DISCLAIMER: An oasis in the universe of series

DISCLAIMER: a warning companies put on their products or services to indicate the limit of its legal responsibility respectively.

"Beware of narrative and form. Their power can bring us closer to the truth… They can also be a weapon with a great power to manipulate." These words are pronounced by the host of an award ceremony who grants the protagonist of this particular story an award for her work as a television journalist. The host's words feel like the ultimate possible disclaimer—in the best sense of the word—for what we will discover—whether we decide to believe in it or not as the audience—in the following seven episodes of this experience that consciously and unconsciously ponders about matters related to the pointless perceptive nature of the "truth", the dual feeling that exists in the narratives' moral and human beings' individuality.

GUILT. Talking about one of the less "visible" emotions human beings have is complicated precisely because of its impeccable escapist nature. Nonetheless, I'm going to try to explain and analyze how this nature is masterfully presented by Mexican director Alfonso Cuarón in Disclaimer, an adaptation that once again explores the—almost—infinite universe of series after unsuccessfully trying three times before. Even though this seems to be the focus of the whole series, there are also certain processes we believe are seen in a particular way destroyed in an ending I won't give details about. Or at least I'll try not to…

I'm going to clarify the following from the beginning: I have felt a deep connection with Cuarón's vision since I was really young. In fact, his way of seeing life must have been one of the first ones I "recognized" in film composition and construction after feeling how his underestimated modern adaptation of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations novel quickly got under my skin as a young teenager who loved art in the middle of a self-discovery journey. Back then, painting was my biggest escape from reality—just like the movie's main character—but Cuarón's profound and enigmatic representation of first love on screen engraved his name on my heart forever.

It's clear that the Mexican director's intention was ambitious from the start. There's a type of surprising combination between improvising or experimenting and having precise control in front of the cameras that makes the series a unique experience. Even though the director is known for his magnificent representation of realism, he uses symbolism as never before in Disclaimer. Unlike his other works, there's grey everywhere, which suggests watching the series from a more surreal lens… to put it one way. No one is exempt from equal hate or love, and the lack of empathy can be felt in every corner. But what is this enigmatic story about?

Catherine Ravenscroft (Cate Blanchett) is an award-winning documentary journalist married to Robert Ravenscroft (Sacha Baron Cohen), the son of a wealthy family who works at a NGO dedicated to laundering money unjustifiable to the government. Their son, Nicholas (Kodi Smit-McPhee), has apparently failed to meet his parents' expectations and, with 25 springs under his belt, works part-time at a department store, finds shelter in drugs and doesn't have any friends. The apparent sweetness of Catherine and Robert's kindness and respect feels like the first warning Cuarón gives with both caution and certainty to warn us: "Beware of narrative and form." And everything changes when the blonde with enigmatic blue eyes receives a copy of a book titled Perfect Stranger. After the book's dedication, "To my son, Jonathan," there's a disclaimer: any resemblance to persons living or dead is not a coincidence. The first bomb has been dropped…

"The sun shone as if nothing horrible had happened. The heavier the burden, the more real things become."

The series travels among different timelines to make us believe one version of the truth without questioning it for a second. Who's this Jonathan named in the dedication of the book Catherine receives? How personal does she take the story? How important is it to her past? By travelling back in time, we understand several things, but the main fact we learn is that only a few moments define our lives, but most importantly, how we deal with these moments is what shapes our lives. Regarding the protagonist, one of these moments is her casual meeting with Jonathan Bridgstocke, Stephen and Nancy's son, in a calm Italian coast when she was 25 years old on vacation with her son Nicholas, who was five at the time. This encounter turned into a tragedy when, one evening at the beach, Jonathan tried to save Nicholas from drowning but ended up losing his life to save the child.

It's important to highlight that Cuarón is the one who decides to tell us what happened between them before the fatal outcome and why she seems to feel guilty about what happened, but is it guilt or something else? The book Catherine receives narrates everything that happened extensively. Everyone Catherine knows starts to despise the woman in the novel, which interestingly has many coincidences with the story only she knows. It seems an imminent vengeance is on the way, but everyone is lying to themselves: Catherine shows an idyllic life far away from the pain of this tragedy; Stephen self-proclaims the authorship of this novel that was actually written by Nancy —and decides to believe everything in it—and Robert accepts with particular resentment all the hate Catherine receives as part of a genuine love he affirms never existed.

Despite how innovative the series feels—even though it's the adaptation of a novel—in comparison to copies we can find nowadays in other streaming platforms, there are certain inconsistencies in the execution that shift the focus from the promising metanarrative power of the approach. Firstly, Jonathan, during his trip to Italy, seems relaxed, compassionate and happy. He's someone vigorous who, after his girlfriend Sasha returns to London due to family matters, feels an insatiable desire to meet Catherine. This desire surges when his Nikon camera lens focuses on Catherine, who is next to Nicholas, at the seashore. But later on, Jonathan, who apparently had experience with love, is seen as a kid who hasn't touched himself yet talking with Catherine about his sexual desires.

There's also the fact that Catherine is destroyed by almost everyone around her and no one even feels a tiny bit of curiosity to know her version of the truth. Nancy invented her truth in the novel and, together with photos of a half-naked Catherine that Jonathan's mother found in the room his son stayed in Italy when she arrived to recognize the body, show her as London's most infamous monstrous mother. It's clear that Cuarón introduced matters like cancel culture to make the series a more "prominent" work in the current sociocultural scenario, but it really wasn't necessary.

The last episode's plot twist reveals an apparent truth that is more confusing than I thought. Sure, this can affect the final appreciation one can have about the series as a whole, but we can once again hear from far away: BEWARE OF NARRATIVE AND FORM. THEIR POWER CAN BRING US CLOSER TO THE TRUTH… THEY CAN ALSO BE A WEAPON WITH A GREAT POWER TO MANIPULATE. What did I choose to believe? I haven't decided yet…

Posted on NOVEMEBER 27, 2024, 19:34 PM | UTC-GMT -3

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