Rafael SpregelburdPositivist Entropy: Interview with Rafael Spregelburd Hamed Sarrafi August 2024 22 Years of El Pampero Cine Issue 110 Embarking on the El Pampero Cine Dossier project has been a revelatory expedition into the heart of a team that profoundly shapes today’s Argentine cultural scene. This endeavour allowed me the privilege to interact with various luminaries who are pivotal in crafting Argentina’s contemporary cultural milieu. Rafael Spregelburd, a cornerstone of independent Argentine theatre, stands out among these. Rafael Spregelburd’s collaboration with El Pampero began in a unique fashion with Historias extraordinarias (Extraordinary Stories, Mariano Llinás, 2008) where his presence was evoked through the use of his image alone, setting a precedent for his more layered performances to come. This non-traditional role was followed by his portrayal of an English spy agent in La Flor (The Flower, Mariano Llinás, 2018), delivered with a dubbed voice, which not only deepened his cinematic repertoire but also solidified his relationship with El Pampero, establishing a lasting bond as both colleague and friend. In El escarabajo de oro (The Gold Bug, Alejo Moguillansky and Fia-Stina Sandlund, 2014) Rafael played a pivotal role, crafting a narrative centred around a treasure hunt. He portrayed a character who initiated the quest and introduced a faux revolutionary figure aimed at deceiving a foreign, non-Argentine producer, allowing the crew to pursue the treasure under the guise of filming about a fictional revolutionary. This inventive plot twist showcases his ability to navigate complex storylines with finesse. His collaboration with El Pampero reached another impressive milestone in Trenque Lauquen (Laura Citarella, 2022) where he embodied a boyfriend immersed in the search for his missing partner. This role unravelled multiple layers of secrets and personal revelations, demonstrating his skill in conveying deep emotional landscapes. These roles not only highlight Rafael’s dynamic acting abilities but also underscore his profound impact on audiences, showcasing his talent for infusing his characters with depth and authenticity. Each performance builds on his reputation as a versatile actor capable of handling intricate and emotionally charged narratives. Rafael Spregelburd is not just an acclaimed actor but also a prolific playwright, director, and critical writer for the Perfil newspaper, where he has been contributing for 17 years. His critiques and plays—performed in theatres across Germany to Italy—echo his dedication to engaging with and challenging cultural norms. His career encompasses a vast array of work, including numerous translations and adaptations of works by notable playwrights, enhancing his reputation as a versatile and insightful artist. Born in Buenos Aires in 1970, Rafael studied art, acting, and dramaturgy at the University of Buenos Aires with influential directors Ricardo Bartis and Mauricio Kartun. His body of work, spanning theatre, film, and television, has established him as a seminal figure in post-dictatorship Argentine theatre, earning him over fifty international awards. Our extensive discussion, initially a 16,000-word transcript, was meticulously condensed with the aid of him and my colleague Ghazale Sadr to better capture the essence of our conversation. This interview peeled back layers of the El Pampero movement’s structure and atmosphere, aligning closely with independent Argentine theatre. Rafael’s critical insights and detailed observations have significantly shaped my understanding of the movement’s artistic and cultural ramifications. Recently, Rafael rejoined El Pampero in Trenque Lauquen to commence shooting a new film by Laura Citarella. He shared captivating behind-the-scenes images from the project, promising more innovative endeavours ahead. His patient and articulate responses during our discussions not only illuminated his artistic vision but also highlighted the symbiotic relationship between individual creativity and broader societal movements in Argentina. Extraordinary Stories Your connection with El Pampero Cine is intriguing, especially as an actor, friend, and part of Argentina’s independent art community. Could you start with the intersections of your work and El Pampero Cine? To start, it’s important to know El Pampero Cine’s style of filmmaking probably comes from the methods and problems of independent theatre where I started myself. I was a playwright initially, then acted in plays, and later in films. In theatre, we often encounter limits that force us to become more creative. We made groups of people who share similar ideas, often working with meagre budgets. The production of our shows was simple; and we’ve made a silent promise to focus on the story rather than the showiness because too much spending in independent theatre could make people wonder if it’s fair. I’ve had the privilege of experiencing my plays staged in richer contexts, like Berlin or Paris, where I didn’t worry about finding a real waterfall or one hundred costume changes. However, if I’m doing the same play in Buenos Aires, where all costs are paid by the actors, excesses would be unethical. This tradition of creating meaningful theatre with little resources has influenced many people, and you’ll find theatre practitioners talking about the “Argentinization” of theatre in Madrid or Barcelona as a positive thing, a way of eluding financial restrictions over the companies’ imagination. I’ve been lucky to see my works performed globally, often with much bigger productions than I was used to. I was surprised initially, but I learned that different places have different expectations. In places like Germany, where the government supports theatre, people expect that the taxes they pay show in the quality of the theatre and take pride in their contribution. This is a crucial cultural development matter which faces a deep crisis in many different places around the world with the rise of extreme right-wing policies. El Pampero Cine has learned greatly from the independent theatre. We’ve begun to freely tell our stories without waiting for others’ approval. The true heart and soul of Argentine theatre is in the small venues all over the cities where the spirit of being free and creating novelties keeps living. This is the place shaping El Pampero Cine and how they make films. How was your first encounter with El Pampero Cine? My first encounter with Mariano Llinás was quite memorable. It happened around 2003, after Argentina’s significant crisis of 2001. I was working on a play of mine called Stupidity which was a huge success and ran for about four years. Mariano saw it and was impressed by our commitment to a complex storytelling fiction and the play’s length. This experience somehow influenced how he thinks about his own movies’ length. But he probably thought that way before meeting us and was just open to finding his alibi. My role in Historias Extraordinarias was minute, only appearing in photos as a policeman taken at the theatre I was working at, using the costume I wore for another play that evening. I didn’t know much about this film until the premiere where Mariano publicly explained the play I was involved in had inspired him. I was touched, not just because I simply fell in love with the film, but also because it surprised me. Mariano mentioned that he was inspired by someone in the audience—me. This made me