-By Erica Abeel

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The psychological thriller The Secret in Their Eyes combines a meditation on the nature of memory with a tale of thwarted love and revenge—all hung on the bones of a police procedural. The Academy Award winner for Best Foreign Language Film, Secret offers nuanced turns from heavy hitter Ricardo Darín and lovely Soledad Villamil as his romantic interest, witty dialogue, and a creepy denouement worthy of William Faulkner. But this offering from Argentinean director Juan José Campanella suffers from thematic overload and an early slowness to line up the ducks, pointing to only modest art-house action.

In search of a pastime to enliven his retirement, former court investigator Benjamin Esposito (Darín) sets out to write a novel about a 25-year-old case involving the rape and murder of a beautiful young woman that haunts his dreams. The action loops between the past—grisly images of the crime and the hunt for the killer that Benjamin resurrects in the novel he's writing; and present-day visits to chief judge Irene (Villamil), which hum with romantic tension. The film proposes the dubious notion that by solving the enigma of the vanished perp and committing the story to print, Benjamin will also resolve his longing for Irene, who was his superior at the office and, as a wealthy Daddy's girl, socially beyond his reach.

Because of its complex time scheme, Secret narrowly misses derailing, yet manages to hold its through-line. In a terrific set-piece from the past investigation, Irene elicits a confession from the likely perp by taunting him about his sexual inadequacy. As in many Latin American films, the individual is impacted by the political context; here, the courts are part of a larger systemic corruption pointing toward the dictatorship that overtook Argentina in the ’70s. So the confessed killer walks when he's recruited as a government informer on insurgents. This inspires a vengeance scheme by the murdered woman's husband which sets up the final sting in the tail.

Spiking the gunplay with philosophical musings, the film foregrounds, as the title suggests, the power of the gaze: In a childhood photo it can betray a potential future killer; while the eyes of two colleagues betray the ardor roiling beneath their neutral language. Campanella's camera hypnotically focuses on the clear, questing eyes of Irene, doubling our own act, of course, as viewers of the film. And bless him for his continued interest in exploring, as in Son of the Bride, the concerns of aging characters.

But by the second act, Secret loses steam, hobbled by too many impulses, along with the pretentious truisms mouthed by the characters—"Memories are all we end up with" and the like. It would nice to think that some editor will take a blue pencil to the book Benjamin finally finishes and make some judicious cuts. Would that Campanella's film had been similarly pared down.