‘Olivia And The Invisible Earthquake’ review: Empathetic Spanish stop-motion captures life on the poverty line

Dir: Irene Iborra Rizo. Spain/France/Belgium/Chile/Switzerland. 2025. 71mins

Twelve-year-old Olivia (Celia Sol), her struggling actress mother Ingrid (Silvia Vilarrasa) and her seven-year-old brother Tim (Hug Mont) don’t have much. They do, however, share a wealth of imagination that softens the hard edges of poverty. But when the family is evicted from their home, Ingrid sinks into depression and it is up to Olivia to protect her little brother from the bleak truth of their situation. She convinces him that everything they are experiencing is part of a film shoot, and he is its star. It is a tricky balance to tackle weighty subjects such as mental health and housing insecurity while also creating a work that is empathetic, joyful and child-friendly. Yet Irene Iborra Rizo’s gorgeous Barcelona-set stop-motion animation achieves all of this, and more. 

Captures vividly the spirit and energy of the Barcelona streets

Olivia And The Invisible Earthquake is the first feature-length film from Iborra Rizo, who previously co-directed shorts including 2013’s Click. It is also the first stop-motion feature to be produced in Catalonia – although, Iborra Rizo did have a local community of collaborators to draw on having run a masters programme in stop-motion techniques for a decade. Olivia… is adapted from a graphic novel by Maite Carranza and handles its subject matter lightly, taking a visually inventive approach to Olivia’s internalised fears and stresses. It is a delight of a film that takes a timely stance in favour of community-led collective action. Further festival slots are likely and the picture could be distinctive enough to tempt distributors looking for family films that tackle substantial social issues. 

The astute balance struck by the film is particularly evident in the character design. It would have been easy to make the kids overly cute and sentimentalised, but the characters, while stylised, have distinct personalities and feel like authentically urban children. Iborra Rizo uses wool for hair and leans into the pleasingly textural qualities of the clothing fabrics, making perceptive costume choices. Olivia, evicted from her home and former school in a more affluent part of town, wears studious nerd glasses; a more streetwise look is favoured by her new neighbours in the gritty, down-at-heel quarter where the family is forced to squat in an empty apartment. 

It is not just the characters who are dressed to perfection. Iborra Rizo also captures vividly the spirit and energy of the Barcelona streets, meticulously recreating the graffiti, the fragrant, spiced colour palette and the quality of the light. Sound design is equally crucial, with the new neighbourhood a tumultuous, buffeting collision of voices and music, the sound of lives lived on top of each other.

At first, it is all a little overwhelming for Olivia and Tim. But once they are welcomed by a neighbour bearing a big pot of chicken and beans, they start to embrace the warmth and energy of the streets around their sparsely furnished new home. Their mother, on the other hand, sinks into herself, her colour fading and her energy sapping, her once inexhaustible supply of stories and make-believe now silent. To make matters worse, a social worker is circling, warning that Olivia and her brother will be placed into care if their living conditions do not improve. 

It all takes its toll on Olivia, who starts to experience psychological ‘earthquakes’: hallucinations in which the ground splits and she imagines herself plummeting into the belly of the earth where eventually she finds a kind of peace. It is a brilliantly evocative illustration of anxiety, and the impulse to isolate yourself at moments of stress. But ultimately, Olivia realises strength and survival come not from shutting herself away, but from reaching out and finding a whole community that is ready to catch her if she falls.