Daniel Giménez Cacho in Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths (Netflix)

Autobiopics are hip these days (The Fabelmans, Armageddon Time, Belfast). Maybe every respectable filmmaker feels obliged to make their own 8½ at some point, an inspiration easy to imitate, hard to equal. Meanwhile, it seems Alejandro G. Iñárritu is at the perfect crossroads to follow Fellini’s blueprint, just at the right time when other directors have decided to look inwards to evaluate their purpose and personal history. Bardo: False Chronicle of a Handful Truths (yes, that’s the full title) is the result of facing such a chimera.

In Tibetan Buddhism, Bardo refers to an in-between realm between life and death. In Spanish, the word describes poets who recite their work. Consider the title a spoiler at your peril, but this film deserves to be embraced without paying too much attention to its plot, even if the script is obliged to provide one. (Is the film a dream? A post-mortem hallucination?) What is fundamental here is the willingness to accept Iñárritu’s invitation and let yourself into the onscreen stream of consciousness.

Silverio Gama (Daniel Giménez Cacho), an acclaimed Mexican journalist and documentary filmmaker, has achieved his biggest success in America, where he resides with his family (his wife, an adult daughter, and a teenage son). Silverio’s prolific career has already garnered significant recognition by the time he returns to his hometown, Mexico City, to collect yet another prize. As privileged as his circumstances are, the journalist’s identity remains divided: He no longer belongs to the country he left behind, and as an immigrant, he’s a stranger in a strange land. He’s the perfect encapsulation of life in the diaspora.

Silverio is also the alter-ego for the man behind the camera—if the actor’s physical resemblance to the director is not enough of an indication. Iñárritu has returned back to Mexico too, after so many years as an A-list Hollywood director, now paying a symbolic debt in making this particular film as a contribution to his country’s cinema (like his friend Alfonzo Cuarón did with Roma).

A linear description of the story would probably lead to shallow interpretations. With a spirit worthy of magic realism, many mesmerizing sequences define this dreamlike cinematic trip, including: the desperate pursuit of axolotls in a subway car, a scene that fluidly segues to a flooded home; episodes of Mexico’s history coming to life on the U.S. Embassy’s patio; an immigrant march across the desert; and a pyramid of Indigenous corpses that Silverio ascents, where he’s met by Hernán Cortes.

A generous portion of the film involves an immersive party sequence featuring rivalries, a ghost, and an exhilarating dance sequence punctuated by a wonderful transition from salsa brava to David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” Beautiful, self-critical, vulnerable, and above all impeccable in its craftmanship (so many jaw-dropping tracking shots!), Bardo is a statement of cinema as a form of therapy, exorcism, death, and resurrection.

Iñárritu, who also c0-produced, co-wrote, and co-edited the movie, has anticipated the inevitable accusations of self-indulgence and pretentiousness. In a live TV interview—that may or may not have happened—Silverio faces an old friend and colleague, Luis (Francisco Rubio), now a famous talk-show host, who interrogates him with mockery and cruelty in front of an audience that laughs at the expense of the documentarian. What’s great about Bardo is how Iñárritu embraces every criticism labeled against Silverio’s work, life, and character. Iñárritu also understands very well the man’s inner contradictions, as in the scene where Silverio—who has spent a life making documentaries with strong social messages—willingly accepts that his Indigenous maid isn’t allowed into a beach club with him and his family.

As Silverio is haunted by impostor syndrome throughout, the film leads to a devastating ending. At its center is the crucial contradiction of a filmmaker doing his best work with no Hollywood stars, no Guillermo Arriaga script, and no Emmanuel Lubezki cinematography this time around (cinematographer Darius Khondji is a splendid substitute, in any case). Its mixed critical reception would suggest otherwise, but Iñárritu has achieved the miracle of proving everybody wrong here.