Luis Ortega's surreal comedy that changes genre

Nahuel Perez Biscayart (BPM) plays a troubled jockey whose identity changes radically after a serious accident on the track Kill the jockey (The Jockey), a film by Argentine director Luis Ortega (The angel, Dromómanos). Visually lush and full of playful mystery, this equestrian-themed psychological thriller-comedy-thing strikes a number of poses that may tickle the fancy of viewers with a taste for kitsch, surrealism, and/or the absurd. However, others may be disappointed by the film’s strenuous efforts to enthrall and find it slow to a trot toward the end.

Ortega's skill in making needle injections has been noted before, and Kill the jockeyPartly funded by Warner Music Entertainment, stays true to form with a blistering soundtrack that mixes Latin pop, synth-heavy EDM, local tangos, and original music by Sune Rose Wagner. Coupled with the film’s saturated color palette, boxy 1:85 aspect ratio, and deliberately static, forced performances, the atmosphere is reminiscent of the work of Aki Kaurismäki—which is no surprise, given that the cinematographer here is the Finnish auteur’s longtime collaborator, Timo Salminen.

This retro aesthetic is further enhanced by production and costume choices that evoke the 1950s or 1960s, especially in the cut of the men's suits and the strange attire that Biscayart's main character sports for much of the film: a long mink coat with cute bracelet sleeves and a padded, tight band around his head that evokes the shape of a comfortable box hat.

But before we get to that ladylike look, our hero, Remo Manfredini (Biscayart), mostly wears the traditional silk robes that identify professional horsemen, a uniform that is almost never seen for the first third of the film. Remo is first encountered drinking heavily in a Buenos Aires bar filled with unsmiling staff and customers who watch as he is dragged away by the henchmen of his employer, Sirena (Daniel Giménez Cacho). The gangster, who controls the gambling in the region, has his own distinctive accessory: he is never seen without “his” baby, actually a series of newborns, all under the age of a year, that Sirena or one of her men carry around like machine guns. It is never explained why he always carries the baby's warmth with him.

As Remo prepares for a race, it becomes clear that his drinking is out of control. At one event, he barely makes it out of the starting gate. The rider of the winning horse is Abril (Úrsula Coberó, The paper house) her professional rival but also her lover. Together, they celebrate their victory with a delicious, jerky disco pas de deux that is likely to be the moment viewers will remember best long after the film is over. We soon learn that Abril is pregnant with Remo's baby, although her stony expression suggests she doesn't care much if the perpetually drunk Remo is involved in the parenting. Meanwhile, another jockey, Ana (Mariana Di Girolamo) makes her romantic interest in Abril very clear, adding a sweet sapphic dimension to the story.

Despite the fact that Remo is a complete bungler, Sirena insists that he ride her latest acquisition, a gorgeous chestnut stallion named Mishima imported from Japan, in the next big race. This time, Remo manages to get out of the gate. But just after taking the lead, he veers off course and, according to the horse's POV camera, rides straight into the fence, seriously injuring himself. (And probably poor Mishima, though the horse is sadly never mentioned again.) Remo wakes up in the hospital with amnesia, at first barely able to say a word, let alone his name. After stealing said fur coat and a wallet that belonged to another patient, he heads out onto the streets of Buenos Aires.

The rest of the film unfolds into a picaresque of semi-comic encounters as Remo, who renames herself Dolores and adopts the pronouns she/his, discovers her feminine side. Presumably, this is all to illustrate the plasticity of gender identity or the fragility of modern masculinity. Or maybe it’s just a joke. The screenplay, by Ortega, Rodolfo Palacios, and Fabián Casas, is light on queer theory or even character motivation. But the likeable cast, who contribute admirable athletic and physical performances in all areas, have enough charisma and vigor to keep this not particularly long and cheerful. Ultimately, it all feels a bit like a fashion film or some other exercise in branded style, except that the brand is Ortega’s peculiar and unique vision.