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-He doesn't want to come out.
-What?

He wants to stay inside.

Why?

He says the world's too fucked up.

Do you have any allergies?

-No, but…
-Please, don't move.

-Okay.
-Open your legs, please.

Just breathe.

-Relax.
-Yes.

You can do it, little guy.

That's it, it's over.

-You did well.
-Great job.

That's it.

Well done.

What happened?

-He decided to stay inside.
-Who?

Mateo. He doesn't want to come out.

I saw some scissors back there.

Now what?

I don't know.

How's he going to feed himself?

He'll eat me, I guess.

And you.

BARDO, FALSE CHRONICLE
OF A HANDFUL OF TRUTHS

Is that normal?

That sound, is it normal?

Shit!

We must celebrate
this economic integration

of imperial dimensions.

Negotiation, not invasion.

It is the Mexican people
this sale will benefit…

Exalted compatriots!

Before it falls in the hands of the enemy,

I take with me the flag of the fatherland!

May the myth rise over Mexico

and give shelter to us forevermore!

-Got a headache?
-A little.

The altitude and the pollution
always kill me

my first few days back in Mexico.

The same happens to my dad
when he comes back to the capital.

He says Mexico's not a country
but a state of mind.

That's a good one. How is your dad?

Good. Stuck in Oaxaca.
His emphysema's killing him.

That's too bad. Say hi to him for me.

Sure. You want me to stop at a pharmacy?

Nah. Thanks, Antonio.

So I heard on the radio you're going to be
on Luis Valdivia's TV show.

Yeah. I didn't want to,
but you know how Lucía is.

She forced me to take the invite.

But… Didn't you see what he said
about your last documentary?

Luis? No. What'd he say?

Nothing good, sir.

He said you were worse than Malinche.

That you disrespected journalism
and who knows what else.

It's docufiction, Antonio.

If you don't know how to play around,
you don't deserve to be taken seriously.

Truth is, I didn't watch
your documentary, sir.

But I did see that guy on TV,
and he pissed me off.

Luis is wrapping up a meeting,

but he told me
he'll find you in makeup, okay?

Congratulations, maestro. Welcome back.

Thanks!

Hey, when's the last time
you were on here?

More than 30 years ago, I guess.

Thirty? That's my age.

Welcome again. Go ahead.

Welcome.

Hey, can you open up?

We're back on Bocaguanga.

We've got a breaking story
you won't believe.

No one lifted a finger to help him.

At the train's last stop,
he was the last passenger.

Fucking gringos.
A cleaning woman found him.

A compatriot of ours,
Doña Refugio Domínguez.

Hello, Refugio.

-Hi.
-We managed to catch up with her today.

We'll have the pleasure
of speaking with her.

Thanks for joining us.
Tell us what happened.

I went in to clean the train car,
as usual,

and saw it wasn't empty.

I thought at first the guy might be
a drunk because that's common here.

But then I saw the fish on the floor.

They were all dead…

Come on! Yeah, go on! Attention!

Don't go! I…

-…seven, eight…
-You can't go there!

Wait!

Silverio, I… Sorry, I'm sorry!

Silverio, wait.

Stop!

You're out of sync!
Tania, I said to the right!

Fuck you, dickhead! What do you know?

Tania, it's always the same shit with you.

Everyone, take your positions!

Priscilla, on your mark.
Five, six, seven, eight.

This way.

We are here. I'm going to leave you here.

-Thanks.
-No problem.

Do my eyes deceive me?

Hello, Marta.

Silverio Gama.

I thought you stepped on a landmine
in Afghanistan and got blown to bits.

I'm still here. In one piece. For now.

-How long has it been?
-Ages.

Centuries.

-Sorry, I was really…
-Busy. I know.

But you could have found a minute
between documentaries to visit me.

Come on, sit down.

-Is this what you're wearing?
-Should I take it off?

Yeah, right?

Luis tried very hard to be happy for you.

He sent me six bottles of prosecco.

That's his way of congratulating you
without saying it.

He never got over you abandoning him.

I didn't abandon him.

