Pelu is a projectionist in a municipal cinema in Córdoba. Campos is one too. The problem is that the economic situation is dire, and there’s no way to justify having two projectionists in a theater that only screens black-and-white classics. But they’re offered a Solomon-like solution: Pelu gets to stay at the cinema under a different role—as the night watchman. Not long after, when he’s evicted from the apartment he rents for failing to pay, he loses the only reason he had to leave that same cinema. He simply brings in a mattress and a few belongings and settles in a vacant corner of the building.
The serenity of black and white perfectly matches Pelu’s apathy. He simply accepts whatever comes without questioning it; his life doesn’t belong to him but is ruled by the capricious god of Argentina’s economic crisis. He eats through his savings, sells his small motorbike for a couple of thick wads of bills that amount to nothing and for which he has no particular plan. He spends his nights watching movies and downing bottles of Stella Artois—on credit from the bar’s fridge—accompanied by a group of drifters who end up crashing at the theater for lack of a roof, and Vale, his friend and the only female speaking character, who sells content on OnlyFans. The characters’ overly contemporary dramas play out against the soundtrack and imagery of Hollywood’s classical era—films supposedly chosen by Pelu. The screen both separates and creates a parallel reality, one in which things do happen.
But this whole panorama of crisis, unemployment, and self-exploitation ends up fading precisely because of the characters’ apathy. The job of night watchman is undemanding, spent between cigarettes at the theater’s door, naps, movies, and social visits. It’s far from a situation where the character did everything possible but failed. He’s neither a loser nor an exploited worker—just a member of the impoverished middle class, lacking initiative, who keeps taking beers and sandwiches from the fridge every night because he knows he can stop everything with a single phone call, like the Greek girl in Common People by Pulp. At no point is it suggested that he has no choice but to accept his fate. In other words, the conflicts are weak, making it hard to connect with the protagonist’s goals—which, truth be told, don’t exist.
What saves the film is the cinematography, which is consistently excellent. The location where practically all the action takes place is explored in depth, with great creativity and imagination. The setting of the cinema is ideal for building a two-toned world: the luminous, unreal glow of the screen versus the dark, hopeless reality. Some of the framing and camera angles are borrowed—almost on loan—from German Expressionism, and the lighting deserves special praise.
Even if their problems are poorly defined, there’s something endearing about Pelu and his friends—something that stems partly from their excellent performances, and partly from the fact that many of us who go to the movies belong to that same class: a bit like ordinary people, but not quite.
