Maite Uzal’s Mariana Hormiga is a short film that feels like stepping into a dream stitched together from folklore, satire, and surrealism. It’s playful, it’s haunting, and it’s brimming with irony. From the opening moments, you know you’re in for something unusual — a story that makes you laugh while quietly warning you about the dangers of desire.
Set in the fictional town of Thorbat, a Spanish-inspired place that looks plucked from a fable, the film follows a mother and her daughter begging on the streets. The mother is bitter, idle, and consumed by greed, desperate for wealth without lifting a finger. Her daughter, Mariana, is her opposite: innocent, pure-hearted, and fascinated by ants — creatures whose tireless work ethic she admires. Their lives take a sharp turn when they encounter a mysterious, elegant woman who grants them both a wish. What begins as a promise of fortune quickly spirals into tragedy, reminding us that what we crave most can also destroy us.
Uzal directs with a deliberate absurdity that makes the film both whimsical and unsettling. She even steps into the role of the older Mariana, blurring the line between creator and character. The tone dances between humour and horror, never settling fully into either, and that tension gives the story its bite. The mother’s greed and the daughter’s innocence are two sides of the same coin — both trapped by longing, both undone by it.
The supporting cast adds richness to the tale. Alfonso Desentre, perched on a column as the narrator, guides us through Thorbat with a sly charm, while Úrsula Tomás brings youthful warmth to the younger Mariana. Every performance feels committed, as though each actor fully grasped the surreal vision Uzal was chasing.
Visually, Mariana Hormiga is a delight. The cinematography and art direction lean into the fantastical, every frame carefully composed yet alive with folkloric energy. It’s a film that looks like a painting but moves with the rhythm of a fable. And at just 16 minutes, it never overstays its welcome. If anything, you’re left wishing for more — though the message lingers long after the credits roll.
Uzal’s short is a reminder that imagination is both gift and curse. Desire, unchecked, can be dangerous. And sometimes, the stories that feel the most whimsical are the ones that cut the deepest.
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