I left for a year and it turned into 20.

I ran away from the censors,
and now look where we are.

I worked hard to make a name for myself
as an independent journalist,

then as a filmmaker.

My mother still thinks
it was the worst decision of my life.

Luis could have gone too.
No one put a gun to his head.

Well… one time he criticized

the ineptitude of Mexico's president
and his apostles and…

The head of the station
comes through swinging his dick,

calls him while he's on air,

and nearly strings him up
by his balls on stage.

It's a miracle he's still got his show.

There are no heroes on this channel.
We all eat the same shit.

We're terrified of losing
what little we've got.

Tania?

What?

Tania Kristel?

-What are you looking at?
-Sorry.

Do I know you?

No, but I know you.
I used to watch you on TV all the time.

What are you thinking?

Don Silverio Gama!

-Luis, my man.
-Where have you been, cabrón?

Hey.

Give me a hug, cabrón.

-Leave him alone, Marta.
-I will when I'm done.

There's no fixing that face.

Give me five.

-Don't move.
-What are you doing?

-Epic. My Twitter's going to blow up.
-Enough!

-Don't be an asshole, cabrón.
-Look at him.

He's still mad
I left him in the lurch, right?

Furious!

I've got the top-rated talk show
in Mexico, Papá.

Yeah, you only interview YouTubers.
Nice stuff.

That's news too, isn't it?

Ready.

Give me a hug, bro.

-I missed you. Here is where we started.
-That's right.

-How many days are you staying?
-Not many.

Did you already prepare your speech
for the ceremony?

No.

I figured.

Hey, I loved your last documentary.

False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths.
Crazy stuff.

-You liked it?
-Tons.

But the part where you share a smoke
with Hernán Cortés was a bit much.

How are you supposed to know
what Cortés or Juan Escutia was thinking?

Did you run out of living people
to interview, or what?

-You already working on the next one?
-Yeah, I mean, I'm raising money.

It's going to be months of research,
lots of travel.

I don't know how you can spend
so much time on one thing.

The world changes with every week,
every day, every tweet.

-Ten seconds.
-My questions?

-I already gave them to you.
-I don't have my questions.

Wait, yeah, I've got them. Good to go.

Come on!

Relax.

Welcome to another episode
of Let's Suppose.

We've got a special show today.

Here with me is my close friend

and former co-presenter
on the 8 o'clock news, Silverio Gama.

Renowned documentary filmmaker,
and the first, that's right,

the first Mexican to receive
the Alethea Award for journalistic ethics,

given every four years
by the American Society of Journalists.

You'll be getting it in Los Angeles
in just a few days.

This interview is sponsored
by Los Molinos Coffee.

Simply delicious.

How are you?
How do you feel being back in your Mexico?

I can't imagine how nervous you are.
A lot is riding on this award, no?

Silverio?

Are you with us?

Can we check his mic?

I think we've got a mic problem.

My apologies.
This is the risk of doing live TV.

Let me shoot straight, Silverio.

Some of our colleagues say
American liberals are using you,

and this award is to compensate for
the far right's attacks on our country.

Are you aware of this?

Let's suppose
they're giving you this award

to please a community full of Mexicans…

in Los Angeles.

Do you not want to talk about it?

Let's talk about your private life then.

As the great Sainte-Beuve said,
a man's private life, what he does,

the decisions he makes every day,
even what he eats, all define his work.

Is it true it upset you
that they called you "darky" as a child?

That it embarrassed your mother
and grandmother that you looked…

well… darker than you should?

More Indigenous than white?

Was this disdain real?
It's your family, no?

Señor…

Alejandra Bravo told us, on Instagram…
Remember your first girlfriend?

At 16, you ran away with her
to have a great adventure,

but you refused
to take off your underwear!

Because you were scared
of God's wrath, of Hell.

What were you thinking?
You'd show up at the altar a virgin?

The great Silverio Gama
was a dark-skinned car washer,

a chump, a two-bit radio announcer.

But today he has an honorary degree
from the UNAM.

He's a Chevalier des Arts in France,
and he didn't even finish college.

