«Menem» Review: Glamour, Farce and Tragedy in 1990s Argentina (Prime Video)

Few decades lend themselves as generously to political farce as Argentina’s 1990s. It was a time of chaotic glamour, unchecked ambition, and surreal contradictions — a perfect breeding ground for what Argentinians call picaresca criolla, a homegrown style of comedy about crafty underdogs who thrive on deception, charm, and survival instincts in a corrupt and crumbling world.

Director Ariel Winograd explored that space brilliantly in Coppola: El Representante, his playful take on celebrity manager Guillermo Coppola. He returns to similar territory in Menem, a six-part series that begins with a similar satirical tone — until the story darkens. After all, the life of Carlos Saúl Menem, Argentina’s president from 1989 to 1999, is far too complex to be reduced to the role of a charismatic rogue, though for a time the series seems eager to indulge that interpretation.

Menem begins in 1995 with a tragedy: the death of Menem’s son, Carlos Jr., in a mysterious helicopter crash just months before his father’s reelection. From there, the narrative jumps back eight years, following the little-known provincial governor from La Rioja as he embarks on a seemingly quixotic bid to win the presidency. But the story is not told from Menem’s point of view. Instead, it is narrated — often directly to camera — by a fictional character named Olegario Salas, a small-town society photographer who reluctantly joins Menem’s campaign team, motivated more by economic need than political conviction. Olegario serves as both our guide and our moral barometer, capturing the absurdities, contradictions, and shifting loyalties of the era.

Early episodes embrace broad comedy. Juan Minujín, sporting an unforgettable moustache and pitch-perfect accent, plays Salas with a mix of charm and audacity, supported by Jorgelina Aruzzi as his sharp-tongued and socially ambitious wife. Around him forms a loyal inner circle — partly fictionalized — including Ayala (Marco Antonio Caponi), Menem’s right-hand man, and Silverman (Guillermo Arengo), another key operative. But it’s not until Leonardo Sbaraglia enters the frame on horseback — yes, literally — that the real show begins. His transformation into “El Carlo,” as Menem was known to his close circle, is remarkable: hair, posture, tone, makeup, and myth all come together in a performance that starts as uncanny impersonation but gradually deepens into something stranger and more revealing.

From his unlikely victory in the party primaries — defeating the establishment-backed Antonio Cafiero — to his triumph in the national election amid hyperinflation, Menem’s rise is portrayed with an aesthetic that sometimes mimics early ’90s television: fuzzy images, saturated colors, period-accurate sets. Many shots blend archival footage with cleverly recreated scenes featuring the cast, enhancing the illusion of real-time absurdity.

As with Coppola, each episode of Menem is built around a landmark event of the presidency: pressures from international powers (including Middle Eastern and U.S. interests), a failed military uprising, the rise of economist Domingo Cavallo and his “convertibility” plan (which pegged the peso to the dollar), scandals like the Swiftgate and Yomagate, and the massive privatizations led by María Julia Alsogaray, played here with ironic sensuality by Monna Antolopoulos. Later episodes delve into the more painful chapters: the 1994 bombing of the AMIA Jewish community center and the shadow of Carlos Jr.’s death, which still fuels conspiracy theories in Argentina today.

Running parallel to this political narrative is Menem’s private life, especially his volatile relationship with Zulema (played with impeccable comedic timing by Griselda Siciliani), their children (Agustín Sullivan and Cumelén Sanz, in underwritten roles likely constrained by legal concerns), and the fictional Salas family. Olegario’s arc, alongside his wife and journalist son (Valentín Wein), serves as a generational counterpoint — a middle-class household that rides the wave from hope and prosperity to disillusionment and economic despair. It’s a subtle reminder of the long-term costs of political spectacle.

As the series progresses, its tone grows darker. The final two episodes leave behind the biting farce and dive into a more symbolic, even spiritual realm, with witches, visions, and ominous silences. These elements don’t land as well as the earlier comedy, and the shift in register feels jarring. But Menem is never truly concerned with rigorous political analysis. In fact, the show frequently breaks the fourth wall to remind viewers — especially international audiences — that much of what they’re seeing is exaggerated, fictionalized, or flat-out surreal. That, too, is part of the protective logic of the series: by cloaking the facts in satire and irony, it avoids legal trouble while capturing a deeper emotional truth.

Where Menem excels is in its portrait of the man himself: a master manipulator, a seducer of crowds, a politician who always said what people wanted to hear — and then did whatever he pleased. The “pizza and champagne” era of Argentine excess is depicted in all its gaudy, grotesque glory: the parties, the models, the absurd wealth, the willful detachment from reality. When the series loses sight of this carnivalesque tone, it also loses some of its energy.

It’s difficult, of course, to incorporate national tragedies like the AMIA bombing into a story that plays so often for laughs. But even in its clumsy handling of these events, Menem — created by Winograd and Mariano Varela — offers glimpses of a darker undercurrent. Beneath the charm and bravado, we begin to sense a more dangerous figure. A political illusionist. A man whose charisma concealed a void.

Ultimately, Menem is not meant to be taken as a political lesson. More than once, it reminds us that events may not have happened this way — or at least not exactly. But as a portrait of a time, a persona, and a particular brand of Argentine spectacle, it is wildly effective. That it was filmed before Javier Milei’s rise to power makes it feel strangely prophetic. Without meaning to, Menem now plays like a prequel to a future series that will one day revisit our own era — one just as absurd, excessive, and even more ominous.