Venice 2022: Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths Review

Implore Alejandro González Iñárritu, if possible. His concept of renowned journalism and the cultural shift and reward that comes with respect for an individual behind it is stunning. But should that reverence be held to one person? Can it be handled by the individual? A high bar is set for those that mark good work. To hold a candle to one that does so much is as dangerous as it is blind to the fact that anyone can happen on a good story. Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, Orianna Fallaci, the greats of their craft now sadly passed – all had a strive for perfection and a fear of their own self-worth in common. That self-worth is reflected on well in Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths, as well as a healthy dose of self-doubt. Buried deep in a lengthy examination of clickbait writing comes a rare example of rich prose and interesting subject matter, drowned out by a director and his self-aggrandising gluttony. Iñárritu should know better.

A remarkable period was spent on the artisanal qualities of his craft. Viewers who have shown themselves for Birdman and The Revenant know of his qualities and the high technical expectations shown, but Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths feels to be his most story-driven. Even then, it soon steers away from that, unfocused in its ambitions of profiling Don Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho)’s career, it turns to the usual tropes instilled in the family drama. The absent father, the diseased worker burns the candle at both ends and leaves no spoils for anyone. When Iñárritu explores the career and impact of the family unit’s function, he gives a unique rendition of how work can silence the love of others. But that is not his focus at the best of times, although when it is, it marks some of the finest storytelling Iñárritu has observed.

Cacho is given plenty of time to understand the mortality and morality of his character. You do not have to die to go to Hell, and his performance shows a man lost in a sea of his own successes. He does not contemplate if he is a failure, he very much enjoys the success of his labours, but even then, fails to live up to his own, imposter syndrome-clad mind. A shift occurs, though, when Iñárritu is spent and his interest in the career of his star writer wanes. Instead, he fixates on morality, the beauty of death and the fear of it that is present in a character that has proved to everyone but himself that he is worthy of his acclaim. He battles against his roots, with Iñárritu exploring strange concepts, big-headed men on the bodies of children, and babies pushed back into their mothers because they aren’t ready for the real world. It is allegorical, oblivious and strange. Not always in a good way.

To “take a swig of success” as Bardo describes it is to dream of lofty achievements. Consider the greats, reveal their lives and what they did, and how they achieved and worked. What do they have in common? Iñárritu’s vision collects the remnants of a career well lived and life primarily ruined. There is the satisfaction of knowing that it can be wasted if work is to take over and the real important moments are pushed aside. Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths opens and closes this line of thought in its opening two hours, the final hour is a gluttonous untruth, one that plies on the terror of losing what little we’ve got. That is scary. But Bardo could lose an hour.  “The road ahead is much shorter than the one behind,” Iñárritu said. He tries to extend the road ahead with a heavy dose of technically brilliant, inarticulate final third.