He's an entitled bougie bastard

on a mission to portray misery
and poverty and society's outcasts,

but he's best friends
with this station's owner

and his family supports
the Club América de Fútbol.

Now that the "guard dog of the truth" is
on the receiving end, how's it feel?

You spent years
making TV ads for capitalism,

but all of a sudden you're an artiste.

I guess our friend
doesn't feel like talking.

A word to the wise is sufficient.

Amazing, Silverio.

You'll gladly run your trap
for the gringos and whoever else,

but here you clam up.

A real shame.

We're going to take a quick
commercial break. We'll be back.

Silverio.

Can you hear me?

I got held up.

Where are you?

I was trying to get
an interview with Halbrook.

I feel you can hear me.

I hear you, Lucía.

-There you are. Where'd you get off to?
-I don't know.

-What do you mean?
-I was out and about.

Why didn't you show up
for your interview with Luis?

You want something to drink?

The producers of Let's Suppose
haven't stopped calling.

I didn't know what to say.

-I'll call them later.
-Luis was calling all day.

He's furious. He told me they spent
the whole week hyping up the interview.

You're the one who accepted.
I didn't want to go.

So now it's my fault.

I was afraid they'd humiliate me,
make me a laughingstock.

Why would they?

Because the whole thing's a joke.

What is?

I go around seeking approval
from people who despise me.

I act before I think,
hoping to get what I want, then when I do,

I detest it.

And then I'm ashamed I ever wanted it.

What are you talking about?

I spend my life trying to convince myself
of the importance of what I do,

of the value of recognition.

But when I get it, I feel nothing.

The one thing I feel
is I don't deserve it.

-Of course you deserve it.
-What do I deserve? That's hubris.

Your lack of humility is hubris, Silverio.
You always do the same thing.

You work and hide in a corner for years
and then when you show your work

and get recognition,
you turn bitter, give up,

get depressed, and play the victim.

-I know.
-It's exhausting, Silverio.

I am incapable of changing many things
I would like to, but I just can't.

-And believe me, I've tried.
-Your imposter syndrome is pathetic.

You could have at least called.

That's what Luis and everyone else thinks.

-They all know it.
-It's craziness.

You inevitably turn into
what you think others think you are.

All anyone's interested in
is the inanities of our personal life,

otherwise, nothing we do matters to them.

And you're just figuring that out now?

Not going was worse.
Luis is smearing you all over the web.

Now it's not a studio audience laughing,
it's his three million followers.

Look what he posted.

I'm telling you, life is nothing
but a series of idiotic images.

Exposure at any price.

Repeating the same scenes of us shitting,
wiping our asses,

and being ridiculed.

Quit it.

-What?
-Your lips aren't moving.

-Does that bother you?
-Yeah, quit.

Fine, I'll stop.

Sooner or later you'll have to call Luis.

I know.

How dare you leave him hanging
on a live TV show?

I'm going to Uruapan.

When?

I already told you, tomorrow.

It's the biggest fair,
and I can't let Lucero go alone.

I've been gone too long.

So…?

It's got to be today, then.

What choice do we have?

I found you.

Will you marry me?

Pa.

Lorenzo?

What time is it?

Late…

Early. I don't know.

You don't have to get up for a while.

-I had a nice dream.
-What did you dream?

You were chasing Mamá
around the apartment.

You were both laughing.

Mamá had her boobies out.

You saw us?

No, it was just a dream.

But…

I had a nightmare afterward.

I had a clear plastic tube

in my mouth
and it was blowing all this air

and I swelled up like a balloon.

I couldn't breathe,
it was blocking my throat.

So

I pulled it out

with my hands.

Talk softer,
you're going to wake up your sister.

She's not going to wake up.

She's asleep, same as me.

There were people
in the windows watching me,

but they didn't say anything.

My brother Mateo was there too.

And the people left
and you sat down on my bed

and looked at me with sad eyes.

As you are looking at me now,
and that's what I'm dreaming.

And so are you.

-But we're awake.
-No.

I'm dreaming you.

