Styncat

Cacahuetex was born from a shared love of movies, series, and TV shows that shaped the team’s childhoods. What began as a hobby —filming sketches and short films— gradually evolved into their own audiovisual collective. From the very beginning, the dream was always to create something bigger: a film or a series of their own.

When they came across an online web series competition, they saw the perfect opportunity to take that leap. But rather than follow the familiar sitcom format so common in online series, they wanted to try something different —something bold. That’s how Styncat was born: a wild mix of action, comedy, and science fiction inspired by all the shows and films they grew up loving. Winning the contest wasn’t the main goal; the real motivation was to bring their idea to life. And even though they didn’t win, they chose to keep going —and they did.

The production process for Styncat took over a year, and as their first serious project, it brought plenty of challenges —and plenty of stories.

One of the most memorable episodes took place at a key filming location used for the final episode’s action scenes. From the start, the team felt like the place was cursed —nothing ever went according to plan. Although it was an open space, it required a key for access. Every time they got hold of the key, the lock had been changed, or the space was booked, or there was a gym class… or even a full-blown concert with hundreds of people. Somehow, despite all this, they managed to film —and the end result turned out even better than expected.

Another fun anecdote: since Toledo is known for its steel and sword-making tradition, they traveled there to buy weapons for the series. After browsing several stores, they ended up in a shop where the owner offered them a pair of extremely cheap —and incredibly ugly— zebra-striped katanas. They bought them anyway, and now those swords have become part of Styncat’s identity. Anytime someone sees a zebra katana, it’s a nod to the series.

The team shot the series using three Canon 550D cameras. The choice was purely practical: they needed something affordable with decent quality, and the 550D was a perfect fit for their YouTube-based project.

In terms of visual style, they wanted a conspiratorial, mysterious atmosphere. That led them to use a cold, bluish color palette throughout the show.

They started with just €450 and added money along the way whenever needed. Most of the budget went into fuel for driving to filming locations. While they don’t have an exact total, they estimate the entire project cost under €1,000.

The web series world has grown massively in recent years. Nowadays, everyone has a camera—even in their pocket —and anyone can upload content online. That’s a great thing, as it makes filmmaking more accessible. But it also means the internet is saturated with content, and standing out is harder than ever. Even with a good idea and solid execution, it’s no guarantee that a project will find an audience.

The team believes the internet is a powerful space where great talents are emerging —but there’s still work to be done in recognizing that online content can be just as valuable, if not more, than what’s shown on traditional television or in cinemas. In fact, Styncat itself offers a critique of that very reality: how internet culture often rewards randomness over quality, and how that continues to affect how online creations are perceived.

Genesis 88

Now Franc Sellers tells us about his webseries "Genesis 88":

The team's main motivation was to enjoy the creative process, to learn, and to bring a fictional story and its characters—who eventually became deeply loved—to life. The project was born from a genuine passion for storytelling and the pure pleasure of creating. The series consists of thirteen episodes that make up its first season, but it was conceived with continuity in mind. In fact, the final episode was written with an open ending, paving the way for future seasons.

The series was filmed using a Canon 60D DSLR camera. The choice was driven by practicality: the team had no budget, and the Canon 60D offered the best possible image quality within their limited means. Visually, the creators aimed for bright, vivid colors inspired by the original drawings featured in the opening credits and certain key scenes, evoking a comic book aesthetic. At the same time, they wanted to blend this look with the visual language of Latin American soap operas, infusing it with elements of suspense, mystery, action, humor, and science fiction—hallmarks of the genre they were paying tribute to.

No financial support or subsidies were received. The production was fully self-funded, with all expenses coming directly from the creators' own pockets. Filming was limited to weekends due to the team’s day jobs, family responsibilities, and personal commitments. Despite the challenges, they worked entirely out of passion and dedication. They believe the internet is now an invaluable platform for independent creators, offering visibility and reach that didn’t exist in the past.

The production process was filled with anecdotes, but one stands out in particular. During a key scene that took place in a restaurant parking lot, the team had already filmed several sessions there. On the final two, things got complicated. They began shooting around 8:00 p.m., when the restaurant manager approached and told them they had just 30 minutes to wrap up before a large busload of guests arrived. Miraculously, they managed to shoot twelve or thirteen takes with excellent results. What seemed nearly impossible turned into one of their most successful filming sessions—an unforgettable moment for everyone involved.

Proxima

Now Carlos Atanes tells us about his movie "Proxima":

I made Proxima because, as a child, I was a huge fan of science fiction films, and I wanted to recapture that "sense of wonder" I felt when watching movies like Silent Running, 2001: A Space Odyssey, or Planet of the Apes. Proxima is a tribute to those films —and to all the dreamers who, like me, imagine humanity conquering the universe.

