocked me because of this tendency we have of trying to be polite, of not making anyone feel bad, of being grateful, of constantly accommodating to the wishes of others. She doesn't do any of this at any point, and it's annoying, [but] at the same time you go, "oh, I'm attracted to this in a way. I want to experience this, I want to live it, I want to know how it feels." I feel like we women don't often allow ourselves that. Men allow it to themselves all the time, and women are very conscious of not doing it.

It's affirming, in a way, to see such an emancipated and headstrong woman on screen. Was that the intention?

GMS: From the moment I started [the project], I was clear on the fact that I was going to dedicate it to female characters. When you analyze Puerto Rican cinema, the protagonists are almost all men and the films with female protagonists are more recent, so it was clear to me that [Noelia] was going to be a woman. Additionally, I wanted to work from a female perspective because my mother was the one who suffered through that illness.

I want to give visibility to stories of women—and women over forty or fifty years of age. I want to tell stories about women amongst each other, about girlfriends, about communities and about spaces that aren't necessarily a heteronormative family or tied to a traditional conservative structure, but that allow us to explore other perspectives. In The Fishbowl, we see this in the ties between Noelia and her mother, her mother and the community leader, and her mother's friend who is also an organizer, and how that community of women speaks through [Noelia].

The island of Vieques plays a very particular role in the colonial relationship between Puerto Rico and the United States, just as hurricanes Irma and María—especially María—have consolidated themselves in the country's more recent history. What spurred this idea to set the story in a time and place as specific as Vieques and 2017’s hurricane season?

GMS: Well, choosing Vieques helps me portray the worst of the worst—perhaps the harshest symptom of the colonial relationship between Puerto Rico and the United States. Vieques has a vast accumulation of scars, so we see how that’s amplified in the rest of the archipelago. It's a mirror of what's happening in Puerto Rico.

IR: The reality of health in Vieques is that. The waters are poisoned, and the incidence of cancer is alarmingly high. My daughters' grandmother was born and raised in Vieques and has two sisters. One died of cancer very young, in her 30s, and the other has had cancer for many years now and is still battling it. And they were born and raised eating fish from Vieques' waters, where there is military toxic exposure. There are a lot of chemicals that are poisoning—and have poisoned—all of the people who grew up there. Aside from displacing Vieques' way of life, which was fishing, and turning it into a military zone, it's insane to be uprooted from your home. So to me it felt like a perfect fit, so to speak, for the character and what she's going through.

GMS: With regards to [the hurricanes], María hit me and my family hard—very hard. I knew I wasn't going to make a film without there being a hurricane in it. It’s something that came over us, like the death of my mother. But I realized it was important to talk about Irma because everyone had forgotten that Irma came first. Also, Irma hit Vieques hard, so they were already weak when Maria passed. So that's when I said, “I’ll go with Irma and contribute to [our] collective memory”.

Do you think the experience of having lived through Irma (and later María) affects how one understands the ending of this film?

IR: Yes, we’d talk about that. That ending is like an ellipsis, but she's going to be part of those 3,000 deaths after María—if she even survives Irma. Her situation will worsen, if she has enough days left. We know this.

GMS: Of course, the context for someone who lived through María and Irma isn't the same as it is for someone who didn't. When we presented it in—I don’t know—Gothenburg, Sweden, [it was different]. But people always relate to severe atmospheric events, and it can always be explained to an international audience.

Puerto Rican cinema has always addressed the theme of colonization, but lately I've noticed an increase in stories about resistance and the fight for civil liberties, such as Ray Figueroa's Once Upon a Time in the Caribbean (2023). Like The Fishbowl, many of these also address themes like displacement and gentrification; Bad Bunny's DebÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS (2025) comes to mind, as does another short film by Adrián Pérez Rodríguez titled La torre de Inés (2024)—which, like Biopsia, was also done through the Cortadito Film Lab. What do you think of cinema being used as this tool for protest?

GMS: Film has always been a tool for activism and protest. It's not that every filmmaker has to make that the intention of their work, but it has always served as a way to capture reality, to capture inequality and to capture violence.

IR: It's a tremendous opportunity to talk about these issues. It's not obligatory, but it's the reality we're continually experiencing here, right? It has always been felt, but the process of gentrification, for example, is being felt even more intensely now—especially after María, with the disaster capitalism that had people coming in and getting bargain deals. The more impoverished the population becomes, the more opportunities there are to usurp spaces, places, buildings and communities. You can’t evade it, no matter what. Even if you don't want to be political, even if you don't want to turn your film into agitprop, there's no way of escaping it.

GMS: Cinema is an expression of our reality. There are social dramas that take a more intentional approach to that path, documentaries that seek to denounce and other pieces that are more observational, and that's fine. Mine is both. [laughs] It's abstract, but also concrete. ■