Ulysse de Maximy is a student at the Mexican National Film School. His short film CRAWLIES was selected as part of the 2025 T-Port Lighthouse Selections by our guest curator Jukka-Pekka Laakso. 

In this interview, we caught up with the filmmaker about his incredibly personal film, how it drew upon his childhood, exploring his uncle’s mental illness through sound and vision. 

Hi Ulysse, could you introduce yourself? 

I’m from Mexico and currently live in Mexico City, though I was raised an hour south in Jiutepec, in the state of Morelos. I grew up in a traditionally structured Mexican family home, where I lived with my Mexican mother, French father, and was also surrounded by my grandparents, uncles, and aunt. While it wasn’t entirely rural, it was certainly more countryside than city.

As an only child, I spent a lot of time on my own, exploring the world around me—buzzing insects, lush vegetation, and farm animals. I often played in a small watercourse that ran through our property, catching tiny fish and tadpoles. Almost every day, I’d find myself lost in thought on the rooftop, watching the few cars pass by.

When my parents were working, my maternal grandmother took care of me. Another constant presence in my life was my uncle Aaron, my mother’s younger brother, who lived with us. He had schizophrenia and was fully dependent on my grandparents. He smoked a lot and loved Coca-Cola and coffee. Treated like a child, he became like a sibling to me, and I would often tease him, as kids do. As I entered adolescence, however, the nature of my teasing shifted, coinciding with my own exploration of my emerging sexuality.

These experiences have undoubtedly shaped the themes in my short films—my fears of being an only child, my fascination with the small worlds of insects and nature, and my obsession with madness, always accompanied by a deep fear of losing my own mind.

If you could watch one film forever on a loop – what would it be?

None, what a nightmare. But if I had to pick, I’d choose a film that I love to ease the pain: 3-Iron.

How many films have you made before this one, and what did each new film teach you?

I’ve made nine short films before this one—most of them animated, with one documentary and one live-action fiction film. Each of these films has taught me something new about myself. They are exercises in honesty, where I strive to place myself in the world, embracing both the light and the darkness I’ve found within.

My short documentary CANIS FAMILIARIS (co-directed with Javier Preciado) is one of the works that leaves a particularly visceral impact on me, even just by recalling the shooting process. It still hurts. That film carried a special lesson: the fragility of handling the stories of others’ lives. In this case, it was the story of an abandoned dog who was euthanized and cremated.

Do you affiliate yourself with any cinematic or artistic movements, or see yourself as fitting in with any? If so, could you tell us about this?

I don’t consciously affiliate myself with any specific cinematic or artistic movement, though I am deeply drawn to films that explore bodily horror and the haptic experience. Before any rationale takes hold, there is nothing more fundamental to our experience of the world than the mediating role of our body and the senses that accompany it.

How did you first start working on your film CRAWLIES? What was the process like and what first sparked the idea to make it?

I had previously created an animated short film based on phrases my uncle Aaron wrote in the margins of an encyclopedia. It was an interesting first attempt, but I wanted to explore the concept of madness in a way that I could also be part of it, because that’s how I remember my childhood: a sweet yet turbulent and strange time in my life.

I began by reading various texts on madness, particularly Rainald Goetz’s “Insane”, and started drawing on memories to write a traditional script. Then, when the pandemic hit in 2020, I had the time to rethink the concept. It evolved into a short story, and then, once again, back into a script, now including elements from my childhood that didn’t necessarily relate to my relationship with my uncle.

I recorded a conversation with my uncle and included parts of it in the script. I wanted the work to blend fact and imagination, much like memory, even if it only served as personal reminders of my own history. I added a line from our recorded conversation to the final edit, and both of us appear twice in the film: his back and swinging leg, and my hand and the back of my head.

In the end, I wanted us to be mirrored in that confined world of madness I created by piecing together memories—an extension of the madness that exists outside.

Once you had the idea – how did you go about the production process?

The production process was pretty straightforward. I wanted it to feel intimate, so I knew the film needed a small crew of six people, plus the actors. We all needed to be friends to create the closeness I was aiming for. I planned to finish the main photography and acting in six days. I didn’t want to drag things out. I was open to change and flexible, ready to adapt without hesitation. At first, the whole crew and Alberto Trujillo, the actor playing my uncle, were going to stay in my childhood home for practical reasons. But it ended up adding to the process. The actor spent time with my uncle and picked up some of his mannerisms (I had already talked to him about adopting my uncle’s voice cadence by listening to recordings). 