feel a meaningful connection with filmmakers I hadn’t heard of. Instead of pointing at theatre as the poor little sister in the art family, there were people in the film scope willing to admit that much of their narrative technique originated in theatre and its lack of resources, which tends to replace spectacularity with story complexity. I discovered Mariano is interested in the connection between literature and film, and admires authors like Borges. There’s a belief that by depicting your own village, you can resonate globally. However, we’ve always been cautious of this idea, especially when it seems to suggest that smaller-scale stories are less important than grand narratives from major cultural hubs. This sounds terribly colonialistic when it implies the command working on your local problems while big cultures continue designing global myths. Borges countered this notion by setting his tales in varied locations. This philosophy has influenced my playwriting and El Pampero Cine’s filmmaking. A major way El Pampero has changed filmmaking is by challenging the strict rules set by unions. In Argentina, the film industry is tightly controlled, typically allowed only four or five weeks to shoot a film. Mariano and his team break these boundaries, sometimes spending up to eight years on a project. This grants them the liberty for more meticulous filmmaking. The art of continuity is not a major issue for their story-building. Sometimes an actor gains weight between scenes, sometimes he grows a moustache. I love this scandalous declaration of principles: time has passed, and it is also part of our story. The stage play Stupidity What are the differences between their filmmaking methods and the mainstream industry? Local regulations, unions and the Film Institute directions often make it tough to stick to traditional methods in filmmaking for us, e.g. you’re forced to shoot the entire movie within a fixed time. But sometimes you might want time to pass between two scenes for landscapes to change or actors to grow old. Likewise, budgets must be equally distributed among different artistic departments, like catering or makeup, but some don’t have the same relevance in your story. El Pampero has adapted by using natural daylight and skipping costly technical gear. This also applies to how they manage production logistics, focusing on creativity rather than budget. For instance, our film The Gold Bug was produced with minimal financial input, with a modest contribution from international sources that wouldn’t even cover a flight from Copenhagen to Buenos Aires. Yet, they managed to produce the entire movie with this budget, demonstrating a remarkable level of ingenuity and resourcefulness. Fia Stina, the co-director, wanted to direct the movie by phone, which brought its own challenges, but ultimately led to an effective collaboration in making the film. Alejo directed all of it with a firm hand, and Stina gradually understood she had to withdraw to a different role. And I believe the outcome of this movie is significant in Alejo’s filmography. It overcame its creative obstacles while delivering a compelling narrative. This is important because, unlike many mainstream Argentine films produced after the dictatorship, which often convey a strong, unified symbolic message, this film concentrates on straightforward storytelling. You should know after 1983, following the end of the dictatorship, Argentine cinema focused on telling the official story—an effort to ensure those dark times aren’t forgotten. However, there has also been a rise in narratives that are less symbolic and more about events and actions without conveying interpretations. My generation shifted from embedding messages in metaphors to directly telling stories. We care more for things rather than metaphors, and our job isn’t instructing but sharing our perspectives and experiences, which often include uncertainties, whims and mysteries we can’t explain. Extraordinary Stories You’re known for writing insightful analyses on films and cultural phenomena. Could you share your first impression of Extraordinary Stories? I wish I’d written it myself, but it wasn’t meant to be. There’s this enigmatic, almost mystical figure, Llinás, who by chance discovered the idea before me. But I’m not withholding any enthusiasm or passion since we’re not here in this life to keep those to ourselves. This film fills me with both. The images crafted are memorable, visuals that linger with you. Our minds love to draw connections, even from the most unrelated news items, leading to conclusions that are often incorrect but more fascinating. These errors, while inaccurate, forge a narrative more captivating than what reality provides. Imagine a future where children grasp complex concepts like entropy as easily as they learn colours. In this future, long after the creators of Historias Extraordinarias have died, the film continues igniting discussions, being praised and critiqued, evoking memories of a group of artists trying to understand their peculiar situations in a peculiar country. Llinás and his team take us into a future beyond what we usually think of as modern. In this new era of movies, known for its length and depth, you hear whispers of Georges Perec, Kafka, Paul Auster, Chekhov, Béla Tarr, Borges, Joyce, Murakami, and Raymond Carver. Llinás might act like he doesn’t know, but he understands the ‘positivist entropy’ that’s part of his work. This idea says that although some energy might get lost, leading to a cold and bleak end, there’s also another kind of amazing energy working which mixes with everything around it, sparking unexpected and life-affirming events. The world shown in the film doesn’t follow any fixed symbols or goals; it’s moved by the pure force of events that hold tightly to their true essence—a place where every moment is naturally extraordinary and deeply human. This film doesn’t just exist; it explores and redefines the boundaries of life and creativity, making sure it will be remembered in the history of cinema as proof of the endless possibilities of human expression. What was your reaction to La Flor? I think after the lockdown the world might change drastically or not at all. But if we’re on the brink of change, why not focus on the possibilities for improvement? Consider the future of theatre: is it going to find its new stage on cell phones? Or poetry: will it be something influencers recite on Instagram? Or cinema: will it expand or become more intimate? These are questions we should ponder. Now philosophy is offered alongside yoga and meringue recipes on the same cultural menu, reaching an unprecedented number of readers. Something unprecedented is also happening with certain films and practices. Take the films from El Pampero. These are ideologists committed to independence both out of conviction and necessity. Until recently, their films were mostly watched by a select group of aficionados, featured at cool film festivals, or catered to the tastes of the French. La Flor made the cover of Libération in Paris, a rare honour that’s only been bestowed on cinema three times in history. I adore the film La Flor greatly. Everything about it is excessive. Its 14-hour span not only challenges the average viewer but also serves as a manifesto on the boundless nature of fiction. However, the quarantine unintentionally became the perfect backdrop for this film, and the audience for La Flor