As many probably already know, I am a voracious consumer of any sort of media (film, TV, books) that tackles the topic of Argentina’s recent history, especially the history of the 1976-1983 dictatorship, the period I am loathe to refer to as the “dirty war.1” I even sometimes write reviews of it. It’s a strange niche, to be sure, and not the most trendy or profitable one, but nevertheless, it’s the niche I have chosen, or rather, perhaps, fallen into. So naturally, I was among the first to log into Amazon Prime to watch Argentina 1985 when it became available to stream online. Since then, the film has won the Golden Globe for Best Foreign Language Film and has been nominated for the BAFTA and the Oscar for Best Non-English Language/International Feature Film.
The latest from director Santiago Mitre2, Argentina 1985 tells the familiar (to me and to 99% of Argentines) story of the Trial of the Juntas (Juicio a las Juntas), a fairly clear-cut journey of a reluctant hero who ends up Doing The Right Thing. “History wasn’t made by men like me,” prosecutor Julio César Strassera (played by—who else—Ricardo Darín, the perennial leading man of Argentine cinema) says as he debates whether to take on the generals, as doing so would endanger him and his family. But make history Strassera does, along with his young co-prosecutor Luis Moreno Ocampo (Peter Lanzani), whose work with Strassera puts him at odds with his well-off, junta-supporting family (eventually, after hearing a particularly harrowing testimony from a young woman who was captured by security forces while pregnant, Moreno Ocampo’s mother sees the light or rather, the darkness that formed the foundation of the junta’s so-called “war against subversion”).
The film ends the same way the trial itself does, with a powerful speech from Strassera that recalls Atticus Finch’s closing argument in To Kill A Mockingbird and life sentences for two of the junta’s most infamous representatives, General Jorge Rafael Videla and Admiral Emilio Eduardo Massera. The other junta members get off more or less easy, and a cinematic postscript tells us that Videla and Massera’s life sentences were cut short by impunity laws passed only a few years later. But that’s beside the point. ¡Metiste en cana a Videla, Papá! (“You put Videla in jail, Dad!”) Strassera’s son says. And that’s all that matters.
Nevertheless, I did genuinely enjoy Argentina 1985. Loved it, in fact, despite its clear-cut heroes and villains, despite its undeterred faith in humanity, despite the bad guys getting what they deserve, at least for a little while (the postscript does goes on to say that trials were resumed after the Argentine Supreme Court struck down said impunity laws in the early 2000s—I guess, at the end of the day, real life does sometimes give us the unambiguously happy ending we deserve). I laughed at all the instances of comic relief, however ham-fisted, and my heart clenched as I watched all the familiar testimonies of the Nunca Más report play out before me on screen.
But my enjoyment of the film, and furthermore, my belief in its importance for teaching people, particularly those unfamiliar with Argentina’s recent history, about the horrors of the 1976-1983 military dictatorship, belies my own artistic ethos and fervent opposition to the idea that art should serve as a form of moral education for the masses. It’s a contradiction I’m not entirely comfortable with. If this were a film (or a novel, for that matter) about any other topic, I’d rightfully critique it for its ultimately didactic nature. So why is Argentina 1985 different? It’s a question I’m unable to answer without appealing to the personal, my now decade-long relationship with the topic at hand.
There’s a thin line between the aesthetic and the educational when creating art (cinematic, visual, literary) about the horrors of history. A novel or a film about the Holocaust, no matter its artistic pretensions, is read/viewed by most as a window to a brutal past that should never be forgotten. A certain degree of instructional value seems unavoidable when tackling these heavy, important topics. But there are degrees of didacticism, from the obvious to the subtle. Too educational and you risk sounding obnoxiously preachy (just write an op-ed!). Too offside and you risk minimizing the pain and suffering of real people (why should I care about these characters’ small problems while X is happening?). The question creators must ask ourselves, then, is what is the goal of our art, if such a thing exists? Is it education, self-expression? Or is it something else? What do we set out to do, if anything? All answers are correct; art can set out to do or not set out to do.
Argentina 1985 accomplishes—and accomplishes well—what it sets out to do, and what it sets out to do is clear from its distribution through Amazon. The film is the cinematic equivalent of the average upmarket3 novel, a book club film, if you will, something to watch and later discuss and solemnly reflect upon. While I’d love to see an Argentine version of The Baader Meinhof Complex featuring the Montoneros (though I realize how fraught of an undertaking this would be), or a José López Rega biopic focused on his relationship with Isabel Perón and esoterism4, there’s still something valuable about Argentina 1985’s mass appeal. Because the great thing about mass appeal is that it can later pave the way for more complex, inventive, and experimental work. If you enjoyed Argentina 1985, you might also like X, Y, and Z.
For whatever reason, this is the most common and accepted way to refer to this period in English. If only anglophone progressives knew how much their Argentine counterparts dislike the term “guerra sucia.” Alas…
Mitre also directed El estudiante (The Student), a film seemingly tailor-made for me, with its focus on the journey of a student at the University of Buenos Aires’s Faculty of Social Sciences through the low-stakes-high-drama world of la militancia.
If any Argentine filmmakers see this, please consider these two ideas.