The Girlfriend 1988

In a quiet, working-class suburb just south of Buenos Aires in 1978, María Liv Ullmann and Pancho Federico Luppi are a devoted married couple who carry a heavy, shared grief: the disappearance of their eldest son, Carlos. They lean on Raquel Kessler Cipe Lincovsky, María’s lifelong friend and a feisty Jewish woman whose cultural identity has drawn suspicion in these troubled days, yet who remains a deeply endearing presence in María’s life.

Raquel’s world revolves around the theatre, where she has earned notice and influence, even as anti-Semitic pressures shadow her career. Her lover, Diego Víctor Laplace, a powerful public television executive, must skillfully balance his affection for Raquel with the demands of a culture intent on stifling dissent during the dictatorship that grips Argentina. The couple’s private romance sits uneasily beside a public climate of repression, adding tension to Raquel’s already precarious position and shaping the choices she makes as the era’s repressive machinery tightens around them.

María’s relentless search for their missing son strains her relationship with Pancho and with Raquel, each wrestling with the slim odds of finding him alive. Raquel’s own experiences—her Jewish identity, her role in roles that the dictatorship might discourage, and the compromises demanded by the times—create additional pressure, pushing her toward exile in Berlin as conditions grow harsher. Yet even as the losses compound, María’s quiet strength and the bonds of friendship hold firm, drawing others into a circle of solidarity as mothers and friends confront an era of fear and invisibility.

This mission gradually becomes María’s life’s work. Her determination leads her to Berlin, where a German-Argentine exile claims to have seen Carlos near death in one of the numerous secret detention centers. The report is painful to hear, and María initially rejects the possibility that her son could be gone for good, clinging to the hope that he might still be alive. Her conviction propels her back to Buenos Aires, where the search resumes with renewed urgency, even as the country itself teeters on the edge of profound political change.

Back in Argentina, the quiet network of mothers—many of them part of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo—becomes a source of courage and community for María. Their joint grieving and persistent pursuit of truth mirror the broader struggle for accountability under an oppressive regime. The toll of years of fear, separation, and uncertainty is felt deeply, but María’s resolve never wavers, and the friendship she shares with Raquel remains a cornerstone of her strength.

With democratic elections finally arriving in 1983, Raquel returns to the country, only to discover that Diego is unhappily married and that María has not yet come to terms with the certainty of her son’s death. The revelation that life has moved on around them tests the enduring bond between María and Raquel. Yet the film emphasizes that a lifelong friendship can survive even the most harrowing periods, and their connection endures through the pain, the yearnings, and the slow, stubborn search for truth.

As the story unfolds, the quiet suburbs of Buenos Aires and the corridors of power in Buenos Aires give way to a broader meditation on memory, loss, and the resilience of human ties. The narrative moves between intimate, personal grief and the larger, historical moment in which it unfolds, inviting audiences to reflect on what families endure when faced with disappearance, political violence, and the hard work of healing. In the end, the film offers a textured portrait of love and endurance—how couples and friends navigate heartbreak, confront systemic cruelty, and find a path forward when the truth they seek remains elusive, yet their commitment to one another remains unbroken.