THE STORY – Paraguay, 1959. Under a suffocating military regime, charismatic and mysterious Narciso returns from Buenos Aires with rock & roll in his veins. He quickly becomes a radio sensation and a symbol of freedom. Narciso captivates, inspires, unsettles. After one final show, he is found lifeless. In a country where silence reigns, fear smothers the truth – who killed Narciso?
THE CAST – Diro Romero, Manuel Cuenca, Arturo Fleitas, Margarita Irun, Mona Martinez & Nahuel Perez Biscayart
THE TEAM – Marcello Martinessi (Director/Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 101 Minutes
In 1959, Asunción was a city caught between two heartbeats. One was a foreign rhythm, a sudden, electric vibration of rock’n’ roll, carrying the heat and speed of a modernity that felt like a faint illusion of progress. The other was a slower, disciplined pulse, a heavy surveillance that began to redraw the limits of what could be seen or desired. It is within this charged atmosphere that director Marcelo Martinessi (“The Heiresses”) places his latest film, “Narciso”.
The film centers on Narciso (Diro Romero), a character based on Bernardo Aranda, whose real-life murder in 1959 remains an unsolved case with deep symbolic weight for Paraguay. Martinessi isn’t interested in the procedural mechanics of solving a crime; instead, he uses Aranda, or in the film’s case, Narciso’s life and death, to dissect a profound shift in the country’s history. Under a suffocating military regime, Narciso returns from Buenos Aires with rock’ n’ roll in his veins and becomes a radio sensation at Radio Capital.
Narciso embodies a fleeting, electric kind of autonomy. He is less a singer and more a vessel for the raw, unbridled energy of Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, and Little Richard. He’s a figure whose mere presence can spark a riot of joy and dance without him ever having to vocalize a lyric. Yet, there is a foreboding quality to his movement; as he speeds away on his motorcycle after his final show, he seems to be racing against a future that is visibly tightening around him.
The film is most compelling when it explores the intimate dynamics within the radio station. Don Luis “Lulú” Bermúdez (Manuel Cuenca), the station owner, is a complex figure—a sort of Colonel Tom Parker who is both possessive and critical, reminding Narciso that he is nothing without the platform the station gave him. Yet, through Luis’s eyes, we see a profound yearning. The film’s exploration of queerness during this time is handled with vulnerability and secrecy, particularly in a dark, dream-like scene of smoke and shadow, where queer people go to hide and whose orgasmic sounds fill the night like the last noise of freedom for those whose bodies are being policed.
Using the defense of morality as a strategic shield, the government of El Rubio (a play on the real-life dictator Alfredo Stroessner) manufactures an uncompromising mandate in the name of tradition. This campaign was never just about a singular crackdown on immorality (a.k.a. homosexuality); it was the meticulous construction of an authoritarian architecture that would dismantle the country’s social fabric and stifle its breath.
Martinessi uses radio as a tool to illustrate media censorship through the power of the artist. We see the recording of a “Dracula” radio play, a dark story that the regime despises. The repetition of this play becomes an act of bravery, a refusal to let art be silenced by the fear and violence bubbling on the streets. The film brilliantly highlights a sharp dichotomy: while the government celebrates the advancement of a new water system, its own citizens, artists, “inverts,” and those deemed contrary to tradition are being hunted in a backward witch hunt.
The film’s emotional and political core is well captured through the building of atmosphere and fear, and the illustration of the social dynamics of the time, but the execution lacks a tighter, more coherent focus. Despite Romero’s magnetic screen presence, we learn frustratingly little about Narciso himself. He remains a spectral presence, a charismatic conduit for the music rather than a fully fleshed-out human being. This lack of interiority is the film’s most significant hurdle; it transforms his ultimate loss into a cold thematic metaphor rather than a devastating personal tragedy. We mourn the silence he leaves behind, but we never quite feel we knew the man who made the noise.
This distance is exacerbated by a narrative that frequently feels all over the place. While the film’s energy aims to mirror the political chaos of 1959 Paraguay, Martinessi balances a multitude of plot threads, from the US embassy’s influence to the internal power struggles of the radio station. Still, these often feel like disconnected vignettes rather than a singular, driving force. Certain scenes, while visually evocative and rich with subtext, drift away from the central momentum of Narciso’s rise and fall, leaving the viewer to navigate a beautiful but occasionally aimless labyrinth of ideas.
“Narciso” is a thoughtful investigation into how a generation finds meaning amid oppression, even if it stumbles in its delivery. As the film moves toward its conclusion, it settles into a chilling resonance. During the final performance of the “Dracula” radio play, a character asks, “Is this the end?” Dracula responds, “No, this is only the beginning.” In the loss of Narciso, we feel the weight of Bernardo Aranda’s own stolen future, signaling a violent return to tradition, a moment where the rebellious spirit of rock’ n’ roll is revealed to be nothing more than a fragile touch of freedom, lost to the long, dark winter of a regime that would last nearly thirty-five years.