exploded. What was once a rare collectible or a fine whiskey for connoisseurs is now accessible in digital form, offering some of the most unique storytelling—both in form and content. It is more than a cinematic journey; it’s a planetary experience, a declaration of love to its four performers, a meditation on crafting narratives outside the conventional industry, and a rebellion against reality’s constraints. Anyone watching it will find that its dialogues, monologues, and silences not only distract us from the pandemic but liberate us from it, returning us to the world feeling expanded and uplifted. It’s considered a masterpiece perhaps because it accidentally mirrors our extraordinary circumstances. Originally crafted to be unique, exclusive, and alternative, it has unexpectedly become accessible worldwide. El Pampero, known for their fiercely independent approach and self-funded model, has opened their doors, and the world has rushed in. There’s no going back now. La Flor has the potential to change cinema forever. If it doesn’t, it’ll be one of those things that makes us question whether anything good could justify the devastation wrought by this terrible virus. I want to learn more about other El Pampero films. But first let’s explore your past: your early influences and what led you to the world of writing, acting, and cinema. My own story might not initially attract you. I grew up in an environment that seemed unrelated to what I eventually did. Throughout my school and high school years, I was great at maths and thought about doing something technical like engineering. But writing was always a big part of my life. My mom says I started writing when I was just three using a typewriter. I always loved writing but hated literature classes; the way they taught the subject turned joy into tedium. After finishing high school, I was exhausted. Despite being a top student with high expectations from teachers to pursue a field like atomic engineering, I couldn’t continue. Coming from a very poor family, any further education would’ve required me to work to support my studies. So, after high school, I took a sabbatical year instead of diving into university. During that time, I used my English skills for teaching and translating. I enrolled in a theatre course not with the aim of becoming a professional actor, but because participating in artistic activities is common in Argentina What did acting mean to you at first? For me, acting was a way to deal with my shyness since I was extremely timid. I viewed acting as a challenge to confront that fear. However, my first attempt to professionalise in acting didn’t end as planned. I tried getting into the Conservatorio, the official acting school at the time, but failed the entrance exams. I might’ve been a terrible actor back then, but I continued taking acting courses, which eventually led to meeting Mauricio Kartun, my first playwriting teacher. Kartun is a highly respected figure in our theatrical community. In his workshops, I came to a crucial realisation: I was a mediocre actor when it came to improvisation, but I excelled when I had the opportunity to write and prepare beforehand. Now, ironically, I teach at the university that rejected me as a student, which shows how my path has come full circle. When I began acting, the trend was about liberating actors from traditional literature, encouraging them to discover their means of expression rather than relying on pre-written texts. This was meant to foster a more personal and spontaneous theatre, which was revolutionary in Europe but felt natural to us even before it was recognized in theories of post-dramatic theatre. It seems that at this stage in your life, your interests in acting and writing began to develop in parallel. When I started writing, my career’s path changed. I won the National Playwriting Prize with a play I wrote when I was 19, which was controversial, especially compared to other countries where authors typically mature into their roles much later in life. That award marked a turning point. Initially, my first five plays were scripts for other directors. It was only around 1994, when I started my theatre group with Andrea Garrote called El Patrón Vázquez, that I began writing plays meant for ourselves. This change in approach was also shaped by my studies with Ricardo Bartis, one of my teachers. He used to say that to really make it as an actor, you need to be an artist first, with a unique poetic voice nobody can replace. This way of doing theatre wasn’t just about acting or writing—it was about building a unique artistic identity. I started writing plays for other actors and groups, and now I earn my living by creating plays performed around Europe. La Flor What differences are there between Europe and Argentina? Our culture isn’t about following paths. We’re a mix of many immigrants and cultures, always mixing things, and we don’t stick to one way of doing things. We take bits and pieces from everywhere which makes our arts rich and vibrant. My perspective broadened when I travelled to London for residency at the Royal Court Theatre. It was pivotal not just because of the British playwrights I met, but because of the interactions with about 20 directors and playwrights from around the world. It made me realise my approaches were localised, suited specifically for Argentina and not elsewhere. This international exposure profoundly influenced my writing. After 1998, I started looking at things from a wider, almost global view. I’ve done lots of work around Europe, but the theatre I make still has a deep connection to Argentine roots before we send it into the world. I think El Pampero is similar. Their films are so deeply Argentine, they couldn’t come from anywhere else. Making something meaningful out of little—that’s our story. I’ll never know what could’ve happened if I’d decided to emigrate. El Pampero faces similar challenges. They can’t get the funding they need from local sources either, and they can’t fit the constraints set by film credit institutions, so they look abroad, to international festivals, where they find a broader, more accepting audience for their unique projects. Your approach to weaving cultural narratives is fascinating, particularly how you use characters to explore cultural perspectives and self-criticism. In The Gold Bug a poignant lakeside scene captures your character reflecting on outsiders’ views of Argentina while critiquing local cultural norms. This dual perspective—examining both external perceptions and internal realities—appears crucial in your storytelling which enriches the narrative for those attuned to the subtle interplays between cultures. You seem to grasp the unique challenges and perspectives that come with being from a peripheral country, like ours. In our education, we learn not only about our own continent but also extensively about Europe, Asia, and Africa. We have lots of knowledge about the big centres of creativity, but we also know that as hybrids, we’re often not seen as creators of “pure” forms. This problem goes beyond just where we are on the map, it’s also there in areas like philosophy, where Spanish isn’t really considered a main language for important discussions, which usually prefer German, English, or French. If you want to make a mark in philosophy, you have to deal with being translated to be taken seriously. We’re used to feeling somewhat left out because the main countries don’t know much about us. When we write stories, we can’t just tell the tale; we have to explain what’s normal and what isn’t. When I watch a British film, I can easily discern when it deviates from realism because the cultural cues are familiar. When we depict our reality—which can often be tumultuous and unpredictable—European audiences frequently mislabel it as ‘magical realism’ or ‘surrealism.’ This kind of economic instability transforms everyday life into a scenario where the mundane can seem magical because money loses its consistent value. In such contexts, human relationships and solidarity become invaluable, something more stable societies might struggle to comprehend. This gap in understanding also affects my work. When my plays are translated, I often find myself explaining certain jokes or references. They don’t make sense to translators, so audiences miss subtleties of our reality. However, when I adapt a British play for our local audience, I don’t need to add explanations; the wide cultural influence of central countries means people are familiar with those contexts. I’d like to specifically address the scene you mentioned in The Gold Bug. The dialogue spoken by my character relates an experience that actually happened to Alejo in Switzerland. But I didn’t entirely agree with the portrayal. My experiences with people in England and Switzerland have shown me they are far more insightful than the stereotype presented by the character here. Still, I got why Alejo wanted to go with it. For some viewers, this might be an eye-opener, giving them a fresh way of seeing things they hadn’t before. Alejo is great at taking cliches and turning them into something funny but smart. Like in the movie, how they confuse Madonna with Eva Perón — a funny way of showing how people’s lack of knowledge about a country can twist their view of its culture and people. I think the joke with Madonna is indeed clever and wittily crafted. It’s as if we talked about an Iranian actress. The little information others might have about Iran plays a big part in shaping their idea of what Iranian people are like, what they value, and what you might expect from them. That movie resonates differently depending on the context, particularly between local and foreign audiences. Locally, there’s a sense of complicity; we’re poking fun at the cliches. Although that scene by the lake is acted with lots of depth—almost in a touching way—it’s very special because it was like a family gathering. We filmed it in Entre Rios, and our families came along, our little kids there on the set. My son was only a year old, and Alejo’s daughter was two or three. Having them there while filming the monologue about children added more layers to the scene. The character I play, Rafael, has my real name, but his life-story in the film is completely made-up. It’s interesting because the film almost feels real but then it shifts into something completely absurd. Alejo has real international humour and a talent for capturing audiences globally. He consistently stands out at the Buenos Aires Film Festival, which always features an international jury. This has become somewhat controversial because he almost always wins, no matter who else is competing. His films just perfectly match what international juries look for. The Gold Bug Mariano, like you, has been increasingly recognized internationally, particularly for his screenplay work in films outside Argentina, like The Settlers, or his collaboration on Azor. His versatility allows him to contribute to both mainstream projects, including work with renowned directors and independent films, showcasing a broad and adaptable skill set. I’d like to highlight an important aspect of scriptwriting, particularly concerning projects like Argentina 1985. It’s hard to know how much of the original script stays the same after it goes through the industry’s processes. Mariano often says that many things get changed, and he has to remove parts because he can’t do anything about them. I find this need for flexibility quite difficult. When I write a play performed in other places, things can be quite different. For instance, London was a really extreme case. My play Stupidity had some fans at the National Theatre. This led to them asking for its translation as part of an exchange program and wanted a British playwright to do it. The playwright they chose loved the play and wanted to stage it at the National Theatre. The play, set in Las Vegas, needed to be translated into American English for a London audience, especially since it also makes fun of Las Vegas and American culture, among other things. When my play was performed by the Schaubühne ensemble in Berlin, they chose it because it showed Americans during the Gulf War, using the Vegas setting to point out societal absurdities. It ended up having a political tone, which I hadn’t originally intended. In England, the norms are very strict. You can write a four-hour play if you’re Shakespeare, but as a modern playwright, your work is expected to be much shorter. My play was significantly cut to meet these standards, which I didn’t agree with. If cutting was feasible without losing essence, I would’ve done it myself. Therefore, the play was read at the National Theatre but didn’t work as intended and never fully produced. The director even tried staging it in New York and got it published by Oberon Books in shortened form. When I suggested publishing it completely to give directors the freedom to make cuts, they declined, preferring the shortened version without my approval. This experience was disappointing. In contrast, what El Pampero is achieving in film is similar to what I adopt in theatre: internationalising my creative expression without compromising on details. This shared vision is why Mariano and I became friends, though I’ve ironically worked with him the least. My brief role as a British spy in La Flor was only a two-day shoot, while with Alejo and Laura, I’ve spent months, sometimes years. Talking about the flexibility of El Pampero’s cast and crew, your involvement in Trenque Lauquen is another interesting example. We know that the movie was made twice to reach its final form. Initially I had a small role. We shot my scenes in two days. But during editing, the filmmakers felt they needed to expand my character’s role, so they asked me to return. What’s unique about working with this crew is their process. They operate with a minimal team, often just four or five people which allows for lots of flexibility and minimal costs. When the film wins a prize, the monetary reward is distributed among everyone involved, which seems rather anarchistic in spirit. We essentially co-own the production and share in its successes. Unlike theatre, where you collaborate directly with your peers to create something, film often has a different dynamic. Trenque Lauquen The final scene of the first part of Laura’s movie, where your character leaves the city, is deeply poignant. Gabriel’s melancholic music accompanies your introspective bus-ride, reflecting your newfound awareness of your girlfriend’s life, capturing your isolation, and the gradual unpeeling of your ignorance, which leaves us hopeful for your return in the sequel. The film then shifts to the women’s experiences, leaving unresolved personal issues regarding your character. Additionally, your performance is dynamic and engaging, providing a compelling contrast to