Film writer Wendy Gosselin continues her coverage of this year’s BAFICI festival with reviews of three Argentine films: El Loro y el Cisne, El Olimpo Vacío, and Antonio Gil. Click the titles of each for more information about future showings and tickets.

El loro y el cisne (photo: BAFICI)
Right from the start, Moguillansky’s new moview leaves us whirling like the dancers on screen: what kind of film is this, exactly? A film within a film? A romantic comedy? Or Swan Lake remade with an older, pregnant Odette and a brooding Prince Siegfried? The film’s ostensible hero is El Loro, the quiet soundman for a documentary film crew who is wallowing in a worn-out relationship. He not only plays a soundman — he also is the soundman, perpetually gripping a big fuzzy microphone, even when scenes turn emotional. The crew has been hired to shoot dance troupes in Argentina — “It’s for Chicago, Miami…USA!” the director explains to a perplexed ballet man. The scenes where the documentary team films the dance troupes are truly delightful – the film guys poke each other and whisper about the dancers while the dancers study old recordings on a television screen and then assiduously replicate the steps. This humour is particularly Argentine, the passion for one’s art combined with the check-out-her-ass attitude. The search for new manifestations of dance soon leads the film crew to the Krapp group. This makeshift bunch does contemporary things indeed — “It’s like being an atheist—only with yourself,” explains Luciana, our swan, who soon fall for our soundman. So it’s a love story! Up until this point, the film is quirky, entertaining and solid — and then the documentary film ends and the real film slips out of control. Just as El Loro decides he’s in love, Lu disappears. When she returns, she’s pregnant. Undaunted, El Loro declares his love and Luciana runs off again. We return to the initial, exciting question that the film posed: what kind of film is this? Only as it creeps slowly towards the two-hour mark, it becomes apparent that not even Moguillansky himself knows the answer.
El Olimpo Vacío (Pablo Racioppi/Carolina Azzi)
This political documentary introduces us to writer and philosopher Juan José Sebreli and his book ‘Comediantes y mártires’, where he takes on four of Argentina’s most beloved icons: Gardel, Evita, el Che and Maradona. According to Sebreli, the mystique of each of these figures was created by a group with its own particular interest in transforming person into legend. Sebreli’s theory doesn’t sit well with many — “I learned to love the booing,” he clarifies early on — and the directors do an extraordinary job of countering Sebreli’s arguments with those of experts in their respective fields (tango historian José Gobello, Peronist politican Antonio Cafiero, historian Osvaldo Bayer and sports broadcaster Víctor Hugo Morales). The film also makes excellent use of archive material to present each of the four icons—news casts, photographs, radio broadcasts and the repetition ad infinitum of their images on everything from city walls to necklaces. The four segments (one for each icon) are informative and dotted with scenes of Sebreli meeting with friends, doing interviews and reiterating his points on camera.
A fifth section presents the icons that Argentina chose to represent the nation when invited to be the guest country at the 2010 Frankfurt Book Fair: coincidentally (or otherwise), President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner initially opted for the same four figures that Sebreli wrestles with in his book. The film continues with yet another section on unanimity in which Sebreli argues that the dangerous consent forged during the ’78 World Cup is what paved the way for the Malvinas War in 1982. Although these last two segments are also filled with fascinating facts and Sebreli’s honed insight, the thread of the documentary narrative starts to run thin. Nevertheless, this film is a must for anyone with a visceral relationship to Argentina.

Antonio Gil (photo: BAFICI)
According to some, he was a recruit who refused to fight; for others, he was a common thief, a local Robin Hood, a case of mistaken identity. This documentary is about “El Gauchito” Gil, one of the most colourful of Argentina’s popular saints. Like his counterparts across Latin America, El Gauchito is a figure who is not officially recognised by the Catholic Church, but to whom miracles are attributed. Gil’s sanctuary is located at the spot where he was murdered in the town of Mercedes, Corrientes. On 8th January, the day commemorating his death, followers wait hours in line for the chance to approach his altar, light a candle, ask for a miracle or thank him for fulfilling their request. This is fertile terrain for documentary filmmaking and a slow tracking shot reveals the endless line of Gauchito followers, some dressed in red, others clutching statues of their protector. There are splendid shots of the men and women transporting the red cross to the sanctuary on horseback, trotting towards camera; their grave, earnest faces hail from times past. Dansker, however, overuses the tracking shot, lingering for too long on the food stands, campsites and makeshift constructions on the garbage-strewn lands around the sanctuary. The people constantly stopping to wave and ham it up for the camera also grows tiring. Danker’s informants provide voiceovers to these images, offering their personalised accounts of ‘The Gaucho’s “true story.” The stories vary, but all concur that he suffered a bloody, merciless death. The voices of the people who worship ‘The Gaucho’ are valid sources, but Dansker misses the mark by never showing her informants onscreen. Thus, although Antonio Gil provides some insight into popular practices of worship, it would have benefited from a more dynamic, compelling film narrative.






























