At the Black Nights Film Festival (PÖFF), Mexican director Andrés Clariond Rangel  premiered Versalles, a surreal political satire exploring the collapse, or regeneration, of a disgraced public figure. The film, which blends drama with absurdism, offers an uncomfortably intimate portrait of politicians after they lose power. I spoke with the director and cast about politics, ego, responsibility, and the strange tonal tightrope the film walks.

A darkly satirical fable, Versalles tells the story of Chema, a rising star in Mexican politics whose dreams of the presidency are abruptly crushed when his party chooses another candidate. Together with his elegant Spanish wife Carmina, he retreats to an old family hacienda, intending to wait out the political storm. What begins as a period of exile quickly transforms into something far more disturbing: detached from reality, the couple crowns themselves king and queen of an invented realm. Their loyal workers become subjects, absurd celebrations are staged, monuments to their own glory are erected, and cruelty takes the place of leadership.

---

“How Do Politicians Feel the Day After They Lose Power?”

For director and co-writer Andrés Clariond Rangel, the film emerged from an obsession he’s carried for years – not with political victory, but political defeat.

“I write political editorials in Mexico,” he explains. “I’ve always been interested in the dark psychology of human beings, especially politicians. We see many films about how they reach power. But we rarely see what they become the day after they lose it.”

The idea had been floating in his mind for a long time. Originally, he imagined an elderly ex-president. But, he didn’t feel it offered a lot of interest as a story. The character evolved; the story sharpened. Eventually, he and his co-writer arrived at a couple who imagine themselves as royalty, a device that allowed them to play with satire, delusion and class critique.

The director’s tonal aim was deliberate:

“I like dark films that feel very rooted in reality. I want people to think: this could happen. I don’t look for laughs. I prefer to produce discomfort.”

But the tone, he admits, was a challenge in the edit. The ending changed completely.

---

A Death Scene That Became a Political Promotion

Originally, both protagonists were killed at the end; the script faded out on their execution. But Andrés abandoned that version.

“I realised the message I wanted was more ironic. They do all these horrible things, and they’re still in power. Nothing happens. That’s how politics works in Mexico: scandals are forgotten the next day.”

The change was so decisive that for some of the actors, the new ending was a surprise.

The abruptness of the final turn, from a burned, ruined estate to a polished political appointment, was intentional, Andrés insists. “In Mexico, politicians are never held accountable. The system absorbs them again.”

---

Carmina: European Sophistication, Colonial Shadows

Spanish actress Maggie Civantos plays Carmina, the elegant yet increasingly unhinged wife who drags her husband into elaborate fantasies of monarchy. For her, the film’s colonial imagery was both uncomfortable and necessary.

“As a Spanish woman, of course I know we are part of Mexican history. But Andrés is not criticising Spain, he’s criticising something larger: class, privilege, the idea of the ‘Western beauty’ as the ultimate aspiration. Carmina represents that.”

What drew her in?

“It’s a story about the consequences of power; the ego, how it can destroy everything. It’s set in a small Mexican town, but it reflects what’s happening globally.”

Carmina is at once manipulative and powerless, a contradiction Maggie was acutely aware of:

“I was worried people would say she’s ‘the bad one’ or that she’s the reason he behaves like this. But both characters are trapped. She’s not empowered at all. The satire makes her ridiculous, yes, but you also see how dangerous it is when a woman has no agency.”

---

Performing the Absurd Through Realism

Despite the satirical frame, the actors approached the film as tragedy.

“For me, what happens to Chema at the beginning is a classical tragedy,” says Mexican lead Cuauhtli Jiménez – who did an incredible job at playing a terrible and terrifying politician. “He has everything, then loses everything — and he can’t really explain why.”

While there is a compromising tape in the plot, he believes the real reason for Chema’s downfall is systemic:

“It’s classism and racism. They choose another man for power, someone opposite to him. When Chema tries to fight back, they say: ‘We know what you did. Stop trying.’ That destroys him.”

Maggie describes unusual rehearsals that explored the story almost wordlessly:

“We had days where we told the whole story only through movement, through the body. Like silent cinema. It helped us understand the emotional architecture.”

On set, the Versailles-inspired scenes: elaborate costumes, ceremonial gestures, and surreal dance sequences, were both beautiful and punishing.

---

The Witness: Complicity and Silence

Supporting actor Jose Manuel Ricón plays the aide who watches the couple implode. His character, he says, represents society:

“He’s in the middle, not powerful like them, but not as vulnerable as the workers. He sees everything, and he does nothing. He’s thinking about his own future. That’s what many of us do. We justify staying silent.”

For him, the political message only sharpened after the film wrapped:

“Two years ago the world felt different. Now leaders are more aggressive, polarising, unaccountable. The UN feels useless. Conflicts escalate. So the question becomes: Are we going to keep looking away?”

---

A Mexican Production With Theatrical Scale

The $3 million budget, considered high in Mexico, enabled large sequences with 200 extras, classical-music compositions, and elaborate sets.

Logistically, the shoot was demanding:

“We filmed in the north of Mexico where they don’t usually shoot movies,” Andrés says. “No trained extras. Theatre actors who’d never done film. We had to fly the crew from Mexico City, then drive them 90 minutes to the location every day.”

The crew stayed in the nearest large hotel, 45 minutes away.

“All the vans, all the trucks, moving back and forth every day — it was a challenge.”

But he describes the atmosphere on set as “joyful”.

The score, composed almost entirely by a classical specialist, was a happy accident.

“Originally I imagined atmospheric music. But one day the editor tried classical pieces, and it fit perfectly — the contrast between elegance and absurdity.”

---

What Should the Audience Take Away?

Andrés doesn’t believe cinema changes the world, but he believes it can provoke.

“We are eager to make fun of politicians. If the film starts conversations, that’s enough for me.”

For Maggie, the film is ultimately about human disconnection:

“We’re confused as a society. Communication is corrupted, especially with social media and now AI. We’ve lost empathy. The film shows what happens when people chase power instead of humanity.”

Jose Manuel Ricón added:

“Art should ask: what can we do as a society? We’re already destroying the world. The film asks: are we going to wake up?”

Versalles is an ambitious, uneasy blend of satire and tragedy, a film that exposes national wounds while aiming for something universal: the psychology of power and the banality of its abuses. Whether the film’s tonal gamble pays off will depend on its audiences. But its questions, especially in the current global climate, could not be more timely.