Mariana Ant (2025) Weird, wise and its Absolutely Wonderful

There’s something timeless about Mariana Ant—a strange and beautiful rhythm that feels plucked from a dream. Directed by Maite Uzal, the film unfolds like a fevered fairy tale whispered across generations, where the absurd and the divine share the same breath. Rooted in the folklore of Aragón yet soaring into surrealism, this fable of a mother and daughter—two beggars bound by blood and undone by desire—feels like a cinematic relic unearthed from a world just left of our own.

The story, set in the fictional land of Thorbat, carries the charm and melancholy of a myth retold by candlelight. The mother, played by Isabel Ordaz with biting humor and bitterness, dreams of wealth without labor. Her daughter Mariana, portrayed with haunting innocence by Úrsula Tomás and later by Uzal herself, finds beauty in the smallest of creatures—so much so that she longs to become one. When a mysterious and exquisitely poised lady grants both their wishes, the fantasy curdles into something darker. Wishes, as in all good fables, come with a price that can’t be bargained.

Uzal directs with the confidence of a dreamer unafraid to chase the surreal. Each frame is rich with symbolism and eccentricity—the ant necklace, the spiraling column of the stylite, the hypnotic hum of folklore reborn. Cinematographer and production designers breathe life into Thorbat as if it were both a place and a memory. The result is visually decadent yet emotionally austere, a blend of Buñuel’s satire, Dalí’s playfulness, and Lorca’s ache for poetry.

The ensemble cast brings these mythic figures to life with extraordinary precision. Magüi Mira’s “Very Elegant Lady” slithers between grace and menace. Pepe Viyuela’s Dr. Wirkönnten adds absurdist bite, while Mariano Venancio and Alfonso Desentre lend gravitas and grounded texture to this curious world. It’s a storybook populated by archetypes—each one slightly askew, each revealing something deeply human beneath the exaggeration.

But what truly defines Mariana Ant is its heart—its willingness to be strange, unflinching, and true to itself. Uzal’s creative bravery pulses through every choice: from the use of children and live insects to the final credits song, a Spanish reinterpretation of the 1905 vaudeville tune I Don’t Care. It’s a defiant declaration of artistic freedom, sung by a filmmaker who refuses to play safe or small.

The tone of the film feels both ancient and contemporary—a timeless mirror reflecting greed, innocence, and the perils of wishful thinking. It’s a fable that mocks and mourns its characters in equal measure. And like the ants that fascinate young Mariana, it builds its meaning piece by piece until it forms something monumental.

With Mariana Ant, Maite Uzal has crafted a cinematic poem about consequence, inheritance, and the fragile dance between fantasy and truth. It’s weird. It’s wise. And it’s absolutely wonderful.