Myths, prejudices, and postponements surrounded Oesterheld’s comic strip before it finally became a series. This is a story that refuses to disappear, reminding us that to narrate is to resist, and that hope is always a political decision.
By Camila Gonzalez Revoredo for Estudio Silver
Héctor Germán Oesterheld’s El Eternauta, the great comic strip that became an Argentine classic, knew how to make entire generations happy and take them on an adventure. From the children of the 1950s, who devoured it in weekly installments, to the latest generations who discovered it after watching the last episode of the series on Netflix. My brother, who is in elementary school, is reading it in class nowadays.
Many have envisioned a film adaptation of this story before, and it was also postponed as an animated dream. In the 2000s, Lucrecia Martel dared to imagine it. It was said that it couldn’t be done in Argentina, that there was neither budget nor technical expertise. It was even rumored that the story was cursed.
In 1976, Martín García interviewed Oesterheld for Radio Belgrano. García told him that disaster movies were all the rage in Hollywood at the time, and asked him if he had ever thought about bringing El Eternauta to the big screen. Oesterheld replied:
“We have considered that several times (…) but the project never came to fruition. I think it could be done; it’s not that difficult. The experts say it’s not possible. I think it could.”
Forty-nine years passed since that conversation, and it was done. Bruno Stagnaro is behind the first official adaptation for the small screen. A series. An idea that finally took shape. According to several sources, the production generated an economic impact of more than forty million pesos for the Argentine economy. This is an uncomfortable fact because it contradicts a prejudice repeated furiously today: that this industry does not generate wealth for the country and is useless. As if telling our own stories was a whim, and not a way of existing in time.
In the first half of 2025, the National Institute of Cinema and Audiovisual Arts failed to support a single film. A historic record, but not one to celebrate. And someone will say: what does this have to do with El Eternauta, if it wasn’t financed by the Institute? It has everything to do with it.
Because the Argentine talent that shines in that series today, with impeccable technical quality, was trained in national cinema, in those films that for years were supported by the INCAA.
Take Bruno Stagnaro himself as an example: his first film, Pizza, Beer, and Cigarettes, was made possible thanks to that support.
And the same goes for K&S Films, the production company behind the series. Could they have become an emblem of Argentine cinema without having first produced films such as On Probation, Wild Tales, or Chronicle of an Escape? It would have been difficult. Without that foundation, without that network of public policies, El Eternauta would not be possible today.
Another giant that helped make the comic book a reality was Netflix, with whom two fundamental conditions were stipulated in a contract in order to move forward with this adaptation: it had to be filmed in Buenos Aires and respect our culture and way of speaking. The adaptation was wonderful thanks to the talent of the team, but also to these principles. The fact is that a story that begins with friends playing truco couldn’t be done any other way.
Héctor Germán Oesterheld’s grandson, Martín Oesterheld, creative consultant on the series, had a lot to do with ensuring that these guidelines were followed. Martín remembers the last time he saw his grandfather, on December 13, 1977, in a clandestine detention center. He was almost four years old. In a recent interview, he recalled the anecdote:
“My memory is not torturous or dark. I remember simply being with my grandfather as in any ordinary day: sitting on a bench, talking about everyday things, and him paying particular attention to everything I said. And I have that memory, which has a little more to do with how the body remembers than how the mind remembers.”
Héctor Germán Oesterheld is still missing. Those responsible: the perpetrators and accomplices of the last civil-military dictatorship in Argentina. His four daughters were also detained and disappeared: Diana, Estela, Beatriz, and Marina. Two of them, Diana and Marina, were in advanced stages of pregnancy. Héctor’s grandchildren, born in captivity, are still being searched for by Elsa, his partner, and by Martín Oesterheld together with the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo.
The adaptation is wonderful for many reasons, but there is one that I find particularly luminous: the inclusion of the story of the Malvinas war and Juan Salvo as a former combatant. The Eternauta doesn’t only face a poisonous cloud of snow; he also has to face that internal blizzard of his wounds.
The English version of the series features a powerful decision by the translator, Daiana Díaz, who decided to use “Malvinas Islands,” and not “Falklands.” In addition and by her suggestion, the subtitles in the nearly thirty languages into which the series was translated use “Malvinas” to refer to the islands. In a LinkedIn post, she explains:
“This is not a matter of personal whims or intransigence, but rather of seeking to convey faithfully, authentically, and professionally the essence and idiosyncrasies of these characters in the dramatic and historical context. And trusting that the audience will enjoy learning more about our culture, our history, and our way of seeing the world.”
In this previous article by Estudio Silver, we discussed how AI cannot get the job done alone. This is a great example. Translation is a human art, a craft, and a political responsibility. No machine can fathom the meaning of “Malvinas” in the mouth of an Argentine character. Nor can it understand why the character couldn’t say anything different.
A classic is a work of art that always has something to say. It returns, again and again, with new ways of challenging us. It slips into the present, makes it uncomfortable, and gives it new meaning. El Eternauta is just that: a warning that never expires. A collective story in a country that insists on telling its story through solitary heroes.
In the same interview that Martín García had with Oesterheld in 1976, the writer said something that resonates with brutal clarity today:
“There is always hope. I never made a comic where hope was lost.”
That expression is not naive. It’s not a comforting denial. It is a stance. Because hope in Oesterheld is not passivity or resignation.
It is a driving force. It is resistance. It is faith in the collective. It is the certainty that it is still worth persisting and telling stories, even when everything around is burning.
Much of the technical team that made El Eternauta is now out of work because no films are being made in Argentina. We have the means, we have wonderful technicians, but we lack public policies. We lack state support.
If we remember, if we remember with our bodies, as Martín does; if we have hope like Héctor. If we have the temperament, the power to assert our identity. If we fight as a collective, if we organize ourselves, we can go far.
It was said that the adaptation of El Eternauta was cursed. If it was, here is proof that we can even overcome that.