A middle-aged Argentinian director falls for a young dancer as he shoots a movie about the tango. It's a risky move, since the girl in question's currently the lover of the shadowy businessman-cum-mobster financing the show, a man not likely to take rejection well. Plot and performances are sub-standard Almodovar, while characters and story strands drift in and out, often vanishing all together, as fact and fiction blur in a way that robs events of meaning. Yet Tango is still worth seeing.
Why? Well, put it down to the dancing. Driven by Lalo Schifrin's arrangements, the tango here is a raw, mesmeric thing. Whether it's two people dancing against a stark white background or dozens re-enacting moments from the tortures of the Junta, Tango's images linger long after its flaws have faded.