Time Flies

The Persistence of the Fly

Argentine cinema has long understood that the line between tragedy and farce is not just thin; it is often nonexistent. In *Time Flies* (*El tiempo de las moscas*), directors Ana Katz and Benjamín Naishtat lean heavily into this uncomfortable intersection, delivering a series that disguises itself as a crime caper but operates more effectively as a meditation on lost time and female resilience. Adapting the literary world of Claudia Piñeiro, the show is less interested in the mechanics of its central mystery than in the buzzing, persistent anxiety of two women trying to exist in a world that would prefer to swat them away.



The visual language of the series is defined by a distinct "melancholic noir" aesthetic. We are far removed from the high-gloss, sepia-toned filters often applied to Latin American crime dramas on streaming platforms. Instead, Katz and Naishtat present a Buenos Aires that feels dusty, overexposed, and suffocatingly real. The central motif—the fumigation business run by Inés (Carla Peterson) and La Manca (Nancy Dupláa)—provides a brilliant visual metaphor. Clad in shapeless hazmat suits, fogging chemicals into the manicured gardens of the wealthy, the women are rendered visible yet invisible. They are the "flies" of the title: pests to be tolerated, creatures that cross the boundaries between the pristine and the rot. The directors use the drone of insects and the hiss of fumigation tanks to create a soundscape that is perpetually on edge, mirroring the internal state of Inés, who is navigating freedom after fifteen years in prison.



At its core, *Time Flies* is a testament to the chemistry between Peterson and Dupláa. The narrative weight rests entirely on their shoulders, and they carry it with a weary, lived-in grace. Peterson’s Inés is a woman frozen in a previous era, her social instincts dulled by a decade and a half of incarceration (a backstory fleshed out in the series’ standout third episode, which effectively adapts Piñeiro’s novel *Tuya*). Dupláa matches her as La Manca, grounding the show’s more absurd turns with a gritty pragmatism. Their dynamic is not the high-octane energy of *Thelma & Louise*, but something quieter and more desperate—a friendship forged in the necessity of survival. The script allows them moments of silence that speak louder than the plot’s blackmail mechanics; in their shared glances, we see the terrifying realization that "freedom" is just another form of struggle.



If the series stumbles, it is in its obligation to the thriller genre. The introduction of a shady client and a coerced crime feels like a concession to algorithm-driven pacing, occasionally distracting from the far more compelling character study at play. The suspense elements can feel mechanical, a trap that the show itself seems eager to escape. However, when *Time Flies* stops trying to be a whodunit and embraces its identity as a story about reinvention, it soars. It suggests that the most dangerous prison isn't the one with bars, but the social stigma that refuses to let women like Inés and La Manca evolve. Ultimately, this is a show that buzzes with life, messy and persistent, demanding to be heard.