Glaxo: A Genre-Bending Tale of Betrayal and Argentina's Moral Apocalypse

When Power Becomes Impunity

At the outset of my conversation with Benjamín Naishtat, we're already deep in the philosophical mire of a nation's soul. The question that haunts the opening moments of his latest film, Glaxo, is one I've heard echoed countless times across Latin American cinema: At what precise moment had Peru fucked itself up? But Naishtat doesn't just borrow this question — he repositions it for Argentina. His film is a searing examination of how power, unchecked and unaccountable, can transform a society into something unrecognizable.

"This is the story of a betrayal," says narrator Miguelito. "It seems to me that this is the story of many betrayals."

The film's three timelines — 1956 in Buenos Aires, 1957 in Chivilcoy, and 1984 in the same town — are not mere chronology. They're a careful architectural design, each reflecting how power seeps deeper into the social fabric of Argentina, leaving behind only echoes of what was once considered normalcy. The first act, set in the brutal 1950s dictatorship, is a chilling reminder that atrocities can be normalized if they're committed with impunity. In fact, Naishtat makes it clear that these historical acts are still unpunished today — an ominous truth that reverberates through every frame.

Genre as a Vehicle for Truth

One of the most striking aspects of Glaxo is its genre-mashing approach. The film doesn't just play with genres — it rewrites the rules of how they interact. The prologue, shot like a clandestine Latin American film from the '70s, uses Super 16mm and rough lighting to create an atmosphere of paranoia and urgency. It's a visual reminder that even in the shadows, truth has its own way of finding light.

The middle act draws heavily on melodrama, evoking films like A Place in the Sun and Giant, but with a distinctly Argentine flavor — one that's more personal and intimate. It's here that the film shifts from historical document to psychological thriller, focusing on how young lives are shaped by the choices of those in power. The coming-of-age story isn't just a backdrop; it's the core emotional engine of the narrative.

The final act, set in 1984 and shot in CinemaScope with anamorphic lenses, brings a noir sensibility to the story. It's as atmospheric as it is haunting, reminding us that the effects of historical trauma don't vanish — they linger like a shadow that refuses to fade.

The Art of Unmaking

What struck me most profoundly about Glaxo was its ability to show how easily a society can be unmade. In a way, the film is a kind of cultural autopsy — examining how moral decay begins not with overt violence but with the slow erosion of accountability and the normalization of corruption. This is where Naishtat's genius lies: he doesn't just tell us about Argentina's past, he shows us how that past is still very much alive in the present.

When he speaks about the current state of Argentine cinema, it's clear that his frustration isn't just personal — it's deeply political. The film was shot entirely in Brazil due to the lack of funding and support for the industry in Argentina. It's a heartbreaking but accurate reflection of what happens when a country decides to abandon its own cultural legacy.

On the Edge of a Nation

What makes Glaxo so compelling is how it uses the coming-of-age genre not as a vehicle for nostalgia, but as a lens through which to examine the moral failures of an entire generation. The four boys — Miguelito, Verdemann, Bicho, and Lucio — are not just friends; they're mirrors of Argentina itself. Their betrayal is not just personal but symbolic of a nation's inability to confront its own history.

As Naishtat says, the film doesn't offer answers — it asks more questions. It forces us to consider whether the rot in Argentine society began in 1956 or if it has always been there, waiting for someone to notice. The film's final message is not one of hope, but of awareness — a necessary first step toward healing.

In an age where political discourse often feels hollow and disconnected from lived experience, Glaxo stands as a testament to the power of cinema to provoke thought and inspire reflection. It's not just a film; it's a cultural reckoning, one that refuses to let us forget the price of silence.