Glaxo Review: A Tenuous Portrait of Argentina’s Dark Mid‑Century

When Benjamín Naishtam announced he was adapting Hernán Ronsino’s short novel Glaxo, expectations were understandably high. His previous features—particularly the darkly comic Rojo—had shown a knack for marrying political history with a uniquely Argentine sense of humor. This time, however, the director turns his lens to the late‑1950s, a period that still trembles with the after‑effects of Juan Perón’s ouster and the rise of a new brand of state terror.

The film opens in a surprisingly meta way: two friends in 1984 are watching The Terminator and complaining that the plot is impossible to follow. One quips that John Connor is trying to fix the past, and the screen’s voice‑over bluntly declares, “This is a story about betrayal.” It’s a clever wink, but it also foreshadows the narrative knot the movie never quite untangles.

Structurally, Glaxo borrows the novel’s four‑point, non‑linear approach. Each segment is set in a different year and filmed in a distinct aspect ratio, a visual cue that tries to keep the audience oriented. In practice, the shifts feel more like a stylistic experiment than a narrative necessity, and the story’s central secret unfolds at a glacial pace.

We first meet 1957 rural Chivilcoy, where a hard‑nosed police officer, Ramón Folcada (Marcelo Subiotto), arrives with his strikingly beautiful wife, La Negra Miranda (Lali Espósito). Folcada, a fervent Catholic with a penchant for authoritarian cruelty, is the kind of character who could have been plucked straight out of a 1970s police drama. Espósito’s Miranda, meanwhile, quickly becomes the object of every local boy’s desire, her reputation as a former sex worker whispered behind hands‑on‑hips. One of those boys, Miguelito Barrios (Joaquín Bonadeo as a youth, Manu Fanego as an adult), embarks on a risky affair with her while also tending to Folcada’s horses.

The affair itself is presented with a surprising amount of restraint. Even though a grown woman is sleeping with a teenager, the film treats the liaison more like a teenage crush than a scandalous transgression. The chemistry is muted; the scene feels almost comedic, which undercuts any potential erotic tension that could have added depth to the betrayal theme.

Subiotto delivers a performance that recalls the swagger of Robert De Niro in his gangster prime, especially in the scene where Folcada confronts two Mormon missionaries (Pablo Turturiello and Brunno Radaveli). Their clueless Spanish and naïve optimism are met with a brand of belligerent nationalism that feels both oddly funny and chillingly brutal. It’s one of the few moments where the film’s tonal balance lands just right.

Visually, the film shines. Naishtam reunites with cinematographer Pedro Sotero—who also shot Rojo—and together they recreate 1950s small‑town Argentina with a love‑letter‑like attention to detail. The production design, especially the nostalgic sock‑hop where the boys first spy La Miranda, is lush and immersive. Oddly enough, all of this was filmed in Brazil, a decision made by producer Rodrigo Teixeira that ends up paying off on screen.

The soundtrack, composed by Shigeru Umebayashi, attempts to echo the lush romanticism of his work on In the Mood for Love. While the music swells dramatically, it often feels louder than the film itself, trying to compensate for scenes that lack emotional weight. The result is a mismatch: a score that wants to be operatic while the picture remains, at times, oddly restrained.

In the later sections—set in 1968 and 1983—the narrative finally pivots toward tragedy. The once‑lighthearted misadventures give way to a grim reckoning, and the fate of the Mormon missionaries becomes a crucial piece of the puzzle. Yet even here, the film’s pacing falters; the transition from nostalgic comedy to stark tragedy feels abrupt, as if the director pressed fast‑forward on a story that needed a slower heartbeat.

Naishtam’s earlier work, such as the academically‑infused Puan (2023) and the gritty, politically charged Rojo, displayed a confidence that is missing from Glaxo. Those films married their themes and aesthetics with a sense of purpose. Here, the ambition is evident—the period details, the multiple POVs, the bold visual choices—but the execution is uneven, leaving the audience with the sense that something powerful was promised but never fully delivered.

Still, Glaxo isn’t without merit. It offers a rare look at a little‑discussed chapter of Argentine history, the early years of military oppression that pre‑date the infamous Dirty War of the 1970s. For viewers interested in how state‑sponsored violence evolved, the film provides a glimpse, however fuzzy, into that dark progression.

In the end, Glaxo feels like a film that wanted to be both a stylish period piece and a biting political allegory, but it never quite finds the sweet spot between the two. It’s an earnest effort, certainly worth a watch for the curious, but it may leave fans of Naishtam’s sharper, more assured work wishing for a stronger emotional core.