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Chloë Sevigny and her white Margiela tabis totter through the dusty roads of a rural Argentine village, leading a ragtag Bushwickian crew as they try, in vain, to film “a whole new series on subcultures around the world.” Traipsing through San Cristóbal, they are in pursuit of a bunny-eared local musician whom they hope to turn into a viral sensation. But this is not the right San Cristóbal. “There’s one in just about every country in Latin America,” a local says. In any case, this Vice News–esque ensemble has to come back with a story.
Such is the premise of Amalia Ulman’s Magic Farm, out now. Sevigny is the sour, insecure TV host Edna; her producer-slash-husband (Simon Rex) has secretly absconded to the States to deal with an unfolding sexual-harassment scandal. Then there’s the inept producer Jeff (Alex Wolff), sound guy Justin (Joe Apollonio), and the only Spanish speaker, Elena (Ulman), all of whom scramble to make a new plan.
In time, the group decides to collaborate with (read: exploit) the curious yet shrewd locals (who, at times, exploit them right back) on a documentary about a made-up cult. As they fumble through, they meet a kind, burly hostel receptionist (Guillermo Jacubowicz) whom Justin crushes on and are regaled with mad-hatter stories by local lady Popa (Valeria Lois), while her acerbic and extremely online daughter Manchi (model and actor to watch Camila del Campo) enchants Jeff.
The stylish, dry wit of Ulman’s first film, 2021’s El Planeta, a tragicomedy about a cash-strapped mother-daughter duo in post-recession Spain, pulses through Magic Farm. As the crew mull over their problems back north and attempt to create some clickbait, they miss what the real story on the ground is: the specter of pollution and the village residents’ intense coughing, physical defects, and illness from pesticides in the San Cristóbal that they’ve crashed into.
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