The Secret Agent is an unsatisfying movie by design. The tale, ultimately, of a nation’s new generation sifting through records of its gravest modern chapter, its uneven narrative flow and tonal detachment mirror the patchwork of a curious, frustrated historian. I admire these structural risks, and the craft is admirable all around, but a viewing challenge like this needs intellectual payoff, and the bounty here is just too weak. Its main lesson is that the study of historical evils, drudgery and all, toughens us up, such that we might stand down similar evils in the present. The point is well taken, but it’s slight, and it’s been made many times before, including in last year’s I’m Still Here, another Brazilian film that covered such similar ground that the two films could pass for remakes of one another. The lesson is also a tad self-serving. The secret weapon against fascism, you ask? Slow, fragmented, historically accurate stories. You’re welcome!
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