In Carlos Vermut’s fourth feature, Manticora, a video game designer named Julian, tormented by a dark compulsion, roams through glassy, unsettling landscapes to tell a troubling story about his figure. A spark of hope appears when he meets a young woman named Diana, a twisty romance that blends love with addiction in Vermut’s unmistakable style. The film is as captivating as it is disturbing and earned four Goya nominations for best director, best screenplay, best actor, and best new actress.
The monstrous creature known as a manticore with a human head raises a key question about the film. When did Vermut realize this creature perfectly describes the lead character?
He describes starting computer modeling while drafting the script. The character’s commitment to his craft drew him in and offered a way to unfold a plot rooted in those virtual worlds. Further research showed that modelers favor the manticore as a symbol, adding depth to both the story and the character. It all felt inevitable and visually striking, a symbol that enriches the narrative.
Explain the movie.
The story centers on a monster who bears a human face, someone society may deem monstrous because of his desires. Fundamentally, Vermut views it as a love story—a twisted romance between two deeply flawed characters with hidden perversions, whose motives remain ambiguous, even at moments when the pair seem to reach toward something close to affection.
Is Manticore a hateful film?
It could be said to lack virtue in either principal figure, yet Vermut does not intend it as provocation. He treats the characters with respect, accompanying them with care rather than using them to shock the audience. They are characters the filmmaker genuinely cares about.
Many describe Manticore as Vermut’s most disturbing work. Do you share that view?
Yes, both the intensity and the unease stem from the protagonist facing a troubling reality in his own life. The film’s plausibility, perhaps stronger than in Vermut’s other works, contributes to that unsettling atmosphere and to the mystery and suspension of reality. He enjoys confronting fears through cinema and believes looking into Julián’s eyes is part of that encounter.
The central figure is a pedophile. Why does cinema often avoid delving into such depths, while monsters in other tales are explored freely?
The aversion comes from an instinctive repulsion. Our rejection of evil often clashes with our fascination with power. Iconic villains like Darth Vader or Tony Montana provoke fear or awe; yet the image of a pedophile triggers a different, deeper discomfort. In Manticore the character does not commit actions onscreen; he simply longs and translates those thoughts into a virtual space, which generates strong public recoil. This is the core: the denial of pedophilia triggers a different, more primal reaction than violence or domination.
What is the deeper reason behind that fear?
Denying pedophilia centers on disgust rather than fear of immediate physical danger. It feels more intimate, closer to the possibility of danger among everyday people in schools or classrooms. The fear includes the unsettling possibility that such individuals may exist among us, making it a more complex dread than other forms of harm.
When watching Manticore, one might compare Julián to Frankenstein or the Werewolf. Do you follow him because of his pain rather than his monster status?
Indeed. Both Frankenstein’s creature and the Werewolf are misunderstood, elusive beings shaped by rejection or concealment. Julián shares that sense of being misunderstood and unable to connect, which makes him a figure worth following rather than simply condemning.
Does Vermut worry that the film might appear to justify the pedophile figure?
Addressing such a delicate topic requires care, but Vermut believes giving voice to a character does not equate to endorsement. The film invites reflection on personal darkness and the ways people confront it. It also suggests that those struggling with such disorders deserve treatment and empathy, a hopeful thread within a morally challenging narrative. Audiences are increasingly capable of engaging with perspectives they reject, Vermut notes, and the film aims to provoke thoughtful self-examination rather than simple condemnation.
Julián claims that anything possible in video games can be imagined in life. Does cinema have room to represent everything?
Certainly. Cinema can embrace the grotesque and the distasteful as part of a broader exploration of power and consequence. It cannot shy away from difficult questions, even when the answers unsettled viewers.
A few years ago, Sitges faced controversy for a film depicting an extreme scene. Vermut recalls that moment and shares his take on cinematic boundaries.
He remembers the debate and acknowledges that some films push boundaries further than others. While he found that particular work overly obscene, he respects any viewer who might be drawn to it or frightened by it. Vermut argues that cinema should permit boundless possibilities, provided audiences understand that fiction remains distinct from reality. The idea is to educate and separate imaginative worlds from real life, ensuring they do not cross into one another.
People often describe Vermut’s cinema as deeply personal. How would he define his own style?
Vermut explains that his work does not come from a moral stance. He gravitates toward psychological dramas featuring morally ambiguous characters and loves crafting difficult moral dilemmas within ordinary scenarios. His interest in popular culture—from manga to video games, literature to film—shapes his storytelling and influences how the craft of acting and camera work translates to what viewers recognize as his signature style.