Flying

I like Iñárritu and saw most of his films. Babel, Birdman, The Revenant, and Biutiful, of course (what a movie that is!). The other day I tried Bardo. I tried because I haven’t managed to watch it all and I don’t know if I will. But the opening scene! Man!

Every now and then I remember the opening scene in Biutiful. The soft, whispering dialogue between father and daughter, the frigid snowy forest, the owl.

Enter Bardo! The dusty, desert-like plains, the sun at the horizon casting long, pointy shadows behind dry tufts of grass and spiky weeds and this person standing there, breathing. Then running and running, and running until airborne.

Quiet.
Wind.
Breathing.
Then landing softly and running again. Until airborne. Going higher.
Quiet.
Wind.
Breathing.
Again and again.
Higher.
And higher.
It feels like, in a way, Iñárritu managed to put my flying dreams on the screen, to make them real, somehow. That chest feeling of detachment, lightness, freedom, with all the awe and scare, all of it, inside and out.