Not even his staunchest detractors could accuse Alejandro G. Iñárritu of ever lacking in ambition. Dating back to his 2000 breakout hit Amores Perros, his films have only grown more extravagantly conceptual, thematically rich, and structurally audacious — if suffocatingly self-indulgent too. Bardo, his first production on Mexican soil in more than two decades, proves no exception to the rule. Billed as an epic journey of self-discovery and belonging, it’s the rare film that mingles grand intentions with narcissistic inadequacy in almost equal measure.
The Netflix-financed surreal dramedy, which premiered in Venice before passing through San Sebastián, plunges deep into the troubled psyche of Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho), a renowned journalist and documentarian who travels back home in the lead-up to the ceremony where he’s set to become the first Mexican to receive a major industry award in the US. Through this thinly-veiled fictionalized stand-in, the five-time Academy Award-winner grapples with his own perceived hubris, crippling anxieties, and, most importantly, confronts his complicated relationship with his motherland.
Much like the man behind the camera, Silverio has found a new home in the shiny hills of Tinseltown, where he’s earned a name for himself and received critical acclaim for his professional endeavors for the past twenty years, if also growing increasingly more alienated from his family and fellow countrymen in the process. Bardo juggles many themes in its fold, but seeped into the myriad preoccupations and dense texture of the film, the pained guilt of displacement stands out as the key subtext to which all other pieces fall into place.
Success bears a heavy weight on Silverio, as we get to learn in the many encounters he has with rancorous media colleagues who put into question his creative integrity, inflated ego, and unprecedented acclaim. During a lavish party thrown in Mexico City to celebrate his imminent recognition, he’s forced to contend with the same vitriol and criticism that the Mexican filmmaker has been subject to ad infinitum throughout his career. This self-interrogation further continues at home, where Silverio’s shortcomings as an absentee father and husband soon come to the fore.
“If you love Mexico so much, why did you take us to the States?” bluntly asks his teenage son Lorenzo (Íker Sánchez Solano). It’s a simple yet scorching question to which Silverio, or Iñárritu for that matter, struggles to find a convincing retort, at least one that doesn’t reek of hypocrisy. The contradiction of deeply longing for your country after just having fled from it as soon as opportunity called — with no intention of ever returning — continues to eat away both creation and creator. To make matters worse, the film suggests the grass might not always be greener on the other side. Iñárritu pursues this idea to radical extremes in a hilarious sequence where Silverio, having just arrived at LAX, locks horns with a US immigration official over a petty dispute on whether his 0-1 visa entitles him to call America “home.”
The film truly comes alive when it foregrounds its protagonist’s manic split between crestfallen Mexican expat and fraud Hollywood overachiever, and uses it as a baseline for its exploration of the complicated history of the country. Iñárritu leaves no stone unturned; tackling the violent past of U.S.-Mexico relations by re-creating full-blown military battle scenes, or announcing Amazon’s imminent purchase of the entire Mexican state of Baja California. Bardo’s slippery way with time and space does not always work smoothly, but its unwieldy maximalism makes for a few genuinely startling passages, namely one where Silverio meets 16th century Spanish conquistador Hernán Corés atop a pyramid of dead natives. It’s as subtle as a meataxe, but an effective scene nonetheless.
Comparisons to Federico Fellini, Terrence Malick, and Charlie Kaufman are not entirely unwarranted, but grossly reductive. To some extent, Bardo evokes the semi-autobiographical introspection of 8½, the transcendent existentialism of Tree of Life, and the intellectual masturbation of Synecdoche, New York. But if Mr. Iñárritu mimics these aforementioned masters at all, he does so without the conviction and finesse required to withstand the lofty comparisons. Not unlike Birdman (2014), his latest wordily-titled spectacle splits its focus between pseudo-philosophical ramblings about the essence of artistic integrity and acknowledging the blinding lights/poisonous allure of fame. But where the former struck gold with its darkly sardonic tone — using its metatextual referentiality to make salient points about our current entertainment climate — Bardo never truly achieves flight.
Admittedly, Darius Khondji’s visual panache takes the film a long way — even if, at a certain point, Iñárritu’s no-holds-barred approach threatens to turn into self-parody. For the director’s controlled grasp of the medium, it’s hard to gauge the real purpose behind his latest three-hour opus. Should we take it as an admission of guilt, an honest attempt at atoning for his boundless arrogance, or rather, as a fugue of self-pity masquerading as repentance? Ultimately, it’s hard to tell. Though Bardo hardly passes as a flattering portrait of its author, it feels at odds with itself. For one, the film deftly acknowledges the delusions of grandeur and pantheonic ambitions that have always enveloped the Mexican’s work. By the same token, by victimizing himself through his tormented cinematic stand-in, Iñárritu inadvertently proves many of his critics right.
Overall, it’s hard not to admire the sheer craftsmanship and swing-for-the-fences bravado behind Bardo, even if it ultimately leads the film toward a self-negating dead end. Few directors today have the guts and willingness to expose themselves with all their vulnerabilities — let alone in such unapologetic fashion. The result is equal parts stunning and unbearable; an operatic spectacle overflowing with ideas that crumbles under its own weight. Bardo might be an unsalvageable train wreck, but it’s one so delightfully provocative you’ll have a hard time prying your eyes away from it.
Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths will release in select theaters on November 18th before streaming on Netflix on December 16th.
