Once-Repressive Argentina Now a Nation of Lampoons

BUENOS AIRES —  If one measure of democracy is the freedom to make fun of the government, a quick round of channel surfing suggests that democracy is thriving in Argentina.

On one channel, a popular program gleefully replays the (alleged) lies and verbal pitfalls of public figures such as the union boss who declared roguishly, “For the country to make progress, what we should do is stop stealing for a couple of years.”

On another show, a satirical newscast dispatches brash “reporters” to ambush mayoral candidates, interrogate police chiefs and fluster the education minister by demanding that she name the capital of Sri Lanka.

And a popular TV character is Rivarola, the king of parasitic public servants, a sleazy bureaucrat who lives to make money without working. His motto: “This country has enough for everybody.”

The styles of the programs differ, and the content ranges from brilliant to silly. But they share an irreverent, satirical edge. They are products of a recent trend that blends comedy, politics and journalism in an exuberant confrontation with the powers that be.

During Argentina’s military dictatorship, which ended 13 years ago, stern colonels ran the TV stations. And the elite in many Latin American nations still use direct and indirect censorship to control the airwaves.

But Argentina has experienced its longest period of uninterrupted democracy in six decades. Television has become an instructive, occasionally chaotic mirror of a society in which freedom of speech is exercised with relish.

“It reflects the consolidation of democracy,” said Miguel Rodriguez Arias, producer of the show “The Legs of the Lie.”

“The more years that pass, the less fear . . . people have to express themselves--even though the politicians still fear television the most.”

The obsession with political humor, analysts say, results partly from the freewheeling political style that has flourished since President Carlos Menem was elected in 1989.

Even as a provincial governor, when he cultivated the charismatic, sideburned image of a rural strongman, Menem enjoyed mixing with the Buenos Aires jet set. Earlier in his term as president, he made the rounds of gossipy talk shows and serious interview programs alike, singing tangos, playing soccer with the national team and answering personal questions with amiable candor.

Although the president’s profile has lowered with the years, his initial anything-goes accessibility set a new tone, according to TV critic Pablo Sirven, author of two books on the media. Politicians have developed a frank, informal attitude, he said.

“The formality of politics has faded,” Sirven said. “The reaction of television has been, ‘If the politicians don’t take themselves seriously, why should we take them seriously?’ ”

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Argentines have a preoccupation with the hustler or con artist. The slang abounds with terms such as trucho, which means fake or scam, and chanta, which means swindler. As the democracy has matured, the public has come to see its elected representatives in this context, Rodriguez said.

“After the dictatorship fell in 1983, being a congressman was respectable,” Rodriguez said. “Today, a congressman is a chanta. The image has deteriorated.”

The combination of nonstop corruption scandals and an unfettered media generates plenty of material, said actor Miguel Del Sel.

“Politicians do incredible things, things you couldn’t make up--they hand it to you on a silver platter,” said Del Sel, a chameleon-like comic who stars on a show that dubs Argentina “Trucholandia” (Scamland). Del Sel portrays the strutting chiseler Rivarola, a grandiose maestro of small-time corruption who is popular with viewers because “at the office or among their friends, everyone knows a Rivarola.”

While “Trucholandia” is a conventional comedy, other programs experiment with form. The most innovative and sophisticated is “The Legs of the Lie.” The title refers to the Spanish saying, “Lies have short legs.”

Producer Rodriguez, 50, is a cerebral man with a black goatee, a psychologist who worked in advertising for 25 years. Motivated by an intellectual interest in political discourse, Rodriguez began compiling video clips in the late 1980s. He built the biggest television archive in Argentina--an act with subversive implications in a society whose dictators tried to erase the painful memories of their brutality.

“The military had a very old policy of not respecting memory,” Rodriguez said. “There was a lack of documents, of television archives.”

Poring over his videos, Rodriguez discovered that the televised words of political leaders were the best satirical material of all. Politicians contradicted themselves. They made Freudian slips. They talked frankly about skulduggery. They did outrageous things: A former defense minister allowed himself to be interviewed on a round bed by a scantily clad talk-show hostess.

“This must be the only country in the world where politicians go on popular television shows to be amusing,” Rodriguez said. “And this must be the only country where politicians admit to corruption. . . .

“Corruption has been made frivolous. It is so generalized. The attitude becomes that if everyone is corrupt, no one is corrupt.”

Rodriguez spliced his nuggets into zany, documentary-style videos without narration, which sold wildly in video stores. Last year, he launched the widely watched weekly program that includes commentary by Lalo Mir, a bearlike disc jockey who rolls tape and then dissects the hypocrisy on display with pugnacious delight.

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Despite the show’s accusatory premise, Rodriguez said he has not encountered censorship, threats or lawsuits. Once, a government official complained that Rodriguez was making Argentina look bad to the outside world.

“And I said, ‘No, you in the government are the ones who are making us look bad,’ ” Rodriguez recalled. “I am doing this to consolidate the democracy--so that this becomes a more serious nation. So that politicians do their jobs and do them seriously.”

Rodriguez defines his work as a “serious program with humor.” But he and other artists are great admirers of “Caiga Quien Caiga” (“No Matter Who Falls”), which strives not to be serious.

“CQC,” as it is known, is an hourlong mock newscast anchored by three youthful hipsters. The award-winning show adopts an uproarious, post-MTV format dominated by fast talk, jump cuts and rock music. Creator and star Mario Pergolini previously produced a “Candid Camera”-type show that ambushed everyday people. Now he has turned his sights on the famous and powerful.

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Pergolini and his cohorts maraud through news events--a ribbon cutting, a ceremony of the once-feared federal police, a meeting of Latin American presidents--and put the newsmakers on the spot with jocular, sarcastic interviews. After Education Minister Susana Decibe failed to identify Colombo as Sri Lanka’s capital or solve a geometric equation, the shaggy-haired “reporter” walked away muttering to the camera, “Clearly, the minister is completely uninformed.”

In its inspired moments, “CQC” is fearless and funny. Other programs mimic its ambush approach.

Critic Sirven said that one of the form’s limitations is that Argentine public figures, rather than reacting angrily or pompously, are playing along with the gag. Some print journalists complain that officials take advantage of the disruptions to dodge tough questions at news conferences.

Although the new batch of programs may adopt the trappings of journalism, in the final analysis most of them remain entertainment, Sirven said. And television comedies are unlikely to dig up and denounce wrongdoing in high places, he said.

“I think this genre will be short-lived, because the politicians have learned how to respond,” he said. “Often, it is not a harsh criticism. It is more like childish mischief, and the politicians play along.”

Still, it seems clear that both politics and television have learned to take themselves less seriously.

“That is healthy,” Sirven said. “Irreverence is healthy.”