Las Muertas: What’s Real and What’s Fiction?

The story of Las Poquianchis is one of the darkest and most infamous chapters in Mexican criminal history. Between the 1940s and 1960s, four sisters (Delfina, María del Carmen, María Luisa, and María de Jesús González Valenzuela) built an empire of exploitation and death, luring dozens of young girls with promises of work, only to force them into prostitution, abuse, and ultimately, silence. Their reign of terror extended from Jalisco to Guanajuato, leaving behind clandestine graves, unimaginable violence, and a legacy that still horrifies today.
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Now, Netflix has reignited global attention with Las Muertas, a six-episode series by director Luis Estrada, released on September 10. The show is inspired not directly by the real case, but by Jorge Ibargüengoitia’s satirical 1977 novel Las muertas. And while the series draws on true events, it deliberately blurs the line between fact and fiction.
The Real Story of Las Poquianchis
The González Valenzuela sisters came from a household marked by violence. After their father’s death, they inherited enough to establish a brothel in El Salto, Jalisco. Their “business” expanded rapidly, but behind the façade of entertainment, they orchestrated a machinery of trafficking and abuse. Most of their victims were girls between 12 and 15, tricked with offers of respectable work as maids.
Inside their establishments, the reality was one of systematic abuse: prostitution, forced abortions, starvation, beatings, and killings. Authorities estimate between 90 and 150 victims, though the true number may be even higher.
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Their downfall came in 1964, when one victim escaped and reported them to the Judicial Police in León. A raid revealed mass graves on their property, containing women and newborns alike. Two sisters, Delfina and María de Jesús, were sentenced to 40 years in prison; María Luisa, later captured, received 27. María del Carmen had died in 1949, years before the crimes were uncovered.
What Las Muertas Shows Instead
Estrada’s Las Muertas takes more from Ibargüengoitia’s novel than from court records. In the series, only two sisters run the brothel and are renamed Arcángela and Serafina Baladro, and their empire is depicted with tragicomic flair. There is even a third sister, Eulalia, though she plays only a secondary role.
Unlike the real case, where a victim’s bravery led to the downfall of the González Valenzuelas, the Netflix version presents Serafina’s vengeful actions as the trigger for the collapse. In addition, the show adopts black humor, irony, and satire, mocking not only the sisters but also corrupt officials, complicit authorities, and a hypocritical society that preferred to look the other way.
Luis Estrada explained this choice himself: “I researched the real event, read about it. In fact, we did a historical and newspaper archive research, partly to have the same references that Jorge had. He also wrote extensively about the process of how he was building the novel. Making the decision to speak about such a controversial and dramatic incident and turning it into satire is, I believe, very daring and bold. I think that’s the great risk and also the great value of the book. That was also the challenge of ‘Las muertas’, to discuss issues that still hold contemporary and current relevance. But it’s all like a play that we tried to respect, much like the phrase he said: here, all the events are real but the characters are imaginary.”
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One of the most chilling figures in the Netflix series is La Calavera, Juana Carnejo, played by actor Mauricio Isaac. A violent enforcer and bookkeeper for the Baladro sisters, she beats and controls the women in the brothels, embodying cruelty in its purest form. But historians suggest that La Calavera likely never existed as one single person. Instead, the character may represent a fusion of various accomplices who aided the González Valenzuelas in bookkeeping and discipline.
Estrada made the bold decision to cast a man for the role, saying: “A skull has no gender.” Isaac’s performance adds layers of menace, reinforcing the blurred line between historical reconstruction and artistic license.
Where Reality Ends and Fiction Begins
So, how accurate is Netflix’s Las Muertas? The short answer: not very, at least, not as a strict retelling of the González Valenzuela crimes. The series filters history through Ibargüengoitia’s satirical lens, amplifying absurdity and irony to highlight systemic corruption and social hypocrisy.
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Yet, behind the fictional names and ironic tone, the echoes of real pain remain. The tragic fate of the victims, many of whom were never identified, risks being overshadowed by sensational headlines and dramatized reinterpretations. But if Las Muertas succeeds in anything, it is in sparking conversation, about violence against women, the complicity of institutions, and the uncomfortable realities Mexico continues to face.
Ultimately, Las Poquianchis were very real, and their victims were too. Las Muertas, like Ibargüengoitia’s novel before it, is not a documentary but a provocative reinterpretation. It is less about faithfully recounting events and more about using dark humor and satire to reflect a society where corruption and cruelty flourished unchecked, and where, tragically, history can repeat itself.
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