Every book tells a story, but can a book ever tell the whole truth? This question plagues renowned documentarian Catherine (Cate Blanchett), who one day receives a mysterious book in the post and finds within its pages a version of a truth she long believed to be buried. The book, it turns out, is only the beginning of a ruthless vendetta orchestrated by retired professor Stephen (Kevin Kline), who finds in his swansong years a powerful motivation to keep going: avenging the early death of his 19-year-old son, Jonathan (Louis Partridge).
This clash between a woman protecting a rotting secret and a grieving father drives Disclaimer, the first series fully written, directed and produced by Oscar-winner Alfonso Cuarón. Adapted from the eponymous book by Renée Knight, the effort may mark a new creative format for the Mexican director but sees him revisit some of the themes explored in depth throughout his career, from carnal desire as a treacherous motivator and the very particular kind of grief that burdens parents sentenced to live longer than their children.
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Disclaimer is at its most interesting whenever it allows Kline the time to physically translate the toll of loss. Stephen is the actor’s greatest role in well over a decade, a conniving, exceptionally intelligent man drained of any sliver of compassion by twenty years of slow and permanent emotional erosion. Kline leans into Stephen’s villainous strain, his voice-over bearing the signature raspiness of a crooked bad guy. As the former teacher becomes more and more intertwined with the memory of his late wife, Kline slides into the Norman Bates-esque, dressing up in his spouse’s pink cardigan, pruning his hair and speaking in softer tones.
In contrast, Blanchett returns to the sternness of Lydia Tár to portray Catherine, who, much like the conductor, is a successful woman unwilling to admit she has little regrets about neglecting time with her child in search of professional excellence. That her son turned out to be a meek, deeply incompetent young man (played not much more competently by Kodi Smit McPhee) comes back to plague her later in life, this walking reminder of her ineptitude at motherhood a direct connection to the night she first met Stephen’s son and the dark legacy of that encounter.
While the show’s first two episodes do an interesting job of laying out the murky lines connecting the characters, the storyline dwindles as Cuarón takes his time teasing out a secret he only begins properly prodding at much later. This stumble in pace and focus may require a bit more patience than the show is earned at times, but its true Achilles’s heel is Sacha Baron Cohen’s as Catherine’s lawyer husband Robert. A staggering feat of miscasting, the role sees the physically towering Borat actor painfully contort himself next to his much more impressive wife, the perfect picture of the doting, coy husband just waiting for the right moment to bank on the sexist bitter grudge he’s been slowly feeding throughout their relationship.
Robert is meant to kick down the first solid pillar of the documentarian’s life, and the fact Cohen can’t create a character compelling enough to make the viewer feel the enormity of this schism is a disservice to Cuarón’s refined direction in those early chapters. Still, there are many pleasures to be had with Disclaimer, from the beautifully realised erotic scenes that set the tone for this investigation of the consequences of desire, to how Cuarón works with two cinematographers — longtime collaborator Emmanuel Lubezi and Bruno Delbonnel – to visually translate the voiceover narrations throughout the show, from the first person used by Stephen, to the omniscient narrator played by Indira Varma and a rare second person narration following Catherine.
This experimental approach when it comes to narrative construction makes for an interesting exercise in perspective, further blurring the lines between the story’s concurring truths. That it is done with Cuarón’s sharp, curious eye is good enough of a sell.
