‘Narciso’ Berlinale Review: Rock, Repression and Desire in Dictatorship-Era Paraguay (Panorama)

Judging by the dark, gloomy settings that frame the story told in Narciso, life in Paraguay during the decades-long dictatorship of Alfredo “El Rubio” Stroessner feels like a permanent tomb. Silence, slowness, speaking inwardly and in hushed tones were part of everyday life. So were the endless official announcements praising the leader, national symbols everywhere, and a kind of folkloric nationalism meant to withstand anything. By 1958, when the film is set, someone like Narciso—a young man fascinated by the then-emerging rock and roll—was practically a revolutionary. And when his voice made it onto the radio, even more so.

Narciso himself (Dino Romero) becomes the trigger for a series of conflicts that surface quietly in the sepulchral Asunción of the time. The film’s main setting is a radio station run with an iron hand by its host and chief programmer, Manuel Bermúdez (Manuel Cuenca), alongside his wife Elvira (Mona Martínez). The programming is traditional and folkloric: a mix of music and parish—and government—announcements typical of the era, often broadcast in front of a live audience.

This is where Narciso gradually enters the picture: a handsome, modern young man who quickly draws the attention of the girls. Reluctantly, the station gives him a small slot to introduce songs by the biggest rock figures of the moment—Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly—all deliciously mispronounced. Narciso announces the tracks, the DJ plays them, and the young man throws in a few classic dance moves, much to the delight of the teenage crowd. But that spectacle isn’t the heart of the film. What really matters is what happens behind the scenes.

Little by little, it becomes clear that Manuel watches Narciso with unusual intensity. Soon enough, we learn that the man leads a double life, roaming the dangerous nighttime streets of certain Asunción neighborhoods in search of sex with other men—hoping to encounter Narciso in that underground world. The arrival of a U.S. embassy envoy—played by Argentine actor Nahuel Pérez Biscayart, sporting a charming gringo accent—only heightens the tension. Whispered rumors brand him an “invert,” and therefore a threat.

It’s within these hidden circuits that the story unfolds, directed by Marcelo Martinessi, whose The Heiresses won awards at the 2018 Berlinale. Eight years later, Martinessi returns with another tale about false appearances and buried secrets—common currency in Paraguayan society, and even more so during the early, most brutal phase of Stroessner’s dictatorship (never mentioned by name in the film). In this sense, Narciso—who discovered rock music on a trip to Argentina and brought those “bad influences” back home—acts as a catalyst for desires and impulses long suppressed by censorship.

The film is dense and somber, with the feel of near-horror. It’s no coincidence that the radio station is simultaneously producing a radio-play version of Dracula. Its dialogue and text frequently work as metaphors for what’s really being told here: a world of secret desires and sexual encounters that become increasingly dangerous. Official propaganda—heard throughout the film as if blaring from loudspeakers roaming the streets—makes it clear that such “deviations” will be harshly punished. Every character’s life unfolds under that ever-present threat.

With touches of gothic melodrama and a color palette oppressive in its darkness, Narciso truly comes alive when its young pseudo–rock star (he doesn’t sing, doesn’t do karaoke—he just introduces records and dances a bit) lets loose to the “scandalous” music of the era, allowing himself to move his hips in ways once deemed dangerous. In true David Lynch fashion, that movement becomes a kind of connector between the world above the surface and the one beneath it—repressed, fearful, and constantly aware of the punishment that might follow. With all the risks that entails.