Alfonso Cuarón’s ‘Disclaimer’ Is Trashy Melodrama Masquerading as “Cinema"

Alfonso Cuarón insists on us calling his Apple TV+ series, “Disclaimer,” a “7-hour film.” I can’t really say I agree with him on that. What’s even more frustrating about his show is that he devoted over two years of his career to this project. He should have concentrated on actual cinema instead.

I’ve already given my two cents on “Disclaimer,” a watchable, if implausible melodrama that completely crashes after a twist is revealed in the final episode. I saw all seven episodes, or chapters, back in September, and the first thing that struck me is why on earth was Cuarón lured into this thing? It’s trashy, melodramatic and implausible.

“Disclaimer” touches upon the current zeitgeist, one filled with division and hate. It delivers an ominous warning to viewers in its very title. Blanchett stars as Catherine, a powerful journalist who finds troubling details from her own past inside the pages of a lurid novel. She’s kept this secret event hidden from everyone, including her husband (Sacha Baron Cohen) and stoner son (Kodi Smit-McPhee).

Kevin Kline is the lonely author who publishes it, eager to inflict not just pain, but also humiliation on the woman he believes caused his own loss and sorrows. He’s a bitter old man (Kevin Kline) and his goal is to terrorize her for a family tragedy that he believes she is responsible for.

Based on Renée Knight’s novel, “Disclaimer” is as ambitious as advertised, tackling three interlocking stories, taking place in various different timelines, and only very slowly revealing its mysteries and intricacies. Currently, five episodes have aired, and the reactions have been rather mixed, at best.

Nevertheless, in the hands of Cuarón, “Disclaimer” is beautifully photographed by Emanuel Lubezki and Bruno Delbonnel — many of the shots they concoct are stunning. Too bad the final episode is a total dumpster fire of illogical twists and puts a damper on whatever tension was being built up until then.

Blanchett is her usual great self as the emotionally crushed Catherine, who can’t seem to get a handle of herself as her near perfect life starts to crumble around her. However, Kline’s casting is pure genius as a grieving father hellbent on exacting revenge on Catherine. He has nothing to lose, his wife and son are dead, and he’s inching closer to death himself. That’s a dangerous combination, and Catherine becomes the target of this fearless anger.

In flashback scenes, Lesley Manville (“Phantom Thread”) plays Kline’s wife, who eventually dies of cancer. She’s a woman destroyed by the death of her son and soon ends up constructing her own narrative about what might have actually happened to him.

A line that keeps getting repeated throughout is “Beware of Narrative and Form.” Cuaron plays around with what we perceive to be truthful, and what is actually hidden underneath narrative constructs. The show tackles the lies we tell ourselves to numb the pain, and our refusal to believe that what we perceive as the truth might just be fabricated deception.

If there’s one performer that completely surprised me, it’s Australian actress Leila George, who plays a young Catherine, and I’m telling you right now that she’s a star in the making. There’s been a lot of talk about how episode 3 is sexually charged — Apple even stamps a “sexual content” warning on the screen before it begins — and they weren’t kidding. George figures prominently in this episode, and the way she conveys a deep seated whirlwind of emotions (sad, happy, torn, lustful) is really something to behold.

“Disclaimer” doesn’t really reach the dizzying heights of Cuaron’s best works (“Children of Men,” “Y Tu Mama Tambien”), and the clunky nature of its twists can sometimes make your eyes roll, but regardless, it’s a fairly watchable pulp of a show, playing like a lurid Gillian Flynn page turner — you hate yourself for continuously turning to the next page, yet you can’t look away.