Argentina, 1985 is a renewed testament to the power of cinema. In Argentina and Uruguay, the movie is drawing full houses and provoking an excitement that few films achieve. All this for a serious drama with little in the way of action. It contains a barnstorming performance from Ricardo Darin, Argentina’s most celebrated actor, but this isn’t the type of film that normally challenges box office records. Seen from a non Southern Cone viewpoint, it might be categorised as a political courtroom drama. The reason for its success, on more than just a commercial level, is that it tells the story of how the military leaders of the dictatorship were brought to justice, mainly, the film contends, as a result of the courage and hard work of the lone fiscal, Julio Strassera, played by Darin.
The director and his screenwriter pull out all the emotional stops. There have been many post-dictatorship dramas, from Argentina, Chile, Uruguay and Brazil. Argentina, 1985’s effectiveness has to do with the way it tempers the inevitable emotional impact of the film with a dedicated resistance to any attempt to ramp up the dramatic stakes with artificial thriller tropes. One car explodes, but only one, and it’s a a side note. Strassera is given police protection, but instead of using this to heighten tension, the writers use it for comic effect, punning on the plain clothes policeman’s mighty name. The action remains downbeat and character driven, and in so doing retains a real sense of Buenos Aires and its laconic citizens, the real heroes of this story.
Having said all of which, Argentina, 1985 is self-consciously formulaic. The opening sequence is reminiscent of Taxi Driver, and the film is steeped in feelgood Hollywood cliches: the sassy kid who helps his dad out, the supportive wife, the odd couple pairing between Strassera and his younger naive assistant. There’s something almost anachronistic about all this. It’s clear that the filmmakers are seeking a classical register to tell a story of import. Some of the film’s brightest moments come when Llinás’ discursive storytelling techniques come to the fore, as characters relate dramatically significant moments that they have witnessed rather than letting the audience actually see them. At these moments the film acquires a more playful air, as the more idiosyncratic influence of Llinás competes with the dramatic verve of Mitre.
It would be fascinating to see this film in another part of the world where the emotional pull on the audience would not be quite so explicit as it is here. Would the dynamics of the courtroom scenes have quite such an effect? Would the immediacy of history shine through so compellingly? Would the bold inclusion of Strassera’s closing speech, of such enormous local import, translate? I don’t know the answers to that, but I do know that over here, the film has been a resounding success and deservedly so.
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