The Secret in their Eyes (El Secreto de Sus Ojos)
Directed by Juan Jose Campanella
Argentina (2009); In Spanish with subtitles.
127 mins. Rated R (nudity, rape, violence, language)
Directed by Juan Jose Campanella
Argentina (2009); In Spanish with subtitles.
127 mins. Rated R (nudity, rape, violence, language)
* * *
When the Oscars came around last spring we had seen almost every nominee except the foreign language entries. As it turns out, this was the most controversial category. Odds makers had The White Ribbon (Germany) as the prohibitive favorite with The Prophet (France) as the dark horse. The winner, Argentina’s The Secret in their Eyes was a shocker. Those who would dismiss the Oscars as irrelevant should consider--The White Ribbon, which is a masterpiece was only in theaters long enough to down a box of Raisinets before heading to DVD, while Secret, a middling film, is still selling tickets. It’s been at our local cinema for six weeks, which is where we finally saw it.
Many critics liked the film, including Roger Ebert, but quite a few hated it. Wesley Morris of The Boston Globe averred that it “has the high, slightly nauseating stink of perfume on garbage.” Great line! But inaccurate. So too is Ebert’s praise. The Secret in their Eyes is something in between a classic and a dog—call it a stylishly done run-of-the-mill thriller. It attempts to graft a film-detective formula—a decades-old unresolved mystery—to a cliché posing as wisdom: that the eyes cannot conceal or lie.
The film also breaks out the shopworn tool of a man late in life feeling the need to exorcise old demons by writing a book about them. In this case we meet retired judge Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Dario) in 1999, who is haunted by the 1974 murder that he solved when he was still a court investigator. It involved the brutal rape and murder of a pretty school teacher and the eventual conviction of a creep she knew from her youth. Already we’re on clichéd ground and director Campanella adds a few more: Pablo, Benjamin’s drunken-but-loyal sidekick (Guillermo Francella); Ricardo, the widower husband determined to solve the murder on his own (Pablo Rago); Irene (Soledad Villami), the new judicial officer for whom Benjamin yearns; and a jumbo-sized popcorn bucket full of corrupt politicians. The latter describes most of Argentina’s ruling elite during the 1970s, but this is no Missing (1982) and Campanella is no Costa Gavras. (Okay, so Missing was set in Chile, but Argentina’s Peronistas were no better. Campanella’s passing reference to the Perons is ham handed.)
The eyes are the key. Benjamin is determined to break the case when he sees the pain in Ricardo’s face. Irene reads guilt in the killer’s eyes and sees Benjamin’s yearning for her in his. Benjamin reads Pablo’s besotted intelligence beneath his Beatle-cut brow, and--for reasons never quite explained--reads Irene’s longing for him but averts his eyes. Etcetera…. Twenty-five years later there are still some secrets that need to be cleared up. Can Benjamin still reach a person’s soul through their gaze? For the record, I believe that the eyes can tell tales—I can often identify an intelligent student by an ineffable spark I see in the iris—but there’s a reason why we have expressions such as “poker face.” Campanella would have use believe that the eyes are better than sodium pentothal and that it’s never too late to start all over. The degree to which you believe these things will pretty much shape to degree which you find his film compelling versus contrived.
The film has a classy look to it—almost as if it’s a 40s film noir shot in color. The acting is also very good, especially Dario as Benjamin exuding approach-but-don’t-touch buttoned-up reserve. Villami is also superb as a nobody’s fool woman who’s equal parts competent, desirable, and cool as ice. The film also has a creepy resolution that invites contemplation of the word “justice.” In all, it’s a film that’s worth watching, but for heavens sake, don’t buy into its hype.
When the Oscars came around last spring we had seen almost every nominee except the foreign language entries. As it turns out, this was the most controversial category. Odds makers had The White Ribbon (Germany) as the prohibitive favorite with The Prophet (France) as the dark horse. The winner, Argentina’s The Secret in their Eyes was a shocker. Those who would dismiss the Oscars as irrelevant should consider--The White Ribbon, which is a masterpiece was only in theaters long enough to down a box of Raisinets before heading to DVD, while Secret, a middling film, is still selling tickets. It’s been at our local cinema for six weeks, which is where we finally saw it.
Many critics liked the film, including Roger Ebert, but quite a few hated it. Wesley Morris of The Boston Globe averred that it “has the high, slightly nauseating stink of perfume on garbage.” Great line! But inaccurate. So too is Ebert’s praise. The Secret in their Eyes is something in between a classic and a dog—call it a stylishly done run-of-the-mill thriller. It attempts to graft a film-detective formula—a decades-old unresolved mystery—to a cliché posing as wisdom: that the eyes cannot conceal or lie.
The film also breaks out the shopworn tool of a man late in life feeling the need to exorcise old demons by writing a book about them. In this case we meet retired judge Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Dario) in 1999, who is haunted by the 1974 murder that he solved when he was still a court investigator. It involved the brutal rape and murder of a pretty school teacher and the eventual conviction of a creep she knew from her youth. Already we’re on clichéd ground and director Campanella adds a few more: Pablo, Benjamin’s drunken-but-loyal sidekick (Guillermo Francella); Ricardo, the widower husband determined to solve the murder on his own (Pablo Rago); Irene (Soledad Villami), the new judicial officer for whom Benjamin yearns; and a jumbo-sized popcorn bucket full of corrupt politicians. The latter describes most of Argentina’s ruling elite during the 1970s, but this is no Missing (1982) and Campanella is no Costa Gavras. (Okay, so Missing was set in Chile, but Argentina’s Peronistas were no better. Campanella’s passing reference to the Perons is ham handed.)
The eyes are the key. Benjamin is determined to break the case when he sees the pain in Ricardo’s face. Irene reads guilt in the killer’s eyes and sees Benjamin’s yearning for her in his. Benjamin reads Pablo’s besotted intelligence beneath his Beatle-cut brow, and--for reasons never quite explained--reads Irene’s longing for him but averts his eyes. Etcetera…. Twenty-five years later there are still some secrets that need to be cleared up. Can Benjamin still reach a person’s soul through their gaze? For the record, I believe that the eyes can tell tales—I can often identify an intelligent student by an ineffable spark I see in the iris—but there’s a reason why we have expressions such as “poker face.” Campanella would have use believe that the eyes are better than sodium pentothal and that it’s never too late to start all over. The degree to which you believe these things will pretty much shape to degree which you find his film compelling versus contrived.
The film has a classy look to it—almost as if it’s a 40s film noir shot in color. The acting is also very good, especially Dario as Benjamin exuding approach-but-don’t-touch buttoned-up reserve. Villami is also superb as a nobody’s fool woman who’s equal parts competent, desirable, and cool as ice. The film also has a creepy resolution that invites contemplation of the word “justice.” In all, it’s a film that’s worth watching, but for heavens sake, don’t buy into its hype.
Postscript: We finally saw Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon. We wholeheartedly concur with Lloyd Sellus’ review on this site. Put this one on your Netflix queue immediately. What if the testimony of the children in the Salem witch trials had never been repudiated? Put those kids in a repressed Protestant German village in 1914, the kind where everyday brutality passes as improving character. Talk about the “secret” in the eyes! You can almost see swastikas shooting out like time-delayed bombs in the pupils of the village offspring. This isn’t a good film—it’s a contender for best of the century. Too bad Hollywood was dazzled by Campanella’s bling and was blinded to Haneke’s steely glare.
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