Marcelo Martinessi’s Narciso is a brilliant, gothic tale of sexual liberation and queer desire set against the rise of repression and authoritarianism in 1950s Paraguay during the ascent of dictator Alfredo Stroessner. Rock and roll, murder, and political violence collide in this visually stunning film. We spoke to its director, Martinessi, about the movie’s contemporary political resonance, its use of music, and Dracula.
The character of Narciso [played by Diro Romero] is based on Bernardo Aranda [a 27-year-old Paraguayan radio host who was killed in an apartment fire in 1959]. Did you ever consider making the film a biopic? And what has Aranda’s story come to mean in Paraguay’s cultural memory?
It became a well-known case because, after Bernardo Aranda’s assassination, they arrested hundreds of people, including many from the opposition: writers, actors, even those who weren’t gay. If there was any suspicion that they might not support the regime, they could be arrested.
There was a famous newspaper cover stating that 108 gay men had been arrested. In Paraguay, when someone is queer, they are often called ‘108.’ There was even a theater piece about this case.
The film is based on [Paraguayan writer] Guido Rodríguez Alcalá’s [2016] novel Narciso. In it, he changes Bernardo’s name to Narciso. I chose this book because it is very respectful of real events. He doesn’t invent anything. Some people blame the owner of the radio station for the murder, others blame the government, and I feel it was the kind of society where anyone could have killed him.
I love biopics, and perhaps I did consider making this one at some point, but I don’t think we had enough elements. I told the actor [Romero] to know who this character really is, but I felt the best way to portray Narciso was through the gaze of others. Throughout the film, someone is always asking about him, looking for him, wanting to seduce him, or wanting to be close to him. Even the echoes in certain scenes – for example, when the owner of the radio station touches his employee – reflect everything happening around him.
Narciso is built in a non-conventional way, and that was the biggest challenge. It may surprise viewers, because it isn’t a traditional narrative. The audience can’t simply follow one character and experience everything directly with him. I did something like that in my previous film, and I enjoy watching films like that too. We said, let’s try something different. Let’s find another way of narrating this story, respecting the facts while also creating fiction around them in a way that will not harm the real events.
I was fascinated by Narciso’s relationships with the American embassy official [Mr Wesson, played by Nahuel Pérez Biscayart] and the radio manager [‘Lulú’, played by Manuel Cuenca]. What is Narciso seeking in those dynamics? Is it self-affirmation, freedom, or simply a way out of the constraints imposed by society?
Narciso is trying to be understood. When I developed the script, it became more important to show what others feel for Narciso than what he feels for them. Narciso is a selfish character in many ways. I don’t mind writing and filming a society where there are no heroes. I feel it’s important for cinema to portray life as it is, and I don’t see many true heroes in real life – or people who will become them.
I think Narciso is interested in Lulú because he knows Lulú can make him famous. Through him, he discovers radio. And the American ambassador has rock and roll [he lends the radio station his record collection] and the possibility of getting out of the country. But as a narrative tool, it was more important to show what Narciso awakens in the owner of the radio station and in the American. Narciso is someone unique in that country, which looked very provincial.
Dracula feels like the story within the story. Does Dracula function as an alter ego for one of the characters, or as a metaphor for oppression under dictatorship?
Dracula is a way of talking about fear. In the 1950s, Dracula was also a character in a Paraguayan radio soap opera, and a very famous one. I love Bram Stoker’s book. I read it every five or six years, because I find it endlessly captivating. There are many versions of Dracula, and in the film the story gives us some sense of the social texture of the outside world, the regime, and everything around it. Probably the regime was not that happy with Dracula, but the show existed, and in the end it gave us a way to hint at what was to come: this is only the beginning.
It’s also a beautiful performance [from Arturo Fleitas, who plays Dracula in Narciso]. The radio show started with just one actor, but then we had to add more people because of the co-production [Narciso is Paraguayan-Brazilian-Portuguese-German-Spanish-French-Uruguayan co-production].
It evolved into a rich world of characters who interact really well, and it emerged organically within the story. The performance captures the period beautifully and helps convey the feel of the time.
Was there a brief period of openness in society at that point?
No. Paraguay had a very long dictatorship, from 1954 to 1989. The beginning of any regime is all about appearing open, trying to please people and win their trust, while planning what to do next. The second government of Trump is very different from the first one. First you understand, you smell what’s going on, and later you can do whatever you want – or you know better how to manipulate a society according to what you want to do.
We had civil wars. So when Stroessner – the dictator of Paraguay, who I call El Rubio in the film because I didn’t want to really mention his name – comes to power, he brings stability. Everyone celebrated that, and then he could do what he wanted.
What do you hope queer audiences will take away from the film, especially as it ends with this image of the collective repression of queer people?
I want to use conversations like this to explore what queer cinema is today. My concern is also for the vulnerability of trans cinema, because right now it feels like something at risk. There are hundreds of queer characters who exist mainly to make straight audiences feel comfortable, or trans characters who are used as objects of ridicule. Some studios are happy to keep this going without making any real change.
I believe films with an authentic queer narrative can connect more deeply with queer audiences, and they can also spark conversation. That’s part of why this film addresses taboo issues, including queer life in Paraguay today. The first reactions in Paraguay have been positive and in line with what we hoped to achieve. I think many countries outside Paraguay face similarly complex situations, so I hope the film can have a similar impact elsewhere.
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