‘The Victors’ BAFICI Review: A Human Encounter Beyond the Falklands War

The idea of an enemy is a curious one. In wartime especially, defining who qualifies as such depends on very specific conditions. When a conflict erupts between states or military forces, it tends to cast entire populations as adversaries by default. That sense of hostility lingers, sustained over time through commemorations, anniversaries, and official narratives. There are deaths involved, and that alone often makes reconciliation—or even the possibility of closure—feel out of reach. Time, more often than not, is what gradually softens those edges, easing tensions and perhaps allowing for a degree of mutual recognition. The “other” may belong to a country that once went to war with yours, but that doesn’t automatically make them your enemy.

Forty-four years after the Falklands War, a journey like Pablo Aparo’s to the islands feels necessary—essential, even. There will be those who argue it shouldn’t be done, that it’s inappropriate; the film anticipates this by opening with a disclaimer in which the director affirms his belief in Argentina’s sovereignty claim. But Aparo’s intentions are less political than human. He wants to hear the other side, to understand how the islanders—who call themselves falklanders—see things: what they experienced, the grievances they carry, the tensions that shape their lives.

It’s not an easy task. Doors close, sometimes abruptly; others open slowly, with caution. Still, Aparo manages to connect with around a dozen people who share their perspectives and personal histories. In every case, they express pro-British views and no interest whatsoever in becoming part of Argentina. There’s no hostility toward Argentines as individuals, but they’ve grown up identifying as British, and nothing is likely to change that. Listening to their stories, their reasoning becomes understandable—often grounded more in personal experience than in geopolitics, but compelling nonetheless.

The film’s emotional core lies in Aparo’s trip to a remote area outside Port Stanley, where he meets Mat Mac, an irascible, foul-tempered Irishman whom others warn might treat him badly. What begins as a series of awkward encounters and misunderstandings gradually evolves—just as the cliché has it—into «the beginning of a beautiful friendship». It’s a bond that doesn’t erase their differences or attempt to reshape their beliefs (save for a brief moment near the end), but it demonstrates how human connection can transcend geopolitical divides and ideological distance.

The Victors is a bold film, one that may well be misunderstood in Argentina—and perhaps precisely for that reason, it matters. It gives voice to people we rarely hear from, sheds light on their suffering (some of the accounts of what Argentine officers allegedly did during the war—to both islanders and their own soldiers—are harrowing), and allows us to grasp their perspective, even if many viewers will never agree with their desire for Argentina to relinquish its sovereignty claim.

Shot by Aparo largely on his own—or at least that’s how it appears—the documentary also captures a few hardline voices on the islanders’ side. But in its portrayal of his evolving friendship with Mat, the film ultimately embraces a humanist, deeply empathetic outlook—one that feels indispensable in any context of conflict. Ordinary people, more often than not, are the ones who bear the consequences of decisions made far above them.