This post was originally published on artnews.com
Amalia Ulman broke the internet in 2014 when she started an Instagram account for posting images of her beauty routine. There, she thanked followers for supporting her as she underwent plastic surgery and solicited opinions on her hair color and outfits. It was all a performance, soon titled Excellences and Perfections, designed to draw out revealing reactions and highlight the way that social media can frame women as yours to look at.
It was also a story with a narrative arc, pictures, words, and an actress—all the ingredients that make up a movie. So it should not surprise that Ulman now finds herself a rather accomplished filmmaker, with her second feature, Magic Farm, in theaters nationwide starting May 16. Magic Farm follows her dark comedy El Planeta (2021), in which a mother-daughter duo scam Spaniards in order to make ends (barely) meet, all while rocking fur coats and glamorous sunglasses. Ulman’s new film, starring Chloë Sevigny, tells the story of a crew of American journalists traveling to Argentina to record an episode about a musician who, it turns out, lives in a different San Cristobal—a town name ubiquitous in Latin America. There, they meet memorable locals, several visibly affected by pesticide pollution. The result is an absurdist satire of American hipsters.
There’s a thread connecting Excellences and Perfections, El Planeta, and Magic Farm, but it is not a visual or stylistic one. At first, all three seem to center on obsessions with superficial things, like beauty or online followers. But what resonates most is the social and political commentary that Ulman sneaks subtly into her work, always with a light touch—and without necessarily taking a clear stance. Below, she opens up about her big pivot between the worlds of art and film.
How has it felt to go from making art, where you have your hands on every aspect, to directing big film productions?
I still have my hands on all the parts, everything from photography to costume design. That’s why I’m going to stop acting in my own films—acting, directing, and producing can be truly a nightmare and more than is physically possible. On top of that, I don’t even like acting that much; it tires me.
I have a very clear vision of what I want, though I love delegating when people are good at their jobs. [Laughs]. Which is why I think directing always starts with casting: Who do you pick to work with you that you trust?
You wrote Chloë Sevigny’s part in Magic Farm for her, and you also worked with friends.
Yes, and my director’s assistant, Carmen de la Roca, has been involved in my work since I was making video art. For Magic Farm, I was surrounded by people that I trust—girls that I trust, really. I started in the art world when I was very young. I was abused both financially and physically, and then I got into [a bus] accident. It was all very traumatic, and I’m not just throwing that word around. There was all this exposure, but no mentorship, no guidance. Just all these older men moving me around, and a lot of galleries thinking I might be a money cow.
But I don’t work that way. I never wanted to have a large studio with a lot of people working for me. I don’t even have a studio practice. I mostly work by walking around, getting on buses, looking at people, and then writing. For specific projects, I might hire some help. I quit all my galleries last year, but I haven’t quit art.
The film industry is insane too. People work until they have a heart attack. But I’ve always been surrounded by people who care about me, and also about the longevity of my work—not just taking advantage of me. El Planeta was the first time that I had mentors I could call and ask, “Hey, what do you think about this?” or “How does this work?” I felt protected, and like people were rooting for me. In the art world, I felt hyper-exposed and then abandoned once I didn’t do another Excellences and Perfections.
How did you find your mentors, and who are they?
It happened organically. In film, there’s more incentive to share, because everything is so collaborative and you need people. [Fellow director] Eugene Kotlyarenko gave me the best advice ever: Get a cameo from a known actor. I got Nacho Vigalondo, who is very famous in Spain, to play the part of the john in El Planeta. That gave us this stamp of legitimacy. And then Miranda July sent the film to Sundance. She’s also the one who got me my current agent. Scott Macaulay, the editor of Filmmaker Magazinebut also a producer—he produced Gummo—is one of my best friends, and I talk to him all the time. It helps so much to able to ask, “Is this normal? Am I getting ripped off?” My friend, the director Daniel Schmidt, gives me intel regarding how much things sell for. The list of people doesn’t end. I never had that in the art world.
