The Secret In Their Eyes sounded interesting to me, but I wasn’t convinced its sexual politics would be up to much. However, I was wrong: the film is incredible, and sets out some genuinely thoughtful and well articulated ideas and problems about the nature of relationships (of all types) and morality in a society in which oppression comes in a variety of forms, and, over the years, from a variety of sources.
The moment where the protagonist, Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Darin), sees the victim of the crime that is to haunt him for a quarter of a century is, frankly, one of the most immediately moving and affective moments in film, for me: the change from his irritable and crude banter to being hit by the shock of the body is remarkable, not least because it actually work. It doesn’t just communicate to you that his normally brash persona is shocked, it makes you feel that along with him – at least, it made me feel it.
Much of the film packs this sort of punch. Its impact is remarkable – especially as it is in so many ways “just” a film about everyday life under the Argemtinian military regime. Usually, I find films that attempt to personalise greater social ills and conflicts of this type – including those that deal with war as well as life under military regimes by representing an individual’s story (so I’m thinking anything from Sophie’s Choice to Saving Private Ryan, I suppose) – painful; this is largely because, in general terms, in personalising such huge tragedies, in trying to “represent” them or even comment on them via the device of one individual’s experience in and of them, I feel that such films have a tendency to trivialise the greater picture, and to really lose sight of what is (or was) at stake, historically. But some films – and I’d include writer-director Paul Verhoeven’s Black Book amongst them – manage to make it work: and when it works, it’s powerful stuff indeed: when the story and character details in a “personal” tale manage not just to work on their own, but to resonate effectively and emotionally – and convincingly – with the wider, unspoken story of their historical context, then that is, to my mind, amazing filmmaking. And this film is amazing: to work so brilliantly as both a story about individuals and about the context in which they live, and also to work in commenting on that context and its affect on so many, is remarkable – and deeply affecting. I might revisit this film and write more about the details, but for now am anxious not to, as I don’t want to spoil anything for anyone who’s not yet seen it. But if you have, then I think that the story’s major “twist” works exceptionally well as (and only as) a reflection of what life under the regime has done to people; I also think that the way in which Benjamin and Irene (Soledad Villamil) fail to live their lives – and their love – makes sense only when they are understood as individuals in the socio-political context in which we see them; and is so much more powerful because of that. This is an amazing film – about individuals, and about the regimes in Argentina that shaped the lives of so many individuals.