Ezekiel’s more reserved and contemplative demeanour. The way Laura directed that scene was powerful because it showed a key moment in my character’s life—realising he doesn’t know his partner and questioning his own identity. This revelation was devastating, but it wasn’t the time for dramatic actions, like bursting into tears. The film captures the passage of time uniquely, focusing on the internal struggle of not knowing oneself. And yes, I’d have liked to be in the sequel. That part is my favourite; I am especially interested in the scene where the monster comes out of the lake and all the confusion that follows. I mentioned that the sequel has a very feminine essence. It connects with the experience of becoming a mother, a transformative aspect that feels like having something unknown, almost monstrous inside you, a natural process, yet profoundly unsettling. This part explores themes of transformation and uncertainty. I even wrote about how the film paralleled the maternal experience with Laura Paredes and Laura Citarella who were both pregnant during the filming. I didn’t know that! Yes, Laura was pregnant, which added another layer of authenticity to the themes. Both Lauras faced these profound life changes which influenced the narrative and their performances. Pedro, Laura Paredes’ child, was already part of her life, which brought an even deeper dimension to the portrayal of maternity and personal transformation. What is captivating about working on this film is how deep and truthful emotions are shown through the visuals and timing, instead of just through words. There isn’t a script that tells you exactly how to feel or react; it leaves a lot for the audience to interpret, like in theatre where interpretation and performance are open-ended and can be nuanced. In contrast to more conventional genres where emotions and reactions are usually scripted very precisely—like in comedies or police dramas—here the approach allows for more freedom. This ambiguity and openness in how emotions are expressed are what make roles in films like these especially compelling for actors. It’s a shift from just showing information to really living the experience. Trenque Lauquen explores deep themes like motherhood and creativity, in both real and artistic senses. The film mixes natural and dreamlike elements to create a story that makes you think about the essence of creation—whether it’s about giving life or making art. What are your overall thoughts on the movie Trenque Lauquen? Citarella, with her special directing ways, chose not to use a script. Instead, she used a flexible plan and let actors improvise. The character I played, Rafael, is a big part of the story. His journey through places with no familiar sights—both as a symbol and in reality—shows how society was during the pandemic. Rafael’s search for Laura through fields and unknown places shows a bigger search for meaning and connection in a world that felt broken. Filming was like walking through a maze without a map, which is like the uncertain paths we were on. This changing nature was also part of how we made the movie, with scenes often changing right there. In one of them, I remember, it started raining. It was not the fake movie rain. It was almost invisible, as rain often is. And it was OK to shoot it like that. The film goes deep into social and feminist topics. The stories of characters like Laura, which mix themes of loss, discovery, and identity, push the audience to think about difficult questions related to gender roles and society’s expectations. The feminist aspects are more about exploring than giving clear answers. Viewing Trenque Lauquen is an experience of navigating through a labyrinth of emotions and intellectual provocations. When an audience does that collectively, the darkness of the movie theatre fills with a dense innuendo of sense I like. At its core, Trenque Lauquen is a celebration of human resilience and adaptability, reflecting how the film industry has navigated new challenges, serving as a symbol of artistic creativity and reflecting social changes. The Gold Bug You’ve worked closely with Laura, Alejo, and Mariano, and you’ve been intimate friends with Agustín. What are the differences in their directing styles, particularly in working with actors? Each director I’ve worked with has a unique approach, focusing on different artistic values. It’s difficult to simplify, but to discuss Alejo, I’d say he’s perhaps the most playful. He comes to the set with scripted dialogues that actors need to memorise. However, since he is also an editor, the final movie often presents the dialogue differently than we performed it. It’s strange because what felt concrete and straightforward during filming transforms into something magical in the editing room. Sometimes entire scenes are omitted, replaced with unrelated imagery, which can be quite frustrating for us actors. With Alejo, you arrive on set with a firm plan and a solid grasp of your character, making the direction seem clear and focused. Yet, the creative process evolves significantly in the editing stage. Since marrying Luciana Acuña, Alejo has adopted what I call ‘editing within the frame.’ Every movement in a scene is choreographed like a dance piece, whether it involves cars racing in all directions or actors shifting between foreground and background. This meticulous design means everything is well-planned from the start, yet the actual storytelling unfolds during editing. In the case of Mariano, I’ve only had small roles in two or three of his movies. For example, in Historias Extraordinarias, I was only involved through photographs. I didn’t need to understand the story or my role more than the instructions given. Mariano seems to enjoy using human elements as parts in his complex storytelling machine. He loves words, which you can see because the spoken words or voice-overs in his films often feel like his way of being there, guiding the story or showing paths for the audience. In La Flor, my role was challenging because I had to act in English, and we knew our lines would be dubbed by native speakers. This made the experience playful, I adopted an exaggerated Cockney accent and used outdated jargon from the ’60s and ’70s. We intentionally manipulated the dialogue to fit quirky rhyming slang, which added a layer of fun to the process. I knew I’d be dubbed, which added an unusual dimension to the acting. For Mariano, directing seems to balance between poetic expression and technical execution. It wasn’t about rethinking scenes that didn’t work but more about technical details like how to pronounce words and the timing of phrases so they fit well with voice-overs and visual changes. So, my experience was very technical, focusing on precise execution rather than emotions or story depth. And, how was Laura’s approach? I find her directing style very engaging, especially because I often have long dialogues and a very active character. We have what I’d call theatrical discussions—exploring the character’s knowledge, motivations, and actions, like how I’d get ready for the theatre. Laura’s scenes are usually long, making it seem like there will be no sudden cuts. This means I should be ready to keep the flow of the scene going, almost like acting in a short play. For example, in Trenque Lauquen, there was a scene that lasted about 10 to 15 minutes, which we practised like a separate theatre piece. This method lets actors behave