Already the title, with its ridiculous capital letters.
Bardo, false chronicle of some truths.
It does not exude modesty or lightness.
Mexican director Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu, aged 59, is back in his native country, more than twenty years after his first feature film, the formidable
Loves bitches
, and it does not succeed for him.
Setting off to conquer Hollywood, like his compatriots Alfonso Cuaron and Guillermo del Toro, Iñarritu picked up shovelfuls of Oscars (four for
Birdman
, three for
The Revenant
).
But we must believe that glory is not enough to appease homesickness.
Netflix offers Iñarritu a first-class return ticket.
A debauchery of means for a pensum of nearly three hours, despite some formal and dreamlike flashes for lovers of surrealism (the apartment invaded by sand, the dialogue with the Spanish conquistador Cortes on a mountain of corpses), served by photography of the great cinematographer Darius Khondji.
The gringo idol
Iñarritu invents an alter ego, Silverio (Daniel Giménez Cacho), a renowned Mexican journalist and documentary filmmaker, based in Los Angeles.
Before receiving a prestigious international award in the City of Angels, Silverio returns with his family to Mexico during an existential crisis.
The impossible mourning of a baby catches up with him.
The syndrome of the impostor does not spare him, crossed with a suspicion of betrayal.
His concern for others and the poor is mocked.
He is called an artist sold to capitalism and the powerful, an idol of the gringos.
The love-hate for his homeland mirrors the complicated relationship between the United States and Mexico.
The radio announces that Amazon would like to buy the Mexican and border state of Baja California.
US Customs is over-zealous with the famous immigrant.
Grandiloquence
Bardo
sweeps all his subjects superficially despite his length.
The clichés are collected in spades:
"You have to have left Mexico to realize what you have lost."
Or:
“Success was my greatest failure.”
An adult face on a child's body, Silverio meets his father in the bathroom of a dance hall.
The digital at the service of psychoanalysis.
With
Bardo, false chronicle of a few truths
, in the running for the golden lion at the Venice Film Festival, Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu signs a self-portrait that is both unflattering and complacent.
Grandiloquence prevails over introspection.
The blister hides the scars.
The emphasis stifles the sincerity of the approach.
