New movie review: BARDO, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths

Daniel Jimenez Cacho in Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's Bardo.

Alejandro González Iñárritu, it seems, is truly a director’s director. I read and listen to a lot of critics, and the general consensus going back to at least Babel in 2006 is that his film’s are undercooked, overlong, and indulgent. His peers, on the other hand, have always been vocal in their love for him and his art. This goes a long way toward explaining why Iñárritu is one of only three directors ever to win the Best Director statue at the Oscars two years in a row. He is the only one to accomplish this feat in the past 70 years.

His new film, BARDO, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths (which we will be calling Bardo from here on out), may be the peak example of the divide between the critical and artistic communities. It deals with an artist and, like Birdman before it, features a scene with a thorough dismantling of a critic. Take that for what it is worth, but Bardo has within its generous running time enough to chew on for detractors and devotees, alike.

Consider me among the devotees. I have always found a certain brilliance within each of his films, and though Bardo is not his most accomplished feature – that probably remains the Best Picture-winning Birdman – it is probably his most fascinating. Like the celebrated later work of Federico Fellini, the film is not merely dreamlike, rather it is dreaming itself. 

Still, Iñárritu’s film is much more than a Mexican 8½ – though, at times, it is that, too. It explores Fellini’s pet themes of classism, the extravagances of wealth, and the political storms that often serve as a backdrop to everyday life, but Iñárritu is also interested in deconstructing his own privileges and prejudices. For good reason, Fellini stuck to a strictly Italian milieu. Bardo offers up the insights of a director who is straddling two cultures, neither of which truly has a place for him.

Daniel Jiménez Cacho stars as Silverio Gama, a former journalist and director of “docufiction” films. His art seeks to bring reality to life through invented historical scenarios that get at a deeper understanding of society, what Werner Herzog might call “ecstatic truth.” He depicts himself in imagined conversations with significant cultural figures such as Hernán Cortés, interrogating the conquistador about his crimes against humanity. We hear about this encounter early in the film, long before we actually see it, and we have a pretty good idea of the kind of artist Silverio is.

Not coincidentally, he is similar to the kind of artist Iñárritu is. The film, from a script by Iñárritu and Birdman co-writer Nicolás Giacobone, exists in two worlds. There is the real world, in which Silverio is receiving honorary awards from organizations in Mexico and the United States and must come to terms with what this recognition means and is worth, if anything. Then, there is the dream world, which is woven seamlessly into the fabric of the story. It jumps backward and forward in time, sometimes by years. Space collapses in on itself. There are ghosts. It operates on a logic unique to the unconscious.

It may help here to offer a brief rundown of what Iñárritu has been up to in the seven years since his Oscar-winning The Revenant – another movie I loved that was not particularly critically acclaimed but found champions within the industry. In 2019 alone, he received an honorary doctorate from the prestigious National Autonomous University of Mexico, he was made a commander of the Order of Arts and Letters in France, and he became the first person of Latin American descent to serve as president of the jury at the Cannes Film Festival. 

He was already the first Mexican filmmaker to receive the best director award at Cannes, the first Mexican nominated for either Director or Producer at the Academy Awards, and the first Mexican to win Original Screenplay and Best Picture at the Oscars. His place as a modern master in the international cinema landscape is assured. Bardo finds him grappling with all of this success while also recognizing that much of it is built on the back of his much lauded debut feature, Amores Perros.

That film depicted the harsh realities of Mexican life and the often brutal nature of humanity. It was also Iñárritu’s last film, until Bardo, to be set primarily in Mexico. In Bardo, Silverio appears conflicted over finding global acclaim for showing the messiness of his homeland. Is it honesty or exploitation? After all, Silverio and his family actually live in Southern California now, though they maintain a home in Mexico City.

Silverio’s wife, Lucía (Griselda Sicilliani), has no trouble pointing out the contradictions and hypocrisies in his varying stances. During an excellent breakfast table scene, after Silverio argues with his son, Lorenzo (Iker Sanchez Solano), Lucía spells it out plainly. He chooses to live in Los Angeles, and though he expresses nostalgia for Mexico, he portrays it in a harsh light. Yet, if anyone else dares to speak of that harshness, he vehemently defends the country’s culture and people. He is lost, caught between worlds. Of course, we learn this is what “Bardo” means: Limbo.

It is not, however, solely a creative and cultural purgatory in which Silverio finds himself. It is also the purgatory of grief. In the film’s fanciful opening passages, Lucía gives birth to Mateo, a son who whispers to the doctor that he would like to return to the womb. His reason: The world is “too fucked up.” Hard to argue with that logic, and the doctors return Mateo to whence he came. The moment itself is comically absurd, but its tragic underpinnings could not be more clear. Later, Silverio reveals that Mateo lived for just a day before dying. They keep his ashes by the bedside, and his memory haunts them, literally and figuratively.

For all of the flights of fancy and surrealist touches in the film, by opening with this scene, Iñárritu is grounding the audience in the emotional reality of the story. Silverio is moody and difficult and pretentious, yes, but he and his family have quietly mourned the loss of Mateo for years. That loss colors everything they do and do not do. How does one move on from this kind of pain? Can a family run from the ghosts of the past? Can a nation?

Among the common complaints of this film is its running time (2 hours, 40 minutes), though it is 20 minutes shorter now than when it premiered at the Venice Film Festival in September. I could have lived in the world of Bardo forever, but if I have a criticism, it is this: The resolution of the Mateo storyline, which I will not spoil here, is the emotional high point of the film. There are another 20 to 30 minutes after that, all of which are important in wrapping up the themes of the movie, but it never gets better than the quiet catharsis of a family letting go.

Bardo undoubtedly is a lot of movie, and that is without touching on its many technical achievements. Chief among them is the gorgeously fluid cinematography of frequent Woody Allen and James Gray collaborator Darius Khondji, whose work here perfectly evokes the tone and purpose of each moment in Iñárritu’s film. The score, a collaboration between Iñárritu and Bryce Dessner, is equal parts melancholy and anarchic, like a circus at the end of the world.

The director’s greatest achievement, however, comes in the blending of these impressive crafts with a complex, compelling story and a thematic richness found in the work of too few filmmakers. Bardo is a self-portrait painted in big, bold strokes, risky in a way that is both energizing and inspiring. It is no wonder fellow directors such as Lulu Wang and countryman Guillermo del Toro came out immediately with the highest of praise for the film. Of course other talented, inquisitive artists can appreciate everything that is going on here. Maybe someday, the rest of us will catch up.

See it? Yes.