Shows like Griselda (Netflix) and El Marginal (Amazon) are selling a different fantasy: the anti-heroine. Sofia Vergara’s transformation into Griselda Blanco stripped away the glamour. The accent remained, but the laugh was gone. These narratives appeal to global audiences because they tap into the universal love for crime dramas, but they lace it with a distinctly Latin flavor—sobremesa (the talk after the meal) mixed with violence. It tells the world: Our pain is cinematic, too.
By: Sofia Reyes-Cruz
There is a moment in almost every mainstream film or Netflix series when the soundtrack shifts. A dembow beat drops, a reggaeton guitar plucks its signature riff, or a brassy salsa horn section erupts. The camera finds a woman in a red dress—spinning, hips swaying, coffee in hand, shouting "¡Dime papi!" The scene cuts to a montage of neon-lit streets, a classic convertible, and a lot of skin.
We have all seen this trope. It is the commercial shorthand for "passion," "exotic," and "dangerous." But beneath this glossy, often problematic surface lies a much deeper and more revolutionary truth. The wave of Fantasías Latinas—a term I use to describe the curated, exported, and sometimes stereotyped image of Latino culture in entertainment—is no longer being written about us. It is being written by us. Fantasias Latinas Xxx 2004
Today, we are going to peel back the curtain on how Latin American and Latino creators are hijacking their own fantasy, turning pop media into a weapon of cultural reclamation.
Younger generations are no longer passive consumers. The keyword now lives on social media, where users create their own Fantasias Latinas content. TikTok hashtags such as #LatinTelenovela (over 2 billion views) feature users reenacting dramatic scene cuts, applying "fantasy makeup" (glitter, flamenco eyeliner, and quinceañera blush), or producing audio dramas based on Latin folklore like La Llorona or El Cuco.
Furthermore, fanfiction platforms like Wattpad and AO3 host thousands of stories blending real-life Latin music stars (Bad Bunny, Rauw Alejandro) with fantasy scenarios—time travel, werewolf pack romances, or rival narco clans. This user-generated media ensures that Fantasias Latinas evolves organically, unfiltered by corporate boards. Shows like Griselda (Netflix) and El Marginal (Amazon)
No long article would be complete without addressing internal critiques. Some scholars argue that Fantasias Latinas often uplifts heteronormative, able-bodied, light-skinned protagonists. The "fantasy" can exclude Indigenous, Black, queer, and disabled Latinx experiences.
However, counter-movements are flourishing. Tragedia de un hombre orgulloso (a web series) centers on an aging gay actor in Bogotá who hallucinates his past lovers via magical realism. Las Fantasías de Maricela, an indie comic, reimagines a chubby, working-class Dominican woman as a superheroine. The future of the genre lies in multiplying which fantasies are told, not limiting them.
The secret sauce of successful Fantasias Latinas is emotional maximalism. In a typical Western fantasy (e.g., The Witcher), characters are stoic. In a Latin fantasy, they are passionate. This is the direct influence of the telenovela—a format that deals in melodrama, betrayal, secret twins, and undying love. These narratives appeal to global audiences because they
Consider the potential of a project like 100 Years of Solitude (coming to Netflix). The Buendía family saga is already fantastical (a man is tied to a chestnut tree for decades, a girl ascends to heaven while folding sheets). When you add the production value of Game of Thrones to the emotional intensity of a Televisa drama, you get a "super-genre" that appeals to both the heart and the adrenal gland.
Popular media is taking notes. Ask any showrunner in Los Angeles right now, and they will tell you the "note" they receive from studios is: "Make it hotter. Make it weirder. Make it more Latin."
Marvel and DC are playing catch-up. While America Chavez (Marvel) exists, the real innovation is in independent books: