River Plate  0  Argentinos Juniors  1

It’s now been four days since the superclásico, the twice yearly clash between Boca Juniors and River Plate which Boca won 2-0. The newspapers are still full of it. There were front page photos of celebration that might have left a stranger to Argentine football thinking that Boca had just won the South American championship, rather than snuck up to 14th place in the first division table.

And the defeat left River Plate in the depths of a crisis that makes the current Middle Eastern situation look like a minor tiff. In fact, the Argentine media carries far more coverage and analysis of the River Plate crisis than it does of the rift between Israel and the United States and Britain.

I think it’s fair to say that it’s a very self-indulgent media, pandering to the interests and the prejudices of its staff rather than the readership. There are two major newspapers. La Nacion, which is a conservative broadsheet aimed at those who own and run Argentina – the farmers and businessmen, the politicians, judges and football club owners. It’s the River Plate of the newspaper world.

Rivals - Clarin and La Nacion

Rivals - Clarin and La Nacion

Then there’s Clarin, the Boca Juniors of newspapers, which pretty much serves everyone else – it’s comprehensive, bulky, poorly designed and, at the moment, involved in a bitter dispute with the government which has skewed any objectivity it may previously have had in its political reporting.

There are other papers – Pagina12 which caters for the left-leaning intelligentsia, full of wordy, barely comprehensible, navel-gazing articles about human rights and the environment. Then there’s the tabloid Cronica which is wall-to-wall tits, bums, soap opera gossip, football and gory crime and car crash details. And there’re a couple of sensible, serious business newspapers, Ambito Financiero and El Cronista, which is printed on pink paper. Now where have I seen that before?

Then, of course, there’s Olé, a daily sports newspaper which mostly covers football but sometimes recognises that other sports exist. Now what’s that called? When you get those five tall blokes running around a small indoor pitch, trying to lob a ball through a hoop? And that other one where two people who grunt a lot hit a small ball over a net hoping the other one won’t hit it back. Both are sports which Argentina often does quite well at. The names will come to me in a minute, but probably not to Olé.

Argentines like nothing more than to sit in pavement cafes, their half-moon glasses perched intellectually on the end of their noses, reading newspapers and magazines.  An intrinsic part of the urban landscape is the kiosco or newspaper kiosk which you find on many street corners and often in between. They’re draped in a wide variety of newspapers and magazines. These metal boxes are often social centres where dog walkers, commuters and joggers stop to buy their paper and catch up on the neighbourhood gossip.

Source of all Knowledge

Source of all Knowledge

Because the canillitos, as the owners are known, know everything. They’re often a better source of information than the newspapers they sell, whose reporters rarely seem to stray far from Buenos Aires. And even in the city, they’re usually found lurking around government buildings, hunting in packs or sitting in cafes competing to see who can concoct the most convoluted opening sentences.

I know a couple of ex-journalists who said they left the profession since their bosses restricted what they could report and many of their colleagues were collecting envelopes stuffed with cash from their political or business ‘contacts.’

But there is also a fine tradition of investigative journalism in Argentina, most notably during the military dictatorship in the nineteen-seventies and eighties. And many reporters suffered for their integrity.  Among those on the roll of honour is the English-language Buenos Aires Herald which fearlessly reported on the human rights abuses being committed by the regime, until several of its leading lights were forced into exile. I worked there for a few months during more tranquil times and am not sure if I contributed to its decline, but unfortunately the paper is now languishing in the third division.

Another newspaper hero was Jacobo Timerman, the editor of La Opinion newspaper, who later wrote extensively about the kidnap and torture he suffered at the hands of the dictatorship. There were many others.

And it wasn’t all easy after the military stepped down either. One of the most notorious murders in later years was that of Noticias magazine photographer, José Luis Cabezas. In 1997, he managed to snap the dodgy businessman, Alfredo Yabrán, a man who prided himself on never having had his picture taken, ‘not even by the secret services.’

True Fan

True Fan

Cabazas had also been investigating the protection afforded to a number of brothels by the notoriously corrupt Buenos Aires provincial police force. He was handcuffed, beaten and then taken to a remote spot where he was killed with two shots to the head.

Some of the usual suspects were rounded up and sentenced to prison but most in Argentina suspect that those who were really behind the killing got away with it. A campaign for justice, with the slogan ‘Don’t forget Cabezas’ continues to this day.

There seems to be little room in today’s daily newspapers for original, investigative reporting. But it does go on and usually reaches the kiosks and bookshops in the form of books written by high-profile journalists. The one at the top of the current bestseller list is El Dueño or ‘The Owner’ by Luis Majul – an expose of the dodgy dealings carried out, allegedly, by the former president Nestor Kirchner. Or Gustavo Grabia’s La Doce or ‘The Twelve’ about the Boca Juniors barra brava and its links to politicians. Like I said, you just can’t get away from Boca and River.

Argentinos Juniors caught River on the rebound from the Boca game, in the depths of a crisis when they had much to prove. But all that River managed to prove in this game is that they’re not very good. Argentinos really should have won by more but a fine goal by Ismael Sosa after twenty minutes was enough and a victory is a victory. This one leaves them in fourth place, five points behind the leaders, Independiente.

After their victory in the superclasico, Boca crashed 4-1 to lowly Chacarita Juniors. Both the giants of Argentine football now find themselves in deep turmoil. Life in the Middle East will go on. But the problem here in Argentina is really, really serious.

21/03
2010

Argentinos Juniors  1  Tigre  1

There were five or six of them, middle-aged chaps, working men no doubt with families and bills to pay. But they spent pretty much the whole match, their faces pressed to the wire fence, spewing insults at the Tigre manager, Ricardo Caruso Lombardi. These were not jocular snipes which Lombardi could deflect with witty ripostes. This was pure hatred and the manager was clearly unnerved, aware that if there were no wire fence, these men would tear him limb from limb. He responded, which was daft, since the group of abusers only got angrier. Eyeballs bulged, veins stood out on temples and they whacked the fence.

Lombardi. Villain or victim?

Lombardi. Villain or victim?

I didn’t know what Lombaridi had done to offend them but short of cooking and eating their wives and daughters, I could think of no crime that justified such vitriol. So I investigated and found out that he was a former manager of Argentinos Juniors – an unsuccessful manager so that hatred was justified afterall.

The abusers hardly watched the action on the pitch which was a shame since this was a great game with Argentinos Juniors playing smooth attacking football and effectively stifling the Tigre attack. Nicolas ‘The Vulture’ Pavlovich reaped the reward for this domination with a scrambled goal on 15 minutes. Then in the second half it all fell apart when the Argentinos goalkeeper, Nicolas Peric, momentarily lost his head and ran out of his box to palm away an innocuous ball. The referee had no hesitation in showing him the red card and the Red Bugs were on the back foot.

Tigre made them pay 15 minutes from the end when the league’s top scorer, Carlos Luna, headed home the equaliser in his team’s only attack of the match.

But the real violence has been happening elsewhere in Argentine football.  The game between Newell’s Old Boys and Velez Sarsfield in the city of Rosario attracted only about half of the spectators that normally attend. Thousands stayed away because they were scared and they were right to be.

Six Argentine football fans have been killed in the past month in internal battles for control of the barrabrava. It’s the same old story – there’s money in drugs and there’s power and influence to be had in aligning your group of thugs to the politicians and businessmen who run Argentine football.

But this year there’s an added incentive. Elements within the Argentine government are forking out all-expenses paid trips to South Africa in June for several hundred fans to support the national team. Numbers are limited and everyone wants a piece of the action. It’s difficult to see what’s in it for the government. There’ll be flags and banners waved on international television and with elections due next year some may even sport the names of the presidential couple, Nestor and Cristina Kirchner.

Pimpi - gunned down

Pimpi - gunned down

The latest victim of this violence was Roberto ‘Pimpi’ Camino who was gunned down outside a bar in the city of Rosario. He was an ex-leader of the Newell’s Old Boys barrabrava, hoping to make a comeback. Initial investigations suggest that he was perhaps killed by a group of drug dealers called The Monkies who have links with both of the city’s first division teams – Newell’s and Rosario Central. . They supported him when his star waned but when Pimpi started to operate a parallel drug enterprise, they took offence. Or Pimpi was killed by former policemen who felt he was not respecting their territory. The owner of the bar where the hit took place was himself an ex-policeman called The Bull while the man suspected of ordering the killing is a serving policeman known as The Black Angel. If your nickname is The Black Angel or The Bull you’ll get little job satisfaction handing out parking tickets and giving directions to tourists.  But I’m not sure I’d be frightened of anyone nicknamed Pimpi, however big his belly was.

Among the recent deaths was that of fourteen-year-old Newell’s fan, Walter Caceres, who was shot on a bus returning from a game and policeman, Sergio Rodriguez, caught in the crossfire of a fight at a train station between Estudiantes fans.

None of the violence took place in the grounds so the football administration is quick to distance itself from the killings. “Not our responsibility,” they’ll say. “Blame society.”

There have been 249 football related deaths in Argentina and all the indications are that it’s only going to get worse. Thankfully, Argentinos Juniors is a happy neighbourhood club. The police seem almost embarrassed to search me on the way in and the violence is only verbal and mostly directed at the officials and the opposing team.

Their historic rivals are Platense, a team that plays in an unappealing brown and white strip and are nicknamed the calamares or squid. They’re currently lurking in the nether regions of the second division so the two clubs have not met for some years but there’s a catchy little number sung on the terraces that suggests chopping up and cooking all marine creatures with tentacles.

Heavy rain again played havoc with the weekend football, with the superclassico between Boca Juniors and River Plate suspended after ten minutes  when it became apparent that the players would need snorkels and flippers to continue playing. Despite black market tickets selling for thousands, this is a game that means little since both giants are languishing in the bottom half of the table. Independiente , with a 2-0 win over Rosario Central, are now clear leaders with nine games to play.

Racing Club 0  Argentinos Juniors  1

I’m not going to say it since when I said it last season after Argentinos Juniors strung a few victories together, they went on to lose and draw their next batch of games. But three wins on the trot and….no! Resist! Resist!

And the winner is....

And the winner is....

It’s a week now since the Oscars were handed out but the glitz is still glittering here in Argentina and no-one wants to roll up their red carpets. For an Argentine film, El Secreto de sus Ojos or The Secret In Their Eyes won the best foreign film award. That’s the one they present between the Oscar for Most Comfy Director’s Chair and Best Sandwiches Sold on Set.

Basically, very few people outside of the countries concerned give a toss. Least of all the film critics. Here are a couple of quotes from critics of that reputable British newspaper, The Guardian. These are people paid to do nothing more than sit in a darkened room eating popcorn and commenting on the films they see. I always used to wonder why actors and directors were so disparaging about film critics, talking about them in the same way the rest of us discuss estate agents and football referees. Now I know.

The first nominee out of the envelope is the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw who wrote: “I must now confess that I have not yet seen Juan José Campanella’s The Secret of Their Eyes – it is much liked and admired, but I can’t help feeling that this is a real banana-skin moment. It puts me in mind of Ronald Bergan’s online discussion of how, in the history of world cinema, the Oscar for the best foreign language film is traditionally given to the wrong film.”

His colleague, Xan Brooks, informs us: “OK, so I have yet to see The Secret in Her Eyes and maybe it’s brilliant. Until then, this result strikes me as more than a little perverse.”

Have they no shame? They don’t make films, they don’t write films and they don’t even watch the films they criticise. In what other job can you do that? “I didn’t see the game since I was painting the bathroom at the time. But I thought the United midfield was crap and the referee, when will he get his eyes tested? In my informed opinion, City are dead certs for the title but I’ll let you know more when I finally get to see them play.”

OK, you may say, it’s only the foreign language film. But what First World arrogance! Neither even bothered to get the English translation of the title right. Would they treat a US or a British film with such lazy contempt?

Now that I’ve got that off my chest I can tell you that I have seen the film. Pretty much everyone in Argentina has and those who haven’t will be queuing up outside their nearest cinema as we speak.

It’s a very good rather than a great movie. I’ve not seen the other Oscar nominees so I wouldn’t dare to hazard an opinion on whether it was the best of the batch in the foreign language section.

Film Star - the Huracan stadium

Film Star - the Huracan stadium

It’s a thriller, a murder hunt set in both the nineteen-seventies during Argentina’s military dictatorship and in the present day. It beautifully evokes both eras, is wonderfully acted and football plays a key role in the story.

That’s no surprise when you consider that the Oscar winning director, Juan José Campanella is a River Plate fan and the original story writer and script editor, Eduardo Sacheri, follows Independiente.

But it’s Racing Club, Independiente’s rivals, which have the starring role and Sacheri admits that he found it uncomfortable to have to talk to their fans during the course of his research.

An obsession with football plays a big part in solving the mystery although I obviously can’t reveal more since I’m recommending that you see the film. There is also a great chase scene set in the Huracan stadium in a supposed game between Huracan and Racing.

http://www.ole.clarin.com/notas/2010/03/08/informaciongeneral/02154969.html

“And the Oscar for Best Football Stadium….wait for it…goes to Huracan’s Tomás Adolfo Ducó stadium in The Secret In Their Eyes.”

The other element which stuck in my mind long after I left the cinema was the way Campanella illustrated how dictatorships encourage the pathetic little people to emerge and rise to positions of prominence. Once there, they’re able to wreak their revenge on a society they feel has slighted them. We all know who they are. How many assistant tax inspectors, estate agents and film critics rose to positions of prominence in Germany’s Nazi Party? Slugs, who in normal society would have been ignored or treated with the contempt they deserved, revelled in and abused their authority. The Secret In Their Eyes shows the same kind of people thriving in an Argentine system that was rotten to the core.

Campanella - River Plate fan

Campanella - River Plate fan

Argentina has only ever won the Oscar once before, in 1985 for The Official Story, again about the military dictatorship that terrorised the country between 1976 and 1983. These winners are an important advert for the Argentine film industry and for the country itself since most foreigners might never see another film from this part of the world.

Argentina simply doesn’t have the money to make many films but it nonetheless has an enthusiastic and knowledgeable cinema-going public and a small but talented movie industry. The same few actors tend to crop up in almost every production because the money-men can’t afford to gamble on the untried and the un-trusted – so you can bet the price of a bag of popcorn that if Ricardo Darin isn’t in the Argentine film you’re about to watch, then Gaston Pauls will be.

There’s a neighbourhood of Buenos Aires that’s been dubbed Palermo Hollywood simply because so many film directors and students from across Latin America have congregated there to discuss the finer points of Buñuel and Bergman…and to make the odd film.

Of course, Hollywood dominates like it does in much of the rest of the world. But the cinemas in Buenos Aires are generally packed, especially for the weekend late-night screenings.

This game didn’t deserve much in the way of prizes, not even a nomination. The only drama came late in the second half. Nicholas Pavlovich scored the winner after a neat move by the visitors. Racing then managed to fluff a penalty which would have given them an ill-deserved draw. It was still more entertaining than an Oscar acceptance speech and the good guys won in the end.

Argentinos Juniors 1 Velez Sarsfield 0

This was a tense game, a very tense game against tough opposition. The winning goal came six minutes from the end, a scrambled, confusing own goal by Velez defender, Marco Torsiglieri. Despite the home side’s dominance, their inability to tuck away their chances meant that it could have gone either way. The tension showed on the faces of the crowd and in the ear-splitting noise at the end as the relief at a much-needed win was expressed in exuberant rejoicing.

Sunday night therapy

Sunday night therapy

But is all this tension good for us? Is it necessary? I don’t know about the history of the Velez number 5, whether he was an ex-Argentinos player who somehow betrayed his former club or carried out a particularly nasty tackle in a game in 2005. Memories are long and grudges are rarely forgotten. But he took a tremendous amount of abuse every time he had the ball and whenever he came close to the touchline, some fans would hurl themselves at the fence that keeps us caged in and expertly lob balls of phlegm in his direction.

Referees everywhere take constant abuse, it’s in the job description. I thought Saul Laverni had a good match, authoritative without getting in the way of a game that always threatened to boil over. Yet he must have been aware of the constant, none-too-kind references to his mother’s, his sister’s and, rather unnecessarily I thought, his grandmother’s private parts.

However well he performs, he’s going to go home thinking: “No-one loves me.” It must get to you, eventually. There’s no doubt in my mind that a Sunday night game, and especially a Sunday night victory, is hugely therapeutic. If you’ve spent all week driving through Buenos Aires traffic or selling kitchen worktops or dealing with complaints from cable television customers then you probably save all that pent up fury for Sunday night to spew in the direction of the referee or that opposing number 5.

Laverni - leave his grandmother alone.

Laverni - leave his grandmother alone.

No city in the world is better prepared than Buenos Aires to deal with its psychological problems. It’s got more therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists and other assorted brain specialists per head of population than any other city in the world, including New York.

There’s a neighbourhood that’s unofficially been dubbed Villa Freud since so many of the above mentioned specialists work there. It’s got bookshops that deal in the art, newspaper kiosks display magazines on the subject and there are ample coffee shops with sumptuous couches where customers can continue, after their session with their shrink, to analyse over a latte.

I’m from a land where the generally held view is that only ‘nutters’ need therapy and a good cup of tea will solve most problems. “Just pull your socks up and stop feeling sorry for yourself,” is considered sound advice if you’ve just discovered in the space of a day that your girlfriend’s left you for a female work colleague and your team has put your favourite striker up for sale.

In Buenos Aires, there is no stigma attached to regular visits to a therapist. “Sorry, can’t join you for coffee since I’ve got an appointment with my therapist,” is no more embarrassing than saying: “I’m afraid I’ve got the dentist at four o’clock.” My initial reaction was: “But there’s nothing wrong with you. You seem perfectly sane to me.”

And the response was: “That’s because I see a therapist.” It starts from an early age. Trouble at school is not met with 100 lines, detention or a smack over the knuckles with a ruler. Oh no! There are therapists who talk to parents about parenting and therapists who talk to children about who knows what since the sessions are confidential.

Freud or football?

Freud or football?

There are even therapists who deal with people who are addicted to therapy. I understand the attraction. For a mere 150pesos you can ramble incoherently, divulge your intricate theories on the subject that fascinates us all more than any other – ourselves.

“Everybody hates me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Why do you say that?”
“Well, just yesterday I had twenty thousand people spitting at me and saying horribly unpleasant things about my mother’s and my sister’s private parts. Someone was even rude about my grandmother.”
“I’m sure you’re imagining things. Now let’s talk about your childhood. What were your ambitions? Football referee? Hold on a minute. It was you, wasn’t it? Last night at the Velez game? That was never a free-kick! What are you, blind as well as stupid?! Your grandmother’s a whore and … get out of here, and pay my receptionist on your way out.”

One of the most pleasant afternoons I ever spent in Buenos Aires was at the Jose T Borda psychiatric hospital. The patients run their own radio station, Radio Colifata, broadcast to the neighbourhood and beyond. Colifata is the local slang, or lunfardo, for ‘loveable fool.’

They sing and recite poetry, talk politics and discuss their condition. The show attracts an audience of family and friends of the patients as well as medical experts from around the world interested in this voice which is available to people who are so often pushed out of sight and not listened to.

The French singer, Manu Chao, has recorded at the hospital, incorporating the musings and music of some of the patients into an album full of wit and intelligence.

It’s not all easy listening. While I was there, one patient told me repeatedly that he was going on a trip to Uruguay. The nurses gently removed him. Then the show was interrupted when a man in pyjamas lay down in the middle of the patio where the makeshift studio had been set up and ate a banana.

Argentines, with their recent history of military terror and economic madness, have plenty to be disturbed about – as well as the routine problems that the rest of the world also endures, like getting to work, wayward children, obnoxious bosses and centre-forwards that can’t seem to put the ball in the net.

The Argentine mental health system is private and not cheap so is pretty much only available to the affluent middle classes. But thanks to referees who can take a bit of abuse, everyone else has got football.