If you were to trap cigarette smoke inside a whiskey glass, swirl in some ketamine, and serve it at a neon-lit afterparty in Buenos Aires, you’d probably get a cocktail that tastes like Kill the Jockey. That’s the vibe of Luis Ortega’s latest cinematic trip—a grimy, glamorous, genre-bending fever dream that’s equal parts crime, comedy, identity crisis, and inner reckoning. It’s weird, it’s wild, it’s visually intoxicating—and it’s impossible to look away.
Ortega, who made waves with his 2018 film El Ángel (a stylish, twisted tale of a teenage serial killer), is back with another hypnotic tale that dives headfirst into the murky waters of self-destruction and transformation. His new protagonist? A fallen jockey whose life spirals into chaos, but who, just maybe, might be galloping toward rebirth.
Meet Remo: The Broken Star at the Center of It All
Our central figure, Remo Manfredini (played with haunting brilliance by Nahuel Pérez Biscayart), is a has-been jockey whose best days are long behind him. Once a glittering name on the racing circuit, he’s now a shadow of his former self—sunglasses always on, pupils dilated, soul MIA. His heterochromatic eyes—one green, one blue—gaze somewhere far beyond the present, as if he’s constantly plotting a way out.
Remo’s body is physically present, but his spirit is clearly fighting for air under the weight of trauma, addiction, and societal expectations. He can’t race sober anymore, and that’s a problem for Sirena (played by the ever-chilling Daniel Giménez Cacho), the rich and calculating man bankrolling Remo’s latest attempt at a comeback. Sirena, convinced that glory still lies ahead, buys a prestigious Japanese horse and sets the stage for a high-stakes race—but it’s clear he wants more than just trophies.
Style Meets Substance (and Then Slaps It Across the Face)
From the get-go, Kill the Jockey oozes style. One standout early scene features a squad of female jockeys warming up before a race to a pulsating electronic track, all slick uniforms and slow-motion stretches. It’s so stylized, it practically feels like a perfume ad directed by Nicolas Winding Refn. But Ortega doesn’t let the visuals do all the talking. Beneath the glitz lies a deep, aching story about people desperate to escape the identities they’ve been boxed into.
Ortega’s film doesn’t throw exposition at you. It lures you into a heightened reality—almost dreamlike—where plot points emerge slowly, often through implication rather than explanation. You’re not told exactly how Remo fell so hard, or what deal he made with the devil to get back on a horse. You feel it through the atmosphere, the melancholy in Pérez Biscayart’s performance, and the visual language of the film itself.
A Career-Defining Performance from Pérez Biscayart
It’s no exaggeration to say that Pérez Biscayart carries this film like a war-weary soldier marching through a battlefield of the soul. He starts off as a jittery, ruined man barely hanging on, but as the film progresses, we see him morph into something luminous, perhaps even divine. There’s a duality to his character that reflects the film’s obsession with rebirth and identity.
This is the same actor who stunned audiences in BPM (Beats Per Minute), the emotionally devastating French drama about AIDS activists. Here, he dials it up to eleven, diving deep into Remo’s psychological abyss and emerging with a performance that’s raw, magnetic, and deeply human. You can’t take your eyes off him, even when the story shifts gears entirely.
Love, Lust & Everything in Between
Remo isn’t alone in his chaotic orbit. There’s Abril (Úrsula Corberó), his pregnant wife and fellow jockey, who’s juggling her own complex reality. While she still loves Remo in a quiet, loyal kind of way, her heart is clearly elsewhere—with a woman. Her presence adds another layer to the film’s ever-expanding exploration of identity, truth, and personal liberation.
Then there’s Sirena, the money man behind the scenes. Giménez Cacho plays him with an eerie calm—a villain who doesn’t snarl, but gently crushes with a smile. Sirena sees Remo as both asset and liability, flipping between benefactor and manipulator with unsettling ease. But even he isn’t immune to the existential pull of self-reflection. As Remo spins out, so does Sirena, revealing cracks in his cold facade.
Even the henchmen, those background goons you’d expect to stay in the shadows, get drawn into the introspective whirlwind. In one scene, a hardened enforcer reminisces over dinner about the trauma that shaped Remo’s psyche. It’s weirdly tender, like a therapy session disguised as a mob chat. That’s the beauty of Ortega’s approach—he grants even the seemingly insignificant characters a moment to peel back their masks.
An Argentine Identity Crisis Dressed in Designer Clothes
Visually, Kill the Jockey is a masterclass in color, design, and aesthetic control. Think Wes Anderson’s attention to palette, but messier, grungier, sexier. The clothes are decadent, the set design is bursting with personality, and the lighting feels like a mood ring—constantly shifting to reflect Remo’s psyche. It’s immersive and intoxicating.
And yet, despite the film’s polish, it never loses touch with its Latin American roots. There’s something distinctly Argentine about the way Kill the Jockey embraces absurdity without apology. Ortega flirts with surrealism—not the academic, arthouse kind, but the gritty, baroque kind where a man in a fur coat, face bandaged, and purse in hand wanders the city like a fallen angel looking for redemption.
Enter: Dolores
Just when you think you’ve got the film pinned down, Ortega pulls the rug out from under you. The story shifts—literally and figuratively. Remo disappears into the background, and a new character steps forward: Dolores (or Lola). Without spoiling too much, let’s just say this character represents a rebirth in more ways than one. What felt like a story about decline suddenly becomes one of reincarnation and radical reinvention.
This pivot isn’t abrupt—it’s more like a metamorphosis that was hiding in plain sight. All the clues were there: the longing stares, the broken masculinity, the fractured relationships. Dolores emerges not just as a new person, but as the thematic climax of the film’s central thesis: that our identities aren’t fixed. We can burn them down and rise again.
Thematic Core: Liberation Through Chaos
At its core, Kill the Jockey is about freedom—freedom from societal roles, from addiction, from expectations, from the body itself. Ortega isn’t interested in neat resolutions. Instead, he offers a messy, poetic journey toward self-realization, set against a backdrop of wealth, vice, and moral ambiguity.
Where El Ángel explored freedom through violence and rebellion, Kill the Jockey searches for it in self-destruction and reinvention. Remo doesn’t want to escape the law—he wants to escape himself. And Dolores, the butterfly emerging from the cocoon, represents the possibility that maybe, just maybe, freedom is on the other side of letting go completely.
A Symphony of Contradictions
Ortega has made a film that thrives on contradiction. It’s stylish but raw. Hilarious and heartbreaking. Surreal yet painfully real. And above all, it refuses to be boxed into one genre. Is it a crime thriller? A dark comedy? A queer coming-of-age tale? A philosophical drama? The answer is yes—to all of the above.
Much like Yorgos Lanthimos, Ortega plays with tone in a way that keeps you slightly off-balance. There’s a dryness to the humor, a detachment to the violence, and yet every emotional beat still lands. The absurdity never dilutes the humanity.
Final Thoughts: Ride or Die
By the time Kill the Jockey reaches its final, hallucinatory chapter, you’re either fully on board with Ortega’s mad vision—or you’ve tapped out. But for those willing to surrender to its chaos, the film offers an exhilarating, often transcendent ride.
It’s not just a movie about a washed-up jockey. It’s about everyone who’s ever wanted to burn their life down and start over. Everyone who’s looked in the mirror and seen a stranger. Everyone who’s dared to believe in the messy, terrifying beauty of change.
So, saddle up. Ortega isn’t here to guide you gently. He’s kicking down the gate and letting the horses run wild.