This helped everyone better understand the film’s origins.

What were the biggest challenges you encountered during making your film?

Although the Film School lent me the equipment to shoot, and I aimed to make an affordable film, the biggest challenge was raising the money. However, with the help of crowdfunding from friends and family, we made it work.

Next was the burning bed scene, which wasn’t difficult in itself. But because we were working without professional help due to budget limits, I had to be extra careful to ensure everyone’s safety. We shot the scene in a room, separate from the main house, where my mother used to make bread to sell when I was a boy. The room had been set on fire by what we believe was a neighbor, and the fire had destroyed the wooden ceiling. This made it the perfect place to film the fire: no ceiling, just four concrete walls and a cement floor. We had a hose and an extinguisher ready, and everyone observed from a safe distance.

Another challenge was the fish. At first, I wanted to show tadpoles going down the drain, as it was something I did as a child. But I couldn’t find any. It had been years since I last saw them in the stream that runs through the house, so I replaced them with small fish, the same kind that still live in the stream. We made sure to handle them carefully by ungluing the drain pipe, catching them in a bucket, and releasing them back into nature.

A more interesting challenge came with the sound. Just as the tadpoles seem to be gone, some sounds from the past no longer exist. When I was a child, a Volkswagen car would occasionally deliver murder chronicles. This kind of delivery no longer happens, but it was important for me to include it. I wrote down the news (based on a real story that stuck with me as a child) and had to record myself delivering it, trying to capture the performative nature of the delivery. 

A similar issue arose with the fruit seller. I was looking for a very specific sound of an orange seller, but I couldn’t find it. Instead, I recorded the sound of a modern berry seller, which still kept some of the essence I was looking for.

Tell us more about the sound choices in your film

Sound was essential for me. I wanted the outside world to be felt through the sounds that slipped through the cracks of the house, creating a sense of madness. This madness wasn’t always visible, but it could be heard in the erratic and sometimes violent sounds, as well as the soothing ones (like the ice cream truck). This also reflected the powerful, nostalgic nature of sound. I wanted to play with the voices in a similar way, like the illness itself, keeping the source or the way it was used (voice-over or direct) ambiguous.

Lastly, it is important to note that the sound design was mostly realistic, with the exception of the sounds of tiny insects and the animated sequences, where a more expressive approach was chosen. The music, initially inviting, gradually became more unusual and constrained, reflecting the uncle’s reminiscence of his childhood—a memory within a memory, adding another layer to the mise en abyme.

Tell us about the visual choices in your film. What were your main goals and techniques in creating the visual style of your film?

In film school, there’s often a strong emphasis on achieving perfect exposure, with clear details in both the highlights and shadows. However, I wasn’t concerned with that. I wanted darkness to be a key element of this world, regardless of whether or not details were visible. 

In some instances, I intentionally pushed the shadows to highlight reflections. In this approach, I was inspired by Philippe Grandrieux’s “Sombre”, although “Sombre” retains more detail, of course. 

What did you find (or still find) as especially lacking in the process of distributing and promoting your film? What was especially challenging?

I don’t think I’ve fully explored the potential of distribution yet; I’ve primarily focused on film festival submissions. The most challenging part has been dedicating time to tailor applications for each festival and finding the funds to cover the submission fees.

If you were to have infinite resources – walk us through your fantasy film project

I’ve animated mannequins a few times, and I would love to push this further by creating an animated film where all the characters are life-size, posable mannequins with movable jaws and lips, set in real-life locations. The film would explore modern anguish and the possibility of suicide—not as an action, but as a thought stored in the back of our minds, lingering there as a form of consolation.

What’s next for you?

I recently finished producing an animated short by my good friend, director Mauricio Hernández, with funding from two production companies and support from the University of Texas at Austin. I’m now working on my first feature film project, currently in the early stages of scriptwriting, and I plan to apply for writing grants in the future. Additionally, I’ve recently applied for federal funding to produce an experimental short documentary by director Frida Meza Coriche. The documentary aims to reclaim the erased existence of her grand uncle, who died from AIDS-related complications in the 1980s.

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