By M. Faust

My job as a film reviewer has always been to answer the implicit question, what is this movie about? Every once in a while one comes along that makes me want to say, “Well, it’s about 96 minutes” and then move on. Kill the Jockey, playing this week at the North Park (afternoon shows only) is one of those films. 

Originally titled El Jockey (even sight unseen you have to wonder about the American distributor’s decision to add the imperative Kill), this deadpan Argentine import follows Remo Manfredini (Nahuel Pérez Biscayart), a much-loved jockey who is clearly at the nadir of his existence. Supplementing his drinking problem with doses of ketamine meant for the horses (kids, do not try this at home. Or anywhere else) Remo is so wasted that he is literally unable to stay on his horse. 

A spectacular dismounting at the starting gate made me wonder if slapstick comedy was going to be the featured item on this cinematic menu, but no: this is a buffet, with a little of this, that and the other, usually when you’re not expecting them. 

Remo’s mob backers have too much invested in him to retire him, so they try to keep him sober while preparing him for a big race in which he will ride a prize horse imported from Japan. (Interesting fact: in Japan, horses apparently run in the opposite direction.) 

This may not seem like the smartest decision, particularly given the presence of an equally able female jockey, Abril (Ursula Corberó). But then, head mobster Sirena (Daniel Gimenez Cacho) is not exactly Al Capone. He makes a point of always being seen carrying an infant, which he expects people to believe is the same one even though he’s been toting it for seven years. (When an underling notes that the baby is suddenly of obviously African heritage, Sirena claims that “They get that way with age.”) 

The big race disastrously lands Remo in the hospital with a severe brain injury. Despite a doctor’s assessment that “His injuries are not compatible with life,” Remo escapes in an outfit nicked from another patient: a fur coat, a purse and a head wrap befitting a 1930s movie queen, despite the bloodstains. Unable to remember who he is, he wanders the streets of Buenos Aires. The literary trope of a hero’s descent into hell is both employed and satirized, as if writer-director Luis Ortega (El Angel) wants to have his cake and subvert it too. 

My attempt to describe the experience of watching this film as if it had a linear plot is probably doing you a disservice. I haven’t even mentioned that Abril is carrying Remo’s child, or that her obvious affection for him doesn’t keep her from falling in love with another woman. Ortega manages to insert all of these story points into his stew of precise costume design and absurdist humor (a dance sequence is enough to justify the cost of a ticket), even if they don’t register until the movie has ended with what appears to be Remo’s reincarnation.

What held my attention at moments when it seemed there was never going to be a light at the end of this tunnel is the precision of Ortega’s direction. Working with director of photography Timo Salminen, known for his long association with Finnish art house darling Aki Kaurismaki, Ortega maintains a drolly distanced tone that is the factor holding it all together. I don’t know exactly what he wants viewers to get out of Kill the Jockey, but I have no doubt that the finished film is exactly what he wanted it to be.