Making Proxima was a wild and chaotic ride, full of memorable moments. There's even a documentary about the experience, titled Made in Proxima, available on the film’s official website. One of the most dangerous incidents occurred while we were shooting alien landscapes at the bottom of Corta Atalaya —the largest open-pit mine in Europe. While a red lake of sulfuric acid at the bottom emitted toxic fumes, a violent storm triggered landslides on the surrounding walls, putting us at real risk of flooding and collapse. Had the walls given way, we would have been buried under tons of rock. Another unforgettable (and slightly terrifying) moment was when we filmed Oriol Aubets —the lead actor— with real ammunition.

The entire shoot lasted between 30 and 40 days, although I honestly lost track.

For this film, I left the technical side of cinematography to our Director of Photography, Joan Babiloni, a highly skilled professional. He chose the camera —an HDV model from JVC. I don’t recall the exact specs. The film’s visual style was shaped by the budget, Babiloni’s personal taste, and our early discussions about lighting, tone, lenses, and color. I showed him many comics from the 1970s and '80s. We discussed how Enki Bilal created cold, alien atmospheres using warm color schemes. We also looked at works by sci-fi illustrators like Chris Foss and Tim White. Based on those references, Babiloni created a color palette that guided the props, costumes, and set design. His lighting corrections in post-production were minimal —most of the look was achieved in-camera.

As for the future of cinema, I believe it belongs either to big-budget or ultra-low-budget productions. Big-budget films have multiple financing avenues and marketing power. Low-budget films, on the other hand, can be profitable because their costs are minimal, and with some luck, they can still earn a return. Medium-budget films, however, are caught in the middle and are often doomed —except for a handful of breakout successes. In Europe, these films only survive thanks to government subsidies, which says a lot. I believe the future holds the decline of mid-budget filmmaking.

Proxima had a budget of roughly $65,000 to $70,000, funded mainly through personal contributions from friends and, most significantly, a bank loan. We're still paying it back. That’s the less glamorous side of ultra-independent filmmaking.

Watch Made in PROXIMA: Underground science fiction:

La furia de MacKenzie

La Furia de Mackenzie is a 2005 Spanish film that pays affectionate tribute —through laughs, gooey monsters, and an unapologetically ’80s vibe— to the golden age of horror and adventure flicks from the VHS era. Directed by José Luis Reinoso, Paco Campano, and Félix Caña, the film is a love letter to the B-movie gems that shaped a generation raised on video rentals, dazzled by bold cover art, and obsessed with monsters, explosions, and square-jawed heroes.

The directors, then in their early thirties, nostalgically recall those days when choosing a movie felt like a sacred ritual. That very sense of wonder inspired La Furia de Mackenzie, a horror comedy where two escaped convicts, a relentless sheriff, a not-so-normal family, and ravenous alien creatures collide in a blood-splattered mix of camp and chaos—all brought to life with tongue-in-cheek humor and charmingly DIY effects.

Though the story is set in the deep American South, the movie was actually shot in Carmona, a town in southern Spain. The idea to set the action in rural America came after the team—long-time friends and veterans of homemade cult projects like The Slaughter of Utrera—scrapped their initial concept (Dracula vs. Bin Laden) and embraced the spirit of the ’80s "monster-in-the-house" formula. When they arrived in Carmona and saw the dusty roads and wide open spaces, they knew they’d found their own little Texas.

Despite what one might expect, having three directors on set wasn’t chaotic. Each had a defined role —one handled cinematography, another directed actors or managed the monsters, and another worked with smoke effects or sound. While the occasional contradiction did arise, the final result feels surprisingly cohesive, thanks to a shared vision and a team-first mindset that prioritized fun over ego.

A standout of the film is lead actor Rubén "Cucaracho" Hernández, who the directors gleefully describe as the "Spanish Bruce Campbell". Initially skeptical about playing the hero, Rubén quickly proved indispensable, stealing every scene with his expressive performance. "Without him", they insist, "there would be no Mackenzie".

The shoot stretched out over nearly two years of weekend filming, fueled by passion and low-budget ingenuity. Special effects were crafted by hand. Sound was recorded under makeshift conditions, with whole sessions devoted to monster growls. Meals often consisted of cheap sausages. José recalls with a laugh that simply finishing the film was one of the greatest challenges —at one point, they even ran out of toilet paper on set.

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Ciencia Ficción: La creatividad de un artista

Now Pablo Riquelme tells us about his film Ciencia Ficción: La creatividad de un artista:

Most of the short film was shot over the course of three days, primarily in the living room of a house, where the main character, Roberto —a screenwriter— works at his old typewriter. He’s been tasked with writing a script in a genre other than science fiction, but the monsters hiding in his wardrobe won’t let him. These creatures are trying to prevent him from losing his creativity.

