A fascinating but imperfect exploration of the “truth” and how certainties and facts have been radically altered and evolved in the 21st Century during the age of social media, its weaponization, bad faith actors, eroding public trust in the media, cancel culture, and more, Alfonso Cuarón’s new seven-part limited series, “Disclaimer,” is a captivating, but not always convincing change of pace for the Academy Award-winning writer/director.
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Not because Cuarón cannot handle the medium of television (though it is maybe one or two episodes too long), but because, adapted by a best-selling novel, “Disclaimer” is so much more melodramatic and narratively driven than the filmmaker’s works usually are, resembling something more of traditional prestige TV than one of his moody, cinematic and mesmerizing magnum opuses about the human condition.
Based on the idea of a scandal and public shaming, it’s also a bit soap-opera-ish, emotionally heightened, and even a little sensationalist in shape—though Cuarón does successfully land it all on a very humanistic note.
Essentially a cautionary tale about rushing to judgment, society’s toxic need to punish, shame, and disgrace people, and how speaking truth to power can easily distort and curdle, even with the best intentions, “Disclaimer” begins at an awards ceremony meant to imply how prestigious and revered its protagonist is.
Acclaimed and unflinching investigative documentary journalist Catherine Ravenscroft (Cate Blanchett), who has made a name for herself exposing the transgressions and misdeeds of others, and her illustrious career is being feted (by renowned globally recognized journalist Christiane Amanpour, no less). But a dark secret from her past is seemingly catching up with her, and soon, she will find herself in the very sniper crosshairs she’s usually targeting.
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“Disclaimer” takes place in two timelines: in the present, Catherine with her husband Robert (Sacha Baron Cohen), her lonely, disaffected twenty-something son Nicholas (Kodi Smit-McPhee), and in the past with a younger, extraordinarily fetching and comely Catherine (Leila George) and a young backpacker traveling across Europe, Jonathan Brigstocke (Louis Partridge), whom she crosses paths with.
In the present, Catherine’s life is soon upended by the arrival of a book called “The Perfect Stranger” at her doorstep. Reading it closer, she is horrified to realize that the events depicted in the novel are the story of the dark secret she’s kept hidden from her family and everyone and hoped to bury and forget.
While written in a pseudonym, Cuaron’s story immediately reveals that it was written by the late Nancy Brigstocke (Lesley Manville) and published by her husband Stephen Brigstocke (Kevin Kline) as a deliberate, cruel, and slow-burning campaign of revenge that becomes increasingly unhinged.
No major spoilers, but the first episode reveals the basics; somewhere along the lines in the past, Jonathan drowned, and Nancy always vehemently suspected Catherine was responsible, hence “The Perfect Stranger” book she wrote before she died, and Stephen publishing it when he discovered it and realized the connections Nancy kept to herself for decades.
Terrified about what the book could mean to her career built on impeccable integrity, Catherine soon starts using her investigative assistant, Jisoo (Jung Ho-yeon, sometimes as just Hoyeon), to find out who is behind this deliberate torment—salacious photos are also involved. Eventually, she uses Jisoo to scrutinize Stephen, who she says may be a potential pedophile. But of course, this desperate plan eventually backfires, and things spiral out of control.
Meanwhile, Stephen, relatively fresh in his anger as he’s only recently discovered Nancy’s book, begins a relentless campaign of escalating retribution meant to destroy Catherine and her family from the inside, like planting an insidiously cancerous disease in the family’s DNA that quickly metastasizes ruinously. “Disclaimer” accelerates with crises from there—while revealing more of the evolving story in the past, Catherine and Jonathan’s relationship and the reasons he drowned—coming to a dangerous head between Catherine and Stephen once she’s realized he is the author of the impugning book. But what “Disclaimer” eventually reveals and says is that the truth is often much more complicated and/or outright false than the corrosive narratives people create to assail one’s character and reputation.
Featuring a dispassionate matter-of-fact narration by Indira Varma, this device could also be considered slightly inelegant and doesn’t quite play to Cuaron’s strengths.
Nevertheless, “Disclaimer” is captivating and compelling, especially thanks to Blanchett—who obviously can do no wrong—and the very excellent cast, including Kline, who delivers one of his best late-career performances.
Still, as engaging and intriguing as Cuaron’s series is, some flaws are hard to overlook and affect the overall experience. While the series is handsomely crafted on every level—directors of photography on the series are Oscar-winner Emmanuel Lubezki and Bruno Delbonnel, a moody score by Finneas O’Connell —credulity is strained several times in the plot machinations and behavioral choices. And while they feel less like Cuarón mistakes and more like already contrived elements that might have worked in the book, they often feel like a bridge too far in this flesh and blood medium.
One gaping plot hole—how did Nancy know the intimate details of Catherine and Jonathan’s relationship—is eventually explained near the end, and while this revelation flips the script and furthers Cuarón’s interrogation of the truth being deeply subjective, slippery, and flawed. But it’s a long nearly seven hours to find out that answer. Additionally, yes, Nicholas is lost and disenchanted, but when he is duped on social media by a Stephan plant, the reasons for him being so intrigued and not blocking early on seem dubious. And who is genuinely psycho enough to stalk someone and plot to ruin someone’s life in such a deviously calculated manner? Sure, Stephen feels like he has lost everything after Nancy passes, but the lengths he goes to destroy Catherine’s reputation and family life feel extreme and bordering on far-fetched, further impressing the idea of how melodramatic the series can be.
That said, Cuaron generally does mystery well, something that has often backfired and been mishandled on TV in recent years (looking at you, “The Acolyte”). The central secret—still not revealed within this review—is unveiled early, and most of the big revelations are not manipulatively drawn out, as is the case with so much TV these days, causing resentment and frustration in discerning viewers.
Ultimately, “Disclaimer” finishes strong, Cuarón making a powerful statement—not anti cancel-culture so much—but about the need for compassion, restraint, and how over-zealous condemnations all make us complicit in a slippery slope culture of spiteful and ungenerous castigation. There’s also a holding-up-a-mirror element of “He who is without sin should cast the first stone” confrontation to its painful conclusion. It’s not a censure from Cuarón, but perhaps a plea for more tolerance and charity between human beings. Where does forgiveness fit in all of this? “Disclaimer” doesn’t quite say, but it does end with an ellipsis suggesting that mercy and kindness are the only viable paths to healing. [B]
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