more naturally because we’re not constantly interrupted by camera cues. Laura focuses on emphasising natural acting in a setting that might seem like science fiction. What stands out is her skill in mixing true-to-life acting in a story that seems somewhat unreal. My experiences with different directors were unique, but they all approached film production similarly. Each project took a long time, with lots of reshoots, and we often kept our costumes for reuse. We haven’t talked much about how they pay, but it’s not the usual way. Even though the pay might be different, you really feel like you’re part of a team creating art together. This feels special because, in other film projects, they usually don’t ask for my ideas about my character. However, with El Pampero, I am actively involved in the creative process. I don’t feel the need to rewrite my lines because I’m integrated into their creation from the start. They often let you act under your own name, like my character in Trenque Lauquen who’s called Rafael, which makes it feel more personal, like I’m signing my work in the film. Trenque Lauquen Considering your broad experience, could you discuss the distinct storytelling styles, themes, or structures that define the works of key directors in the last 22 years? Are there particular storytelling techniques or recurring subjects that reveal a common vision or thematic exploration? It’s challenging to generalise, given the diversity among filmmakers, but I understand your point. From the outside, it might seem they have lots in common, like they’re all working together. But I think what really interests them is exploring the unusual and talking about things that aren’t usually talked about even when the setting seems ordinary or shallow initially. I’ve noticed that they often film in just one part of our country—the Pampas. This flat landscape isn’t just a backdrop; it means a lot to us culturally. Unlike the more dramatic or attractive landscapes of places like Brazil, our sea is too cold, and without mountains, like a big, open maze, similar to the complex stories of Borges who inspires many, including Mariano. This setting makes viewers look closer at its vast, maze-like simplicity. So, I think, they have been trying to create what Borges might call a labyrinth made from a single straight line. In terms of cinematography, the lack of dramatic natural events—like snow avalanches or floods—means the visual story often focuses on quieter things like calm trees, scattered cattle, and small towns hidden in wide open spaces. It feels both desperate and calming because there is little change, nothing much to worry about—no earthquakes, no typhoons. It’s a landscape that seems to offer nothing, yet that’s where the challenge lies. Apparently, some of Alejo’s movies didn’t follow the same pattern when it came to locations. Alejo’s project, The Gold Bug, is different. He decided to film in Misiones and Entre Ríos to avoid the usual places and make his movies stand out. Another example is For the Money, which was filmed in Colombia and the Caribbean. And now, he’s working on a project in Switzerland. I don’t know the details, but it seems he really wants to move from the usual settings. However, for most other filmmakers, you wouldn’t typically find them considering a location like a comfortable building in the city. They seem to have little interest in interiors or well-lit buildings in fashionable urban settings like Buenos Aires. Instead, they are drawn to more remote, non-urban settings, although their characters often originate from urban environments. This creates a romantic contradiction in how they show the Pampas, which I call a “writerly” perspective. It reminds me of one of our important local writers from the past century, José Hernández, who wrote ‘Martín Fierro.’ This epic poem is a key part of our culture, showing the life of the gaucho, the typical person living on these wild plains. The filmmakers’ work connects with this theme, exploring the essence and challenges of the gaucho spirit in a modern setting. Alejo’s background has a strong connection to the gaucho culture, right? Alejo’s father is Polish, I believe, but the concept of the gaucho isn’t inherently linked to any specific ethnic origin. Gauchos are typically the local people of the Pampas. In his important work, José Hernández depicted the gaucho as a mix of Spanish heritage and indigenous tribes. They were essentially soldiers in our civil wars, similar to the North-South divide in the American Civil War, but here it was between Buenos Aires and the provinces—Unitarios and Federalists, with the latter supporting a federal nation and eventually winning. The gaucho represents the rural worker. And because Hernández is seen as a romantic writer, not a realist, this makes it hard to view the gaucho in a realistic way. In filmmaking, there seems to be a similar romantic view. Directors of El Pampero often adopt a poetic attitude towards areas like the Pampas, which might not naturally have dramatic qualities. That’s why their films often have long outdoor scenes with cars travelling on boring routes. These aren’t road movies about trips, but about the landscapes that frame the complex stories they’re telling. The practical side of filmmaking also influences this choice. Shooting outdoors is often necessary because of low budgets for lighting equipment for indoor scenes. Given the current political and economic situation in Argentina, what are your thoughts on how these changes might affect your work as an artist? With the new presidential administration’s policies, how do you think these will impact your work? What strategies might you use to lessen any negative effects on your art? Answering your question is quite challenging. It feels like we’re facing something as tough as the devil himself sometimes. Imagine realising that the people governing us seem totally incompetent, like characters from a disturbing fiction, yet it’s our reality. Previously, such situations led to pain, poverty, disaster, and chaos, offering no bright future for the next generation, including my children. So, I’m pretty pessimistic about this. Looking at Brazil as a warning example, many people found Bolsonaro’s election unimaginable. His actions, like jailing former President Lula, showed how judicial powers could become political tools for the executive agenda. This shocked many Brazilians who thought their country was too civilised for this. Yet, it happened and lasted longer than expected. These extreme right parties, they talk a big game about fixing poor countries, but it’s all nonsense. Everyone knows their ideas don’t work. Even big organisations like the IMF worry about the plans of this government. They say it will cause trouble and maybe even riots. It’s clear these policies can’t last long-term. They never have. Moreover, cultural institutions have had big cuts. The government has closed the National Institute for Theatre and stopped funding the national cinema school and the movie institute. Our cinema schools attract students from all over Latin America because they offer quality education without heavy debt. The unexpected introduction of a class system, where higher education is now seen as only for the wealthy rather than a basic right, is hard to accept. Now, it seems like higher education is just a way to keep the less fortunate in low-paying jobs, doing work that others don’t want to do. This