Set in the aftermath of a failed presidential bid, Andrés Clariond’s Versalles transforms political disappointment into grotesque pageantry. After losing his shot at national power, Chema (Cuautli Jiménez) retreats with his perfect wife Carmina (Maggie Civantos) to a remote farmhouse, where humiliation ferments into delusion. What begins as a self-imposed exile morphs into a fantasy monarchy: the couple declares themselves rightful sovereigns of their own micronation, the staff become nobles and servants of a royal court, and daily life dissolves into rituals that look increasingly unhinged. The film’s brilliance lies in how it amplifies the psychological fallout of losing status – especially for politicians who have spent years surrounded by adoration, interviews, and unquestioned authority. Once that spotlight vanishes, the vacuum proves unbearable.
The director channels a distinctly Mexican frustration: the way political power in his country often slips into impunity, corruption, theatrics, and an inflated sense of self-importance. The premise may lean into absurdity, yet it feels alarmingly close to reality – where politicians behave as if they are untouchable monarchs rather than public servants. The film suggests that the transition from omnipotence to ordinariness can be so violent to the ego that some figures will desperately reconstruct a world in which they remain absolute rulers.
This critique resonates even more sharply against the backdrop of contemporary Mexican politics. The film gestures toward a system where leaders rise to power through democratic means only to erode democratic values once in office, guided by invisible party hierarchies and “retired” figures who still pull the strings. The director frames Chema’s derangement not as an isolated pathology but as a symptom of a wider global crisis: democracies faltering under the weight of egotistical, power-hungry personalities who learn to weaponize the system that elevated them.
Casting reinforces the film’s layered commentary. The lead actor, a well-known Mexican performer Cuauhtli Jiménez brings both authority and vulnerability to Chema – a duality that the director saw as crucial. Rather than embodying the cliché of a blustering political tyrant, he plays Chema as a man hollowed out by insecurity, shaped by the racial and class dynamics long embedded in Mexican society. His darker skin, deliberately chosen for the role, becomes part of the story’s social satire; Chema, despite internalising a lifetime of discrimination, still aspires to the whitening ideals upheld by the elite. This is reflected in his marriage to Carmina, portrayed by a celebrated Spanish actress Maggie Civantos. Her presence immediately evokes European beauty standards – and, by extension, the unresolved colonial wounds that Mexico continues to carry.
Carmina’s character becomes a vehicle for another of the film’s critiques: the voyeuristic fascination with Latin American poverty often seen in Western cultural consumption. Her performatively “concerned” photography sessions, including the absurd directive for children to pretend they haven’t eaten for two days, lampoon the exoticisation of suffering – a dynamic the director directly attacks through satire.
Though the premise could easily veer into darkness – indeed, the story contains echoes of revolution, downfall, and historical violence – the film chooses a sharply satirical tone rather than a tragic one. Its final turn is especially biting: after orchestrating grotesque rituals and engaging in unchecked cruelty, the self-appointed monarch faces no real consequences. Instead, he calmly accepts a secondary political appointment and prepares to resume the pursuit of national power. The ending delivers the film’s most cynical observation: in systems numbed by corruption and collective amnesia, even the most outrageous abuses evaporate without repercussions. Yesterday’s scandal becomes tomorrow’s forgotten headline.
What emerges is a work that operates simultaneously as farce, political diagnosis, and psychological study. Versailles exposes the fragility of democratic structures and the ease with which charismatic leaders twist them to their advantage. More importantly, it dissects the emotional anatomy of politicians – their dependence on acclaim, their terror of irrelevance, and their willingness to rewrite reality to restore a sense of dominion. The film’s world may be fictional, but its portrait of power feels unsettlingly familiar.
Versalles premiered in the Official Competition of the 29th Tallinn Black Nights Film Festival, where this piece was originally written. Also showing at REC Tarragona.















