All the thinking & imagery in this self-reflective/self-indulgent film feels secondhand or second-rate. Written & directed by mucho-awarded Alejandro G. Iñárritu, its auto-biographical leanings a navel-gazing exercise with Daniel Giménez Cacho as alter-ego (journalist instead of filmmaker) who finds after twenty-odd years working, living & raising a family up North in the States, he’s left his heart back in Mexico. (The idea that he and his family would have precisely the same feelings of dislocation/dysfunctionality, just in a different way, had they stayed put, never occurring to him.) It’s deeper and deeper into swallower waters. Warmed-over Fellini (make that warmed-over late Fellini; or maybe faux-Fellini, say Bob Fosse/ALL THAT JAZZ), loaded with extravagant set pieces meant to impress (stylized dances of death; womb-returning infants; back-to-the-sea imagery; revelatory talks with immediate family dead or alive), call it Unmagical Non-realism. Sensing that the film wasn’t connecting with early film fest audiences, Iñárritu quickly lopped off a couple of reels in hopes of holding attention. Another 2'39" trim just might do the trick.
WATCH THIS, NOT THAT: Even Fellini only got away with this sort of thing once: 8½/’63. And directors have been failing at follow ups ever since . . . including Fellini.
SCREWY THOUGHT OF THE DAY: *Generally a good idea to beware of films with extra long titles. Full title: BARDO, FALSA CRÓNICA DE UNAS CUANTAS VERDADES; in English: BARDO: FALSE CHRONICLE OF A HANDFUL OF TRUTHS.
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