In an undefined location, between an empty office building and a disused shopping mall, a young man collapses to the ground in slow motion. The walls are moldering, mail piles up at the bottom of closed doors. Another young man observes through the windows the enigmatic ballet of two elegant young women who have taken over the urban desert as a playground for their subversive imaginations. Under the guise of reappropriating deserted offices and apartments, they engage in strange poetic-political actions, half-Situationist, half-Oulipo. Slipping pink, yellow, and green papers and tokens under office doors, sewing existential phrases onto clothing labels, etc. The minimal plot of Vía Negativa boils down to the boy's initiation into the rites and mysteries of the secret society, and the games of seduction it allows. The script and direction proceed by subtraction: from the drama, from the gravity, from any form of explanation of the situation. A strangely anxious, end-of-the-world atmosphere reigns in the deserted city, but the catastrophe has already occurred. A few signs hint at its nature: total and definitive decrepitude of the economy and society, like a collapsological extrapolation of the repeated crises striking Argentina. The singular beauty of this first film lies in the contrast between the picture of a world in the terminal stage of its collapse and the supreme elegance, the very haute couture care with which Alan Martín Segal crafts his shots, works the frames, the lights, and the sounds. But make no mistake: beneath their chic and playful appearance, the negative path taken by the film and its characters is of the highest political consequence. Letting the world go to its ruin in order to regain life. Making nothing, then giving form to nothing. To undo the world, to empty it, and to make one's life a form in movement in free space. Let elegance be the ultimate resistance.