growing class division, normal in many places, is facing strong opposition here, especially in cultural circles. The financial relationship between the national government and the provinces isn’t working properly. Normally, provinces pay taxes to the national government, which should then redistribute funds back to the provinces as federal aid. This system has broken down, affecting not only cultural institutions but also impacting public services and even pensions. With hyperinflation rising and legal restrictions against increasing wages or pensions, people’s purchasing power is dropping fast. For example, my household bills for utilities have increased tenfold, while my salary stays the same. The only hopeful thing I can say is that these policies can’t last. People won’t just disappear or starve quietly; they will push back. The situation is both serious and ridiculous, changing every day in unpredictable ways, making it hard to foresee the future. Then there’s the issue of our insane president: he takes pride in saying he follows the advice of his dead dog, named after Conan, a neoliberal economist. Social networks never stop giving us material for dystopian films. Surprisingly, it’s become harder to produce my theatrical works in Buenos Aires than in Europe. But it’s not that simple. Friends, family and colleagues are beginning to become desperate. It’s like being at war. The Gold Bug That’s one reason why we often see co-productions, like movies involving partners from Chile or Germany. You have to diversify your funding sources, like with The Gold Bug. Sometimes you must find financing from outside Argentina. Correct? Yes, but take the case of The Gold Bug, which was made with just €5000. In this sense, this political and economic situation probably won’t affect how El Pampero operates because they’ve never relied on local funding. They’ve always believed in having the freedom to film as they want. In some ways, they’re critical of institutions like INCAA which impose conditions that can sometimes limit artistic creativity. As it happens, our approach changes in both planning and execution. This was clear during the filming of Trenque Lauquen. After shooting, we reviewed it, didn’t like it, and decided to rewrite the script. We reused what had been shot and filmed the missing parts. This process took over 5-6 years, which is why the film has its unique character. I wouldn’t say this is the only way to make films, but it’s a method that fits our available resources. Coming from the theatre world, where the creative process is less constrained, we’re used to an environment where you can rehearse a play repeatedly without the pressure to premiere before you’re ready. Wealthier countries might not consider such an approach because it’s outside their usual production practices, and poorer countries can’t afford it because they must use their limited resources cautiously. We find ourselves in the middle, dealing with the advantages and disadvantages of working without significant external support. Considering the financial aspect of filmmaking, do you believe an increase in budget, from sources other than typical industry backers like INCAA, could significantly alter the structure or visual style of El Pampero? In an ideal situation, if El Pampero had access to larger budgets, would it manifest in noticeable changes in their movies? If they had more financial resources, I believe the most immediate change would be in how they compensate their team—the human resources would definitely see better payment. As for the use of additional funds, I think a significant portion would likely be allocated to travel, enabling them to shoot in more exotic locations, which they seem to favour. I doubt that receiving more funding would change their approach to cinematography. They have a unique style that focuses on showing things exactly as they are, and this has become a key part of who they are as filmmakers. Indeed, why fix something that’s already working well? Nonetheless, it’s fascinating to think about the potential outcomes. As you’re aware, Mariano is in high demand as a scriptwriter for big-budget projects, where his scripts often undergo alterations by directors, actors, or during the editing process. Despite these obstacles, his reputation for delivering top-notch work remains unblemished. Regarding spending on high-profile film stars, that’s not where they would allocate resources. They’re quite satisfied with the actors/actresses they currently work with. It’s not a matter of budget constraints but choice—they prefer collaborators who fit their vision. I believe that even in an ideal scenario where substantial funding was provided, considering Alejo’s creative tendencies, he might create a film about the very concept of receiving this funding and perhaps do nothing substantial with it! His approach could lead to a narrative even more introspective and complex than The Gold Bug or something absurd, potentially turning the funding itself into a central theme of the plot. It’s hard to predict. While Alejo is definitely diligent and reliable, he might not use the money as expected. Still, it’s an interesting question—what would they choose to invest in with extra funds? I can imagine them choosing to buy a reliable van, something practical that could make travelling to different locations easier. Perhaps they might invest in better camera equipment. It seems they have been consistently using Agustín’s camera for projects. Yes, they do tend to use whatever is available, even basic photography cameras, to achieve their vision. They might invest in better video equipment, but you’re right—why change something that is their signature style? Their films aren’t glossy or highly polished, but that’s become a part of their identity. It’s not about the shine; it’s the content and narrative that catch the eye and make their films compelling. The unique structure of their storytelling and the distinctive characters are what stand out. Precisely. There’s a notable precedent in their approach, which can be seen in a theatre play Mariano wrote and Alejo directed: Concierto para la Batalla de El Tala. It’s a perfect example of how their distinctive style translates across different mediums. It’s a theatrical play about a movie that you cannot see. In the theatre, there’s a screen, but it remains entirely black. The audience doesn’t see any visuals—only subtitles. Meanwhile, on stage, there’s an orchestra led by his favourite musician, Gabriel Chwojnik. The experience is profound because it demands your presence; you simply cannot film it, it’s pure theatre. However, they did create a film version later, which I haven’t seen. The original appeal was that the movie was intentionally black, allowing the audience to imagine the scenes described by subtitles. These subtitles, based on a historic Civil War episode involving General Gregorio Aráoz de Lamadrid unfold like a long poem. This poetic text complements the live music, creating a rich, multi-sensory experience without traditional visuals or actors. So, in essence, he crafted a theatre play without visible actors and a movie without actual filming. This approach typifies their tendency to subvert industry norms. If given a substantial budget, I believe they’d continue challenging and perhaps even ‘corrupting’ expectations in some inventive way. Laura Paredes, Pilar Gamboa, Elisa Carricajo, & Valeria Correa Another