Q&A
Capitán Palomo is the latest release from PKGD Films, a documentary about mezcalero Carlos Méndez and the legacy behind his brand, Palomo. But this isn’t just another agave story. This is a personal journey about family, rebellion, return, and truth. We sat down with the film’s director to talk about why this story had to be told.
Q1. This isn’t the first mezcal documentary out there. Why did Capitán Palomo need to exist? Why was this the story you had to tell, and why now?
A1. We’re creating a documentary for every brand we work with, but each one has to find its own voice. With Capitán Palomo, the story revealed itself in conversations with Carlos. I wasn’t trying to justify why this film should exist—I was trying to follow what felt true in his journey. That was enough.
Q2. Carlos didn’t want to be a mezcalero. He ran away. That’s not something brands usually want to highlight. Why focus on that part of the story?
A2. Carlos’s story mirrors the classic hero’s journey—he rejects his role, runs from tradition, and then returns on his own terms. That’s not a weakness, it’s a strength. It shows that mezcal isn’t just business—it’s tradition, struggle, and heart. What he creates now is more personal because of what he had to face.
Q3. You show real tension between Carlos and his father, and the central role his mother plays in that dynamic. Were you ever worried about exposing something too personal?
A3. I was worried, yes—but I asked for permission. Carlos told me the story over dinner, while we were already shooting. And once I heard it, I knew that was the heart of the film. His struggle with his father, his deep love for his mother—that’s where the energy comes from. It’s personal, but it’s what drives everything. He’s trying to become a better version of the man who came before him. That’s brave, and it deserved to be shown.
Q4. There’s a moment in the film where Carlos admits he feels insecure about the brand, about himself. Why leave that in?
A4. That moment is key. Carlos isn’t just proving he can make mezcal—he’s wrestling with the same insecurities his father had. It’s the heart of the conflict: trying to overcome the judgment from his father, while also overcoming the judgment inside himself.
Q5. You’re not just documenting mezcal—you’re shaping how people perceive these producers. Do you ever worry you’re creating myths, not truths?
A5. That’s something Carlos and I talked about. He was uneasy with the idea of being mythologized. But I believe what Picasso once said: art is a lie that tells the truth. Documentary, like fiction, is just a tool—a way to shape fragments of reality into something that reveals a deeper truth. Yes, it’s manipulation. But I stand by the story we’re telling. It’s a shortcut to emotional clarity—something even the person living it might struggle to express.
Q6. Let’s talk about mezcal. After all this, what do you think most people still get wrong about it?
A6. Most people—especially in the U.S.—still don’t know what mezcal really is. They call it smoky, or just see it as a cocktail base. Few realize it’s older than tequila, or that tequila is actually a type of mezcal. But the real misunderstanding is about the labor. Traditional mezcal is brutally hard to make. It’s manual, physical, ancestral. And behind each batch is a person’s life and struggle. Carlos isn’t just making mezcal—he’s choosing not to sell out, not to conform. That’s rare. And that’s what makes his story worth telling.
Q7. You’re making branded documentaries—films about products. Some would say that compromises the integrity of the storytelling. Are you okay with being seen as a commercial filmmaker?
A7. I don’t see myself as a commercial filmmaker—I see myself as a filmmaker working inside the agave world, which I love. Like many in my generation, I came up just as the industry was changing: DSLRs, streaming, digital cinema, LED lights. I tried the traditional route—writing scripts, chasing funding—but it wasn’t clicking. With PKGD, I found a niche where I could keep sharpening my craft, telling real stories with integrity. No one asked for these films, but we’re making them anyway. And maybe we’re helping shape what the next version of cinema could be.
Q8. Let’s flip it. If you weren’t worried about perception or market or strategy—what kind of films would you make?
A8. Honestly, probably something very similar. I’m drawn to human stories—struggle, transformation, the silver lining. Not necessarily happy endings, but meaningful ones. I’d explore fatherhood, maybe play with form, push into new narrative styles. But I already get to do a lot of that here. Films we’re developing for brands like El Ateo or Ultramundo let me go deeper—more existential, more philosophical. If our work helps people connect with these spirits through story—not just taste—that’s the kind of filmmaking I want to keep doing, at least for a while.
Q9. What did Carlos teach you—not as a subject, but as a person?
A9. Carlos and I share something—maybe that firstborn-son weight you carry in a Mexican family. Different backgrounds, but similar pressures. I see myself in his work ethic, his ambition, his need to align truth with action. He taught me a lot about bravery—about owning your story, even when it’s hard. He’s clear on who he is and where he’s going. That kind of clarity is rare, and it’s something I admire deeply.
Q10. Last one. If someone watches Capitán Palomo and walks away with just one idea—what do you hope it is?
A10. I want people to feel like they went on a ride—an intense, emotional, meaningful ride. Mezcal, Palomo, Carlos—it’s not just a product. It’s a story worth experiencing.
