Argentinian filmmaker Marco Berger doesn’t just make queer cinema — he weaponizes the male gaze, turns bro-bonding into sexual tension, and leaves his viewers (especially the straight ones) squirming. With his latest film, The Astronaut Lovers, he continues his campaign to dismantle the gay-straight binary one summer house at a time.
Berger’s work doesn’t flirt with subtlety. Whether it’s a sultry summer villa or a locker room full of unspoken tension, his sets drip with homoerotic charge. “The clothes come off, and the skin is exposed,” Berger admits. “It’s the perfect setting.” But it’s not just about hot bodies — it’s about the social rules they’re breaking. His characters tease, challenge, and confuse, forcing audiences to rethink everything they thought they knew about male friendships — and maybe themselves.
The Astronaut Lovers, premiering at this year’s BFI Flare festival, opens with openly gay Pedro locking eyes with his cousin’s friend Maxi. Maxi, the classic maybe-he-is-maybe-he-isn’t type, tells his ex that he’s dating Pedro — just to mess with her — and then… the line between fake and real romance blurs. Spoiler: it gets real, fast. The result is a queer romcom that’s both funny and disarmingly tender, a rare entry in a genre still starved for two men falling in love without tragic endings.
Berger doesn’t shy away from calling it political. “I wanted to make a romantic comedy with two men because it barely exists,” he says. “Comedy has a way of easing tension.” In a cinematic world where queer love is often coded in tragedy, Berger’s work is refreshingly cheeky. But it also unsettles — especially for the more masculine men watching. “My films blur boundaries,” Berger notes. “It makes some masculine viewers question if they could be gay.”
And the backlash isn’t just internal. Berger says producers have hesitated to back his projects, afraid of being “labelled as producers of gay films.” Despite critical acclaim and a wildly loyal global following, funding remains sparse. “I’ve made 12 films, and together they cost less than one of theirs,” he says, comparing his experience to straight filmmakers in the same industry. The Astronaut Lovers was made on a shoestring $200,000 — the price of one Hollywood catering bill.
Berger’s story resonates far beyond film. His work exposes the thin veneer of straight male comfort zones, particularly in cultures like Argentina’s, where public affection between men can still cause a stir. He explores the violence — physical and emotional — that simmers under toxic masculinity, most famously in Horseplay, a chilling reflection on how easily “boys being boys” can become deadly. In contrast, Taekwondo, one of his softer collaborations, gives us space to breathe, showing queer friendship and love in full bloom.
What’s more, Berger’s personal reflections remind us what’s at stake: “I feel like the world stole my youth,” he says. “I never had a boyfriend in high school.” It’s a sentiment many LGBTQ+ folks will understand — the delayed adolescence, the longing for what straight teens take for granted. His films aren’t just entertainment. They’re reclamations.
The real kicker? Berger doesn’t think of his work as “queer” films. He just makes films. “No one asks Quentin Tarantino why he’s making another straight film,” he quips. But the world still sees gay stories as niche. That’s why Berger matters. He doesn’t apologize for the desire on screen. He magnifies it. Frames it. Makes you sit in it.
And in a world that still questions queer intimacy, Marco Berger’s films don’t knock politely — they kick the damn door open.