recurring element in their films is a quartet of women from another theatre company, Piel de Lava, who have made multiple appearances. You’ve collaborated with some of these actresses, such as Laura Paredes, Pilar Gamboa, Elisa Carricajo, and Valeria Correa. Can you provide insight into this group? How do they fit into the Argentine theatre scene? Do their productions typically involve all-female casts, or do they collaborate with male colleagues too? Yes, the group has indeed gained significant popularity. They’re known as Piel de Lava,’ which translates to ‘lava skin’. The name cleverly incorporates the two initials of each member. Piel de Lava has become known for their unique approach. They function as a cooperative, creating and staging their own texts in an anarchic manner—no one member directs, and all must agree on decisions. I know them quite well, as three of them were once my students, and I remember them as very young, enthusiastic learners. Laura, for example, was only 16 or 17 when she began. Their dedication to their craft has led to memorable productions. Alongside Laura Fernández, another former student who contributes as a co-writer and co-director, they have produced notable shows such as ‘Petróleo’. Their work is truly commendable, blending innovation with a deep understanding of theatrical dynamics. It’s particularly engaging because it subverts traditional expectations. Usually, you see men dressed as women, but here it’s the opposite. The play explores themes of exploitation, and by having women depict male exploitation, it adds a rich intellectual layer. ‘Petróleo’ really gained lots of popularity. It began as a commission by a state-owned theatre. Despite its intellectual depth, ‘Petróleo’ successfully transitioned to commercial theatre, indicating its broad appeal, and has continued to perform once a week, running for about four or five years now and remarkably always sold out. The play has also been well-received internationally, with invitations to numerous festivals. Following the success of ‘Petróleo,’ another theatre, the Art House, commissioned them to create a new piece titled ‘Parliament,’ which they’re currently performing, featuring Zypce as a live musician. I’ve worked with him many times in my theatre plays, and this collaboration with the actresses is simply delightful. ‘Parliament’ began as a work in progress, which interestingly means it’s perpetually evolving. Its narrative centres around four representatives of extreme right-wing parties in a futuristic Congress, now relocated to a satellite orbiting Earth due to escalating conflicts on the planet. Humorously, they incorporate actual snippets from speeches by well-known political figures, reflecting the ideologies of these parties. But it’s important to note that what Piel de Lava is doing isn’t just exceptional; it’s inspirational. In Buenos Aires, there’s a long tradition of actors collaborating to write and perform their own material, creating unique theatrical languages. This group has excelled in establishing their own distinctive voice within that tradition, proving that creating your own narrative style is crucial for survival and success. Being a friend and working with El Pampero, do you have a favourite film? Is there one that is very special to you? If so, why is that film important to you? Movies often evolve in our memories, and for me, Historias Extraordinarias was profoundly impactful. I was moved by its uniqueness and the emotional resonance of the story. What struck me was how the narrative complexities gradually unfolded and then subtly dissipated. It’s difficult to choose a favourite film because, as Harold Pinter eloquently said, each new work is an attempt to correct the mistakes we made in the previous one. The idea that no creation is perfect and each project is part of a continuous improvement process, or movement, makes sense to me. However, if I must highlight a few, The Gold Bug was particularly memorable, and ‘For the Money’ struck me as even more compelling upon viewing. Trenque Lauquen also holds a special place because I had the privilege of representing it at various international film festivals, engaging deeply with audiences during Q&A sessions. Each film, at the time of viewing, feels like the best, a testament to our ongoing journey in filmmaking. As there are many aspects of the film I’d change, I’ve frequently voiced my opinions on how it could have been improved. This connection makes it more than just a film; it’s a dynamic and ongoing conversation… It’s interesting that you mentioned the imperfections in Trenque Lauquen. What specific things about the film you or your team found lacking or criticised? What changes would you make? My main issue with the film comes from Laura’s choice to split the movie into two parts. This was meant to be a commercial solution for handling the complex story, but it ended up oversimplifying and dividing the narrative too sharply. This split weakened the narrative’s potential to echo the first part within the wider context of the film, which could’ve enhanced the viewer’s experience. I often argue that the second part of the movie is where the film’s strengths lie, especially in its ability to weave complex, interconnected stories. However, Laura thinks that showing the movie in two parts makes viewers pick a favourite, setting the halves against each other. I believe the first part feels more romantic and realistic, while the second part dives into science fiction. This division creates an uneven narrative pace and focus, which could’ve been avoided by keeping thematic and narrative elements consistent across both parts, enhancing continuity and depth. I like the second part of the film more because it goes back to things from the first part in a way that connects better for me, making it feel like a continuous flow. When talking about the process, it still feels active to me even after the movie is finished. A good movie makes you think and talk about it long after watching it, leaving you with unanswered questions and mixed feelings. As you’ve noted the influence of Extraordinary Stories on Trenque Lauquen, with its novel-like structure and themes of journey and mystery, and given Laura’s character similarities across films, how do you see Laura’s transformation in her filmmaking style? Her first two films, Ostende and Dog Lady, have fewer twists and more silent moments, while Trenque Lauquen adopts an epic style reminiscent of Mariano’s works. What are your observations on this evolution? It might well be so. But I also think that in this film Laura had more time (both narrative and planning) and that led to a complexity that allowed the film to find its complex form. Mariano is always a consultant through the process, so it’s no wonder his marks remain visible. Considering the personal elements in Trenque Lauquen, with both Lauras being pregnant, do you think they project their relationships with their partners into the screenplay, consciously and unconsciously? Getting pregnant is something ruled by biology. When women get to a certain age, it’s both logical and sought for. They took some advantage of the merry coincidence, I think. The film shows pregnancy in many different states. As I said, for me Trenque Lauquen is a film about motherhood. Everything you knew about yourself, your body, your thoughts, or your priorities is about to change forever. This is what getting lost is all about.
