Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths (15.)
Directed by Alejandro G. Iñárritu
Starring Daniel Giménez Cacho, Griselda Siciliani, Ximena Lamadrid and Iker Sanchez Solano. Streaming on Netflix. 160 mins.
You’re one of the world’s most acclaimed film directors and won back-to-back Oscars for your last two films (Birdman, The Revenant.) How do you follow that? Obviously, stick it to a gullible streaming service (in this case Netflix; other streaming rubes are available) by getting them to fund your overlong, subtitled, self-indulgent, semi-autobiographical, no-star cast, black comedy riff on 8½ in which you get to realise all those great ideas for stunning visual set pieces that you couldn't find a place for in your other films. And then, just to go that extra mile into obscurity, you laden it with one of the most audience-repelling titles imaginable.
The film is every bit as long-winded as its title. Silverio (Cacho) is an acclaimed journalist/ documentarian based with his family in Los Angeles who goes back to his native Mexico, prior to accepting a prestigious award. Events unfurl in a kind of stream of consciousness that moves seamlessly between dream sequences, domestic interactions and surreal flights of fancy that muse on the immigrant experience, the lingering trauma of a baby dying shortly after childbirth, Mexican history and its relationship with the United States.
There are certainly longueurs and frustrations, but the Bardo is saved from drowning in self indulgence by it’s touches of lightness, even levity. Unlike the grinding misery of his previous films, it takes itself very seriously in a not so serious manner. (There's a knowing sequence where a rival journalist rails at Silverio about how pretentious his latest film is.) Plus it’s often visually staggering. I can take all the pretentious self-indulgence you want to throw at me if it comes with striking formal invention. There are moments here that had me leaning forward in my seat, eager to fully take in what was on screen. Even the boring bits are wonderous. There's an interminable party sequence that seems to serve absolutely no purpose but the grace with which the camera moves through the dancing throng means you don't mind the indulgence.
And then there’s the cinematography. After collaborating with Emmanuel Lubezki on his previous two films, this time Iranian Darius Khondji (Lost City of Z, Delicatessen, Seven, Magic in the Moonlight, My Blueberry Nights) is behind the camera and the results are exceptional. Lots of cinematographers can give you stunning vistas, but it’s rare to get something that looks remarkable but fundamentally realistic. The use of light, particularly in scenes that are shot directly into the sun, is like a colour equivalent of the black and white images shot by fellow Mexican Alfonso Cuaron on Roma.
It’s a film that demands to be seen on the big screen but, by the time I got to see it, its “limited cinema release” prior to its entrapment on Netflix appeared to amount to two screenings a day on the smallest screen at the Curzon Soho. You can take Netflix for a ride, but they’ll cut you down to size in the end.
Directed by Alejandro G. Iñárritu
Starring Daniel Giménez Cacho, Griselda Siciliani, Ximena Lamadrid and Iker Sanchez Solano. Streaming on Netflix. 160 mins.
You’re one of the world’s most acclaimed film directors and won back-to-back Oscars for your last two films (Birdman, The Revenant.) How do you follow that? Obviously, stick it to a gullible streaming service (in this case Netflix; other streaming rubes are available) by getting them to fund your overlong, subtitled, self-indulgent, semi-autobiographical, no-star cast, black comedy riff on 8½ in which you get to realise all those great ideas for stunning visual set pieces that you couldn't find a place for in your other films. And then, just to go that extra mile into obscurity, you laden it with one of the most audience-repelling titles imaginable.
The film is every bit as long-winded as its title. Silverio (Cacho) is an acclaimed journalist/ documentarian based with his family in Los Angeles who goes back to his native Mexico, prior to accepting a prestigious award. Events unfurl in a kind of stream of consciousness that moves seamlessly between dream sequences, domestic interactions and surreal flights of fancy that muse on the immigrant experience, the lingering trauma of a baby dying shortly after childbirth, Mexican history and its relationship with the United States.
There are certainly longueurs and frustrations, but the Bardo is saved from drowning in self indulgence by it’s touches of lightness, even levity. Unlike the grinding misery of his previous films, it takes itself very seriously in a not so serious manner. (There's a knowing sequence where a rival journalist rails at Silverio about how pretentious his latest film is.) Plus it’s often visually staggering. I can take all the pretentious self-indulgence you want to throw at me if it comes with striking formal invention. There are moments here that had me leaning forward in my seat, eager to fully take in what was on screen. Even the boring bits are wonderous. There's an interminable party sequence that seems to serve absolutely no purpose but the grace with which the camera moves through the dancing throng means you don't mind the indulgence.
And then there’s the cinematography. After collaborating with Emmanuel Lubezki on his previous two films, this time Iranian Darius Khondji (Lost City of Z, Delicatessen, Seven, Magic in the Moonlight, My Blueberry Nights) is behind the camera and the results are exceptional. Lots of cinematographers can give you stunning vistas, but it’s rare to get something that looks remarkable but fundamentally realistic. The use of light, particularly in scenes that are shot directly into the sun, is like a colour equivalent of the black and white images shot by fellow Mexican Alfonso Cuaron on Roma.
It’s a film that demands to be seen on the big screen but, by the time I got to see it, its “limited cinema release” prior to its entrapment on Netflix appeared to amount to two screenings a day on the smallest screen at the Curzon Soho. You can take Netflix for a ride, but they’ll cut you down to size in the end.
