MANOLO CARO Life as a Game

By crafting atmospheres in spaces that mirror his unique worldview, Mexican director Manolo Caro tells stories through cinema that are unmistakably his own.

Caro moves effortlessly between dark humor and drama—a duality he believes is intrinsic to life itself. His works, including The House of Flowers, now a landmark in Spanish-language television, and I Don’t Know Whether to Slit My Wrists or Leave Them Long, his feature debut that cemented his singular voice, reflect a commitment to tackling complex themes with empathy and honesty. His films are consistently authentic—resonating deeply with audiences.

Before working in film, you studied architecture. How does that background influence the cinematic spaces you create?
Architecture has a clear and lasting impact on how I approach television, film, and theater. I’ve always said I wouldn’t be the director I am—where aesthetics, space, color, and texture play such a central role—if I hadn’t studied architecture. I knew I wanted to direct, but I wanted another discipline under my belt. Design, methodology, and even the architects I admire have shaped both my visual style and my creative process.

Your style blends dark humor with drama. How do you strike that balance?
I believe life itself is a tragicomedy. That belief has allowed my work to connect and generate empathy. I’ve lived through painful moments—funerals, for instance—where laughter still found its place. Sometimes we need a release valve. In life, as in fiction, we can’t be confined to a single genre. Classifying films strictly as “comedy” or “action” feels outdated. These days, we move from laughter to tears, or from fear to exhilaration, in an instant.

Which filmmakers, architects, or cinematic movements have guided your creative process?
My top inspiration is Federico García Lorca. Then Taika Waititi, Ruben Östlund, and Pedro Almodóvar. In architecture, I admire Zaha Hadid. But I also find inspiration in urban chaos—in the streets, where you feel the pulse of society. As filmmakers, it’s easy to lose touch when things are going well. But I like to return, listen, and understand what people are thinking and feeling. I stay informed about tragedies and social issues. I built my career and identity through pop culture—and to survive in pop, you have to engage from the ground up.

You’ve said that your early stories reflect who you were at the time. How has your filmmaking evolved as you’ve changed personally?
My approach to cinema is rooted in lived experience. In the beginning, I made romantic comedies because I was searching for love—for that partner to walk through life with, like Lucas in I Don’t Know Whether to Slit My Wrists or Leave Them Long. I was dealing with heartbreak, family challenges, and friendship struggles.

Had I started later, I probably wouldn’t have made those same films. Though I’m proud of them—because they shaped my career and built my audience—I’m now approaching forty and interested in new themes, like fatherhood, which I explored in Fiesta en la madriguera. Today, I focus on concerns that reflect who I am now: power, corruption, complexity. In my upcoming return to Mexican television, I’m exploring ideas I wouldn’t have touched at 21, simply because I didn’t yet have that perspective

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You often emphasize the importance of honesty in your work. How do you stay authentic?
Authenticity means staying grounded—not believing your own hype. A hit like The House of Flowers can cloud your judgment and make you think everything you touch will succeed. Being genuine means staying close to your roots: your friends, your family, your values. Some people think my style and public persona are calculated, but I’ve been this way since I was a kid—into fashion, outspoken, unafraid to express my opinions. Age has made me clearer and more consistent, but my intentions and identity have remained the same.

How does this transparency and personal connection influence how audiences respond to your work?
When you infuse your personality into your work, you become an open book. People think they know you, for better or worse. Some adore you; others dislike you. In the past, criticism could wreck me—I wouldn’t even want to get out of bed. Now, some of those comments make me laugh. I even save a few. With maturity, I’ve come to see things differently. What we do is entertainment—we’re not saving lives or solving global issues. Yes, we can inspire. I Don’t Know Whether to Slit My Wrists… helped some young people come out. But mostly, we help people forget reality for a little while.

Despite your success, you’ve spoken about experiencing impostor syndrome. How do you overcome those feelings and find the confidence to lead?
To survive in this industry, you need thick skin and humility. No one person is the centerpiece—each role is essential, from director to makeup artist. I used to question whether I deserved my early success. But I’ve realized it wasn’t luck—I’ve worked hard for everything. I wake up every day and give it my all. While doubts and failures will always come, I’ve learned that life is a rollercoaster. It’s important to celebrate others and find fulfillment in the shared journey.

This year, you premiered Fiesta en la madriguera, an adaptation of Juan Pablo Villalobos’s novel, which you’ve called one of your greatest challenges. What made it so difficult?
The book moved me deeply. When Villalobos told me he thought I was the right director for it, I felt honored but also conflicted. He reassured me by saying, “The novel is unchangeable. Your film will just be one interpretation.”

Working alongside him and Nicolás Jacobo on the script—we formed a perfect creative trio—was an incredible experience. I want to keep adapting literature, using streaming as a tool to bring Mexican, Spanish, and other narratives to global audiences. It’s a challenge I’m excited to take on.

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The film addresses themes like violence and narco culture. How did you approach those heavy subjects from a child’s perspective?
What makes it so moving is that everything unfolds through the eyes of Tolstoy, the young protagonist. There’s no omniscient narrator. While the story touches on drug trafficking, it’s really about fatherhood and family dynamics. I wanted to handle it with care. On set, the child actor discovered the story in real time. We had a psychologist and a support team to help him navigate emotionally intense scenes—but witnessing his growing understanding was powerful.

You’ve said that some parts of you remain private. How do you manage the duality between public and private life in such an exposed industry?
Very early on, I realized the importance of boundaries. If you don’t maintain them, you can’t complain when your personal life becomes media fodder. I’m active on social media, but I don’t talk about my private life in interviews or with the press. I’ve kept that boundary respectfully, and honestly, I don’t think people are that interested in who I’m dating or what I do in my free time.

Your upcoming series, Snakes and Ladders, explores the nature of power. How do you portray its dual role as both control and vulnerability?
I’m currently in post-production. The show is a comedy that explores the destructive potential of unchecked power. In Mexico, power can be easily acquired and abused—whether due to position, wealth, or simply being a straight man. The series pokes fun at how we behave when power is in our hands. Everyone wants it, but having it comes with responsibility and cost. Snakes and Ladders is a satire set in a school—a microcosm of Mexican society.

Quick Get to Know Guide
Define creativity in one word:
Freedom

On a day off, Manolo Caro…
Sleeps

Can’t work without:
Chocolate

Dream project:
Becoming a dad

I’m inspired by:
Chaos

The place in Mexico I always return to:
Guadalajara

Guilty pleasure:
A glass of wine

I start my day with:
A bath

Secret to a great story:
Love

Set essential:
A venti Starbucks coffee

Pre-shoot ritual:
Burning copal incense

Weirdest phone wallpaper you’ve had:
A photo of Miguel Hidalgo