The passage of time has morphed the cinematic landscape into one that consistently draws from the self, a plane of introspection that has given way to masterful autobiographies. Take Federico Fellini's transcendent 8½ or even Bob Fosse's lively look at death in All That Jazz — it's the ultimate trajectory of a career that a filmmaker begins to look inward, bringing forth revelatory reflections that, hopefully, work on both a personal and universal level.
The seven years since Alejandro G. Iñárritu's last film, The Revenant, have offered the filmmaker just that: the time to look inward and produce a mediation on love, loss, artistry and the intricacies of Mexican identity. If only he took a bit more time to not render it so pompous.
Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho channelling the prototypical tortured artist), the protagonist of Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths and a clear surrogate for Iñárritu, is a Mexican documentarian whose illustrious career has taken him and his family north of the border for the better part of his life. Yet, his headway in the United States has left him spiritually listless, yearning to reconnect with his homeland. After being named the recipient of a prestigious international award, he embarks on a would-be simple trip full of existential quandaries.
Opening with an image very similar to Iñárritu's 2014 film Birdman, showing a sequence of first-person cosmic leaps into the sky above a barren desert, the film then gives way to a bizarre reverse birth scene, where an infant, just entering the world, decides he'd rather stay in the womb. The next 150 minutes unfold as a series of surreal, Dalí-esque vignettes from Silverio's past and present that probe the multitudes of his personal identity, inadequacy, mortality and the collective history of Mexico— all wrapped up in a fetishistic fervour that toys with depth but never rises above stylistic navel-gazing.
Take a scene in which Silverio's work is criticized by an envious colleague as pretentious, conceited and superficial (much like the film itself). Really, this retort is a self-referential jab at the critics, an attempt to avert derision when the film later does exactly what it previously mentioned. It's self-conscious cinema that hopes to earn points for simply acknowledging its faults, rather than superseding them.
It's a relief that the film is, at the very least, a visual marvel that makes the word "gorgeous" an unworthy descriptor. Teaming up with cinematographer Darrius Khondji (who notably fills in for frequent Iñárritu collaborator Emmanuel Lubezki), Iñárritu crafts a visually dynamic and utterly awe-inspiring stream of consciousness that cascades, flows and soars from scene to scene seamlessly. The wide lens makes great use of both the dry landscapes and the claustrophobic cities, as the slicing symmetries, shimmering reflections and spectral pans add an immense (and much needed) depth to the self-flattery that consistently dampens the film's bravura.
There's only so much beautiful imagery can do, though. Once the thin story comes into focus, the supercilious technical tricks and recurring motifs begin to take on a numbing effect.
There is method and there is madness, but the two are never given the space to connect, resulting in a film that is flush with promising ideas that come off as amateurish rather than bold. In one moment, Silverio debates the Mexican-American War with a U.S. ambassador (Jay O. Sanders) while a student massacre is enacted, and in the next he has sex with his wife (Griselda Siciliani), ruminating on his most haunting memories and greatest regrets, and then finally he's arguing with his teenage son (Íker Sánchez Solano) about the hypocrisy of Mexican romanticism. Yet, all this is delivered in a dizzying way that, while unique, is rarely moving, which is the worst outcome for a film that expects lines like "Success has been my biggest failure" to be taken seriously.
Bardo is hubris cinematized, constantly talking down to the audience to reinforce its message. While there is potential, it's left far in the rearview mirror, unearthing diminishing returns far before its ethereal, thinly stretched conclusion. Although a visually gorgeous experience, Iñárritu's film occupies a rare liminal space between love and admiration, never quite reaching either.
(Netflix)The seven years since Alejandro G. Iñárritu's last film, The Revenant, have offered the filmmaker just that: the time to look inward and produce a mediation on love, loss, artistry and the intricacies of Mexican identity. If only he took a bit more time to not render it so pompous.
Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho channelling the prototypical tortured artist), the protagonist of Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths and a clear surrogate for Iñárritu, is a Mexican documentarian whose illustrious career has taken him and his family north of the border for the better part of his life. Yet, his headway in the United States has left him spiritually listless, yearning to reconnect with his homeland. After being named the recipient of a prestigious international award, he embarks on a would-be simple trip full of existential quandaries.
Opening with an image very similar to Iñárritu's 2014 film Birdman, showing a sequence of first-person cosmic leaps into the sky above a barren desert, the film then gives way to a bizarre reverse birth scene, where an infant, just entering the world, decides he'd rather stay in the womb. The next 150 minutes unfold as a series of surreal, Dalí-esque vignettes from Silverio's past and present that probe the multitudes of his personal identity, inadequacy, mortality and the collective history of Mexico— all wrapped up in a fetishistic fervour that toys with depth but never rises above stylistic navel-gazing.
Take a scene in which Silverio's work is criticized by an envious colleague as pretentious, conceited and superficial (much like the film itself). Really, this retort is a self-referential jab at the critics, an attempt to avert derision when the film later does exactly what it previously mentioned. It's self-conscious cinema that hopes to earn points for simply acknowledging its faults, rather than superseding them.
It's a relief that the film is, at the very least, a visual marvel that makes the word "gorgeous" an unworthy descriptor. Teaming up with cinematographer Darrius Khondji (who notably fills in for frequent Iñárritu collaborator Emmanuel Lubezki), Iñárritu crafts a visually dynamic and utterly awe-inspiring stream of consciousness that cascades, flows and soars from scene to scene seamlessly. The wide lens makes great use of both the dry landscapes and the claustrophobic cities, as the slicing symmetries, shimmering reflections and spectral pans add an immense (and much needed) depth to the self-flattery that consistently dampens the film's bravura.
There's only so much beautiful imagery can do, though. Once the thin story comes into focus, the supercilious technical tricks and recurring motifs begin to take on a numbing effect.
There is method and there is madness, but the two are never given the space to connect, resulting in a film that is flush with promising ideas that come off as amateurish rather than bold. In one moment, Silverio debates the Mexican-American War with a U.S. ambassador (Jay O. Sanders) while a student massacre is enacted, and in the next he has sex with his wife (Griselda Siciliani), ruminating on his most haunting memories and greatest regrets, and then finally he's arguing with his teenage son (Íker Sánchez Solano) about the hypocrisy of Mexican romanticism. Yet, all this is delivered in a dizzying way that, while unique, is rarely moving, which is the worst outcome for a film that expects lines like "Success has been my biggest failure" to be taken seriously.
Bardo is hubris cinematized, constantly talking down to the audience to reinforce its message. While there is potential, it's left far in the rearview mirror, unearthing diminishing returns far before its ethereal, thinly stretched conclusion. Although a visually gorgeous experience, Iñárritu's film occupies a rare liminal space between love and admiration, never quite reaching either.