For BARDO, False chronicle of unas cuantas verdades the mexican director Alejandro González Iñarritu became a singer on his own, deciding to use Netflix’s endless availability and resources – as his compatriot and friend Alfonso Cuarón had already done in Rome and Paolo Sorrentino in It was the hand of God – to be able to afford the film that so many filmmakers often end up dreaming of making for a lifetime but without any concrete possibility of realizing it.
Just one more Amarcordas in the case of the two films mentioned, Bard yet it is there answer want to be by Iñárritu a 8½ , another Fellini film that almost any author would want to remake in his own way, filtering it according to his personal experience. The director of babel And 21 grams he really tried his hand at it without self-censoring anything, measuring himself in his head as the equal of this totem, taking on his shoulders the burdens and ambitions that only a huge ego could bear and face and coming back for the occasion at Mexico City, his hometown, which he hadn’t talked about since his meteoric debut Love Perros of 2000.
The movie starts with the shadow of man’s flight over the desert and clarifies immediately a desire to fly high which quickly becomes even more obvious when we understand, from the start, that the protagonist of Bard it’s a alter ego by Iñárritu, Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho, practically his double), well-known Mexican journalist and documentary filmmaker who lives in Los Angeles and that after a prestigious international recognition won in the United States is forced to return to his country: a journey that will not bring with him the sweet comfort of nostalgia, but a series of grouped and sprawling doubts about the legitimacy and meaning of his public persona and his hypocrisies or presumed as such as a man and as an artistespecially as a representative and witness to the history and tragic experience of Mexico which, however, too willingly accepts the flattery of stars and stripes.
Within three hours of Bard there are many, certainly too many, and yet there is not much more than that, beyond an astonishing technicality which nevertheless almost always frustrates itself by mirroring itself shamelessly in its madness of grandeur and produce the grotesque, onanist cast of Iñárritu’s experience. He, like Silverio, is very popular in the USA (Hollywood awarded him the Oscar for best director) and uses the film as a inexhaustible reservoir of nightmares and obsessions, dreams and incurrent versesidentity dissatisfactions with success, the fragility of life and family, the history of Mexico, being authentic in a sea of bric-a-brac and temptations and reasons to get lost and give up all that would not be lacking at all, especially in an ecosystem of media and endless stories about art and inspiration that no longer distinguish right from wrong on any occasion.
Iñárritu confided in Venice manager Alberto Barbera, who welcomed him back in Competition at the 79th edition of the Showof having changed the way of dreaming after starting work on the filmbut net of a grotesque, furious and insane ardorwhich denotes a courage in certain respects destabilizing and out of the ordinary, the well-known sarabande of the artist who watches in vitro own experience and re-elaborates it through the device of the memory between dream and reality he never deliberately finds a center of gravity. The taste for peppery provocation is indeed renewed from sequence to sequence, from tear to tear, with a mammoth and proudly boastful idea of cinema act as the glue between one dream insert and another.
The sequences to feast the eyes with are of course numerous, capitals and symmetrical, wonderfully illuminated and almost screen saverwith whom Iñárritu built his reputation as a great image maker and absolute technical excellence in Hollywood in the company of his faithful director of photography Emmanuel Lubezki, here replaced by another master such as Darius Khonji (in Bard there is a sequence on a dance floor with let’s dance by Bowie in an acoustic version which gives a good idea of the general overflow of the work, not only visually). The feeling, however, is always that ofimagery of carryover, of excess skilfully constructed to poke fun at the norm and sense of proportion rather than pointing to a form of wonder, gigantism and melancholy which really manages to redeem the author’s masturbatory paturnias in a universal tonality between an enveloping and sinuous audiovisual hammering in sequence shot and a look – almost always superficial and facade, as well as squeezing a little hypocritically – at the American colonialism.
In short, there is a lot of malice Bardeven so much deja vu recycled, including self-quotations (mirrors and balconies, as in birdmanare harbingers of certain parent scenes) and sensationalist glimpses, such as thehuge pyramid of corpses inspired by the missing – which looks a lot like the hatchlings climbed by Jude Law in The young pope by Sorrentine. Fellinisms, numerous and repeated, are now graphically sticky (the newborn entering the vagina, the to display voluptuous with eggs instead of breasts) henceforth inert and pompous in his dealings with the surrounding characters. What to avoid, at the end of the fair, in a cheap aphorism maximalism (“My biggest failure was my success”) which says a lot about the final outcome and the landing of this tightrope walker, interspersed with neuroses and epiphanies, with a small background but punctually masked by a greatness clumsy and with feet of clay.
Photo: Estudios Churubusco, Netflix
Read also: Venice 79, Alejandro G. Iñárritu presents his “self-fiction” Bardo: “Our world is based on narration”
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