The latest film by Argentine director Iván Fund is one of those rare works that quietly slips into the viewer’s soul. At first glance, it may seem like a simple, even marginal story: a girl with supposed powers to communicate with animals—alive or dead—travels dusty Argentine backroads with two adults, offering her services in exchange for money. But it would be a mistake to take that synopsis as a faithful reflection of what the film truly proposes. What Fund builds is, in fact, a mysterious and moving film, a journey through the spiritual, through broken affections, and the grey zones of what we understand as reality.
Anika, played by Anika Bootz, is the undeniable heart of the narrative. We never fully know who the people accompanying her—Myriam and Roger—really are, nor the exact nature of their relationship. It’s also unclear whether her abilities are genuine or merely a well-sold fiction aimed at people desperate to find comfort. But that ambiguity is not a flaw or a trap; it’s the film’s lifeblood, its way of proposing a kind of cinema that doesn’t explain, doesn’t underline, and instead trusts in the viewer’s sensitivity to map their own path.
What is clear is the itinerary of this nomadic trio: a wandering life in a worn-out camper van, crossing towns, fields, gas stations, and pet cemeteries. At each stop, Anika approaches an animal—a dog named Snoopy, a turtle, a grumpy cat, a lonely hedgehog—and, with eyes closed, “listens” to what they have to say. The people who seek her services react with a mix of astonishment, emotion, and resignation. In a country impoverished and battered by economic crises—broadcast over the radio—this girl, supposedly able to channel what creatures feel, appears as an improbable medium: a channel to another world that may not exist, yet somehow still offers healing.
As the journey unfolds, the film reveals a kind of magical sensitivity—not because of fantastical elements, but because of how it looks at the world. The narrative flows with a calm, contemplative rhythm, where silences and glances weigh as much as any dialogue. The connection between Anika, Myriam, and Roger is never fully explained, but a more complex family story is hinted at in a visit to a psychiatric institution, where Anika meets her mother. This encounter, treated with extreme delicacy, encapsulates the emotional core of the film: there are deep, unseen wounds, pains without explanation, and affections that survive in the midst of uncertainty.
Fund chooses not to answer many of the questions raised by the story. Is Anika truly gifted? Is this an emotional setup exploited by adults for profit? Does it ultimately matter whether what she transmits is real or not? What matters is that in each encounter, no matter how fragile or questionable, there is a moment of communion—between humans and animals, between the living and the dead, between need and hope. The film is less a supernatural fable and more a meditation on the desire to believe, the need to find meaning amid chaos and sorrow.
In this sense, The Message recalls certain films that have turned the road into a path toward knowledge—a route to an imprecise but deeply human truth. Like Alice in the Cities, by Wim Wenders, or Landscape in the Mist, by Theo Angelopoulos, physical displacement here is also a form of inner journey. Anika, in her serene, attentive wanderings, seems to absorb everything around her—even without fully understanding it. And we, as viewers, accompany her in that process of discovery with a mix of wonder, tenderness, and melancholy.
What’s most surprising about The Message is its ability to move without grand gestures. There are no explosive scenes or dramatic twists. Everything happens in a low register, in murmurs, in the textures of everyday life. Images of rural landscapes, of towns frozen in time, of animals staring directly into the camera, are combined with a delicate soundscape that ranges from natural ambient sounds to the emotional arrival of the classic “Always on My Mind.” In that moment, the film seems to open a window into the souls of its characters—and into ours.
The choice of black and white is not a retro aesthetic or cinephile wink. It’s a tool that emphasizes the timelessness of what we see. This could be a story set decades ago or in a ruined future. What matters is not chronology but the emotional state it evokes. Fund is not interested in offering answers or building a neatly wrapped narrative. His aim lies elsewhere: to create a sensory and spiritual experience that, without needing to explain too much, leaves a lasting impression.