In early 2002, Gonzalo Sanchez de Lozada hired the American Greenberg Carville Shrum consulting firm to help him win the Bolivian presidential election. When GCS representatives arrived in Bolivia a mere 100 days before the election, Lozada, known as Goni, was languishing in the polls. A former president, Goni was seen as arrogant, conservative, and unresponsive by much of the country, and he was struggling to gain ground on his two main opponents, Manfred Reyes Villa, a wealthy former mayor, and Evo Morales, an indigenous representative of the country’s coca farmers. What happened over those 100 days - and, indeed, the next two years - is documented in Rachel Boynton’s Our Brand Is Crisis, an extraordinary story of American influence abroad and the power and value of democracy.

From the moment they arrived on the ground in Bolivia, GCS staffers, represented in the film primarily by pollster Jeremy Rosner, were faced with a tremendous challenge. Not only were Goni’s previous terms as president - which, to Western eyes, was a time of unprecedented economic modernization - seen by many of the desperately poor Bolivians as a time when thousands of jobs were lost to privatization, but his American upbringing and education left him speaking an American-accented Spanish, traits that did not endear him to the indigenous majority. Through the use of countless focus groups (always offered the same cups of flat soda, along with a single plate of potato chips to share), GCS realized their only hope was to discredit Villa, their client’s primary opposition and the early leader in polls. With unflinching honesty, Rosner and his associates explained to Goni how the smear campaign would work: they assured him dirt would be leaked through friendly press outlets, and nothing could be tied to him - he would remain nominally above the fray.

Gradually, the smears took hold, and focus group participants began to voice doubts about the source of Villa’s money. How, exactly, could he afford his luxurious homes? As the papers filled with old photographs of him in uniform, voters began to wonder about his relationship with the military. Simultaneously, Goni was filming new, self-effacing television spots, and making carefully choreographed appearances under the guidance of his American handlers. Despite a cringe-inducing TV interview in which he was unable to come up with a single mistake made during his previous term (weirdly foreshadowing George Bush’s similar experience in 2004), Goni’s campaign gained speed and support, and his trademark pink flags began to spread across the country.

While Villa’s campaign stagnated, Evo, the young, left-wing wild card (who is currently the country's president) made an unexpected rise through the polls, riding the discontent of the poor, indigenous people who were desperate for representation in the government. Without offering much in the way of policy, Morales simply joined his constituents in demanding a constitutional convention (the goal of which is never clear) and opposing the American-led movement to destroy coca plants, and let those around him make mistakes. Thanks to an impossibly ill-advised statement by the American ambassador to Bolivia, who managed to connect Morales to Saddam Hussein, the candidate’s grassroots support swelled, and by the time election day arrived, the race was too close to call. When the dust settled, Goni had defeated Evo by fewer than two percentage points; he had the support of less than 25% of the country.

Their job ostensibly over, the GCS team went home in triumph, confident that they had helped the right man become president. A year later, however, the country was in chaos, its poorest citizens beaten down by taxes they perceived as unfair, demanding a constitutional convention, and violently opposing plans to export oil through Chile, a traditional enemy. And so Rosner returned, conducting more of his polls in an effort to help to understand the opposition, and to help the stranded president. But bloody protesters filled the streets and, within eighteen months of the election, Goni had resigned and fled; the film ends with him living near his childhood home in Washington, DC.

On one hand, Our Brand is Crisis practically made itself. Boynton stumbled upon an incredible series of events populated by a diverse, fascinating group of people, and simply turned on her camera. On the other hand, though, she shows tremendous maturity in staying out of the way of her characters. Instead of characterizing the GCS representatives as either crusaders for right or calculating, Machiavellian mercenaries, she allows them to be a bit of both. Rosner, in particular, comes across as strangely naïve, simultaneously initiating a smear campaign while also speaking with an idealism matched only by that of the indigenous protesters. Goni, on the other hand, is the most self-aware person in the film (apart, perhaps, from James Carville who, in his single appearance on the ground in Bolivia, gives a blindingly brilliant two minute lesson on why his services are in such high demand). Over 70 when the election takes place, Goni is too old and too experienced to bother with either naiveté or optimism. Instead, he mixes a weary cynicism with a well-worn sense of humor that he maintains even when the streets are full of the opposition. Underneath it all - ego, history, and ambition - he seems to sincerely believe that he can help the country, and it’s poignant after his failure to see him sitting on a bench in Washington, talking about learning how to drive.

Above and beyond its obvious story of politics and the American effort to spread our brand of democracy around the world, Our Brand is Crisis asks a crucial question: under what circumstances does democracy work? To the jobless indigenous people of Bolivia, “democracy” means government does what they want it to do; it’s inconceivable to them that an elected president not only wants to run oil through the hated Chile, but also refuses to create jobs, or call a constitutional convention. How does that democracy, then, go about gaining the support of its public? And how does it explain to them that “democracy” is actually not the perfect system in which they’ve been taught to believe, but is in fact a series of painful compromises? Only the very best films - documentary and otherwise - can ask such questions without preaching, and without providing easy answers: Our Brand is Crisis asks them effortlessly, and in a such a way that they become searingly relevant to our lives.