For an issue of Art Papers I edited a piece you wrote about having invisible disabilities. I noticed you included some visibly disabled people in Magic Farm.
What are peoples’ expectations of somebody with disabilities? How do you react to somebody that looks different—like [actor] Mateo Vaquer, who I found on TikTok? I saw a video of him on the shoulders of his friend, throwing around his T-shirt at the club. He was so good at dancing. We met up when I was location-scouting, and I saw that he was very extroverted and fun, and loved the camera. I altered the script to fit him in.
Thankfully, my producers were flexible. I know from my own disability how important that is: I didn’t want to give him a super-strict schedule. So I decided that, whenever he’s feeling good and ready to go, we’ll add him to the scene. I didn’t want to force it. I know how tempting it is to lie about how well you are doing and push through. A lot of the stories that he tells in the film are stories that he just brought up during lunch. I wanted him to represent himself the way he is. You can be disabled and also be super-sassy and love drugs or whatever! Yet whenever you see people that look like Mateo onscreen, it’s a scary film. I just wanted to normalize it all.
In the film he’s disabled because of pesticide poisoning. You also had family members whose health was affected by agricultural chemicals.
Harm is everywhere. That’s what the film is really about: There is no escape. It’s not like the Americans will go back home and then be safe. My mom’s side of the family—my grandma is in the film!—is part Indigenous, from Northern Argentina. In the ’70s, there was a mass exodus from the countryside to Buenos Aires. Most of the family moved, but a few people stayed in the countryside. One person was going blind, but nobody wanted to talk about it. My mom was outraged: Where were the activists?
Part of the problem is that it’s hard to prove a culprit scientifically, since it can affect everyone differently—cancer, a missing limb. It takes a serious study to start seeing patterns, and these studies are rare in small villages. Plus, when you’re sick, the idea of fighting against multinational monsters is a lot.
You have your own production company, Holga’s Meow—named for your late cat.
It’s partly a way for me to get credit for the production work that I do, but I also want the company to start funding smaller projects. I want to help other women and younger people coming from the art world. I learned from my own experience that a little guidance can go a long way. I want it to be like Elara Pictures [a production company cofounded by the Safdie brothers and others] for girls. Elara is very bro-y.
Did you always see yourself making films?
I’ve always been very narrative, but I never really thought I could make a film. I knew the way I liked to work made my life hard as an artist. I work project to project, on things that have a clear beginning and end. But when one picture from a series would get shown out of context, it was hard for some people to understand, and hard to market. At least when there’s an excerpt or screenshot from a film, you know you’re missing context.
A lot of your characters have somewhat glamorous or exciting lives but are struggling financially, which is a lot like working in the art world. Do the working conditions of the film industry feel different?
In film, there are unions that make sure everyone gets paid. Sometimes I butt heads with the unions, especially when it comes to disability, because they make things less flexible. But at the end of the day, I’m happy that people get a living wage. Also, since film is more collaborative, burning bridges is risky. You can’t be too big a douchebag, because you’ll need to ask favors of other people.
In film, you need protections like insurance on set in case someone gets hurt. But in the art world, I went to so many fairs with so many galleries and never felt protected, even when I devoted my whole life to a project. In fashion and in art, people suffer—and do a lot of Adderall and cocaine just to sustain what they are doing.
In the art world, I felt like I was having to prove myself to galleries over and over again. When I felt confident about an idea, it would usually sell—even things that are supposed to be hard to sell! Whereas some things that galleries pushed me to do, thinking that they’d be more commercially viable, didn’t sell. I stopped trusting the galleries and started doing my own thing.
What’s your next film about?
It’s based on a short story I wrote called “The German Teacher.” It’s set in Spain, and based on a real private debt collection agency, El Cobrador del Frac, that you can hire. They send a guy in coattails and a top hat to follow you around, and everyone knows what it means. He trails you and shames you, until you pay. In my story, the government implements a law requiring every company to diversify. So the protagonist becomes the first female cobradora. The man she’s hired to follow happens to
be this German teacher she had an affair with when she was in high school—and hadn’t
seen since …