Beyond the action set in the house, the film includes two dreamlike sequences —one on a beach and another in a mansion— which were filmed in a single day. So in total, the shoot lasted four days.

I wanted to make this film because I love B movies. I grew up watching Critters, The Fog, Night of the Creeps… but in Spain, science fiction tends to be overlooked. With this short, I wanted to comment on that reality. The main character is a sci-fi writer forced by his producer to work in other genres. He’s faced with a choice: write what the industry demands or stay true to what he really loves.

One important aspect I want to highlight is the creation of the monsters. They were brought to life using stop-motion animation—the same technique made famous by Ray Harryhausen in his iconic B movies, with skeletons, giant octopuses, and all sorts of creatures. This approach gave the film a different personality and, in my opinion, sets it apart from the typical short film.

There were many anecdotes during the shoot, but the most interesting one is that the two lead actors were never on set together due to scheduling conflicts. They filmed their scenes on separate days, but in the final cut, it looks like they’re sharing the same space. A similar thing happened with the famous Pacino–De Niro scene in Heat (Michael Mann, 1995).

The budget for the film was €9,000 (around $11,000 USD). We managed to make it happen thanks to the support of several private companies that believed in the project and contributed to it. In Spain, there are generally two ways to make films: you can wait for a government subsidy, or you can seek private investment, as we did. The problem with subsidies is that many productions end up delayed, incomplete, or canceled in post-production.

We shot with the RED ONE camera, which gave us a high-definition image and a lot of freedom in post-production. The cinematography was very clean, with lots of whites. In post, we toned down the whites, deepened the blacks, and gave the footage a greenish tint —a color that, for me, best captures the essence of sci-fi. We didn’t use 35mm for two reasons: first, because of our limited budget; second, because digital cinematography today arguably offers equal or better quality than film.

Film distribution is evolving. Distributors need to adapt if they want to stay relevant. Audiences don’t just watch films anymore —they devour them. They want immediate access; they don’t want to wait for international releases or pay $20 for a ticket or disc. For some, streaming might be the answer. There are many new paths for distribution.

Personally, I still buy films —lots of them, actually— but I admit, I always look for bargains in the DVD bin.

Watch short film:

Decapoda Shock

The story of a crab astronaut.



Now Javier Chillon tells us about his movie "Decapoda Shock":

I wanted to create something completely different from my previous short film, Die Schneider Krankheit. There were a lot of new ideas and techniques I wanted to experiment with, so I wrote the script specifically to include them all within a wild, offbeat story.

The film took two years to complete. The variety of locations, the large cast, and the extremely limited budget made the process very long and challenging. For example, the first scene featuring the astronaut took a full year to shoot, using three different locations and three different actors —two of them just for the hand shots.

The project was self-produced by cinematographer Luis Fuentes and me. With a total budget of around €1,500, we had very little money to work with, so we did everything ourselves and asked friends for help. Luckily, we had some incredibly talented friends, and given the circumstances, the outcome was surprisingly successful.

We used a Canon XL-H1 HDV camera, which we chose simply because a friend owned one and generously let us borrow it throughout the two-year shoot. Visually, we aimed for a comic book aesthetic. To achieve that look, we used orange as the dominant color—appearing prominently in costumes, props, and overall design.

Watch movie:

Lorna and her Robot

Lorna is a comic book character created by Spanish illustrator Alfonso Azpiri and writer Carlos Sainz Cidoncha, first appearing in 1980 in the magazine Mastia. Inspired by Barbarella and playfully parodying space operas like Star Wars, Lorna is a bold and sensual galactic adventurer, accompanied by her robot Arnold —a sort of heterosexual C3PO with erotic functions.

Initially, the series leaned heavily into erotic comedy, featuring voluptuous heroines and cheeky, light-hearted scenarios that reflected the sexual liberation of Spain’s post-Franco destape era. Over time, however, the stories evolved into more sophisticated science fiction narratives, while still maintaining the erotic charm that defined the character.

Lorna's publication history was somewhat erratic. She first appeared as a secondary feature in magazines such as Cimoc, later starred in special issues, and eventually headlined her own collected volumes. Azpiri’s vivid and distinctive watercolor illustrations quickly became his trademark, cementing his place as a master of Spanish comic art.

Beyond print, Lorna expanded into other media. She starred in a 1990 video game developed by Topo Soft, was the subject of a failed animated series project, and even featured in a crossover with Bethlehem Steele, a character from Penthouse Comix.

Following Azpiri’s passing in 2017, the future of Lorna remains uncertain. Yet her legacy lives on as a cult icon of erotic sci-fi —a singular fusion of sensuality, humor, and space-age imagination that continues to captivate generations of comic readers.