Alfonso Cuarón’s ‘Disclaimer’ Isn't Oscar Worthy

Here’s Deadline’s Baz Bamigboye on Alfonso Cuarón’s “Disclaimer”:

After watching it, my mantra became: If Disclaimer was a film then it would win the f**ing Academy Award for Best Picture.

I disagree, this isn’t necessarily a diss on the series, it’s highly watchable, in an implausible melodrama kind of way, and the reviews have just been okay, but a little more on that later.

According to Bamigboye, Cuarón, who calls “Disclaimer” a “7-hour film,” even though it technically clocks in at 5.5. hours, is “studying the possibility of creating a version of his series” that could maybe qualify for Oscars.

Cuarón’s “Disclaimer” is split into seven episodes, or chapters, and I’ve watched all of them. I should caution that it’s best to enter this series by knowing as little as possible about the story and its characters, so I’ll do my best to avoid crucial plot points.

“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 loner 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.

I’m actually surprised that Cuarón decided to delve into this kind of melodrama material, which at times plays out as trashy and implausible. Nevertheless, in the hands of Cuarón, “Disclaimer” is immensely watchable and beautifully photographed by Emanuel Lubezki and Bruno Delbonnel — many of the shots they concoct here are to die for.

Too bad the last episode is a total dumpster fire of illogical twists and kind of puts a damper on the tension that was being built up until then. Don’t get me wrong, “Disclaimer” is still worth your time; revel in the gorgeous photography, the great performances, and the twists, but it could have been something deeper and more meaningful had it landed a better ending.

Blanchett is her usual great self as the emotionally crushed Catherine, she 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, a woman destroyed by the death of her son who 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 who 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 one of the episodes in “Disclaimer” is sexually charged, Apple even stamps a “sexual content” warning on the screen before the episode 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”) — that final episode really hurts its standing — and the clunky nature of its twists can sometimes make your eyes roll, but regardless, it’s as compulsively watchable a show as one might expect from all of the talents involved. Just don’t call it Oscar worthy, and definitely don’t turn it into a movie.