-You can't dream that you're dreaming.
-I can.

Yes, I can.

Does this hurt?

No.

Really? What about now?

-No.
-And now?

No, because I'm dreaming.

Here's what we'll do then.

I'll cut off a lock of your hair

and put it in the nightstand.

If you find it when you wake up tomorrow,
that means we're awake.

Here we go.

Good night.

Pa?

Paco's sick.

How do you know?

There are worms.

Looks fine to me.

-Pa?
-Yes?

Why's it called Los Angeles?

I don't know.

Are there angels in Los Angeles?

Maybe. Get some sleep.

Pa?

I don't want to leave them here.

-Who?
-Paco, Guido, and Ernesto.

I want us to take them.

We'll talk about that tomorrow.
It's sleepy time now.

Where were you?

-You didn't close the door.
-It doesn't matter.

They can't hear us.

What are you doing?

He's back.

Again?

Push him back in.

-What is it?
-He doesn't want to go.

Wait.

He keeps coming back. I think
he wanted to tell us something this time.

He's a baby. What's he going to say?

-He's trying to blame us.
-For what?

For the distance between us.

For my selfishness.

Remember how I blew up the night before?

That's why we lost him.

We didn't lose him. He chose not to come.

Lorenzo told me he saw Mateo in a dream.

How could he dream of him
if Lorenzo was born a year later?

It doesn't matter. They remember him.

We told the kids over and over
Mateo wasn't here

because he was flying around Heaven
with his little wings.

Remember?

Mateo's just an idea now.

He's not a person.

People come and go.

Ideas are what remain.

I don't remember his face.

How can a child just transform
into a vague memory?

He didn't give me the chance.

To what?

I know I can be a good father.

Poor little boy.

If I saw that face of yours, I'd want
to crawl back inside my mother too.

He must have been horrified
when he saw you.

Poor Lorenzo and Camila
didn't have a choice,

they have to look at this mug every day.

We should let Mateo go.

We could start
by taking him out of this room.

We need to find a new place for him.

Somewhere he can rest.

Get up, Silverio.

I'm making breakfast.

Who's coming?

Hello? Come on up.

-It's Miguel.
-Miguel who?

The hairdresser, he's been here before.

-So early?
-They're picking us up at 7:00 p.m.

It's 10:00 a.m. Will you spend
nine hours with your hair done up?

Yeah, for you. You should be grateful.

You could have shut the door last night
before doing whatever you were doing.

Good morning, Lorenzo. How'd you sleep?

I'm making eggs, does anyone want some?

Silverio?

Eggs?

Who's that?

Miguel.

-Miguel who?
-The hairdresser.

Go into the living room,
I'll meet you there.

Today's the journalist union party.

-I thought it was tomorrow.
-No, it's today.

Thanks for being so nice with Miguel.

Hey.

What do you think of this?

-What is it?
-My neighborhood. Colonia Narvarte.

Martín wants us to start the video
with images and photos of my roots.

I like the idea, but don't use that music.

Why?

Who gives a shit about roots, Pa?

But not everyone knows where I'm from.

But you're right.
If I don't care, who the fuck would?

-Do you want to watch a movie?
-Moo… mie.

What do you think of this?

Who is that? Me?

No, you can't put that on,
it's embarrassing.

Where'd you find that?
I haven't heard it in years.

We recorded it on the way to Zihuatanejo.

Mamá, stop.

Your dad and I recorded
everything for the first…

What? Twelve years.

Every sound on every trip we took.
We even recorded your farts.

Wait, listen to this.

Is that Japan?

Incredible…

Why not?

Jesus, wash your hair.
What time is Camila coming?

After lunch.
She's going to call me when she lands.

Your chilaquiles are ready.

You need to eat, Silverio,
you've got a long day.

There are no eggs.
I'll be right back, I'm going with Miguel.

No eggs?

That's one of the strangest and most
emotional documentaries I've done.

On their way to the US border
to seek asylum,

the people in the caravan stopped to pray
at the Cerro de las Piedras.

And Our Lady
of San Juan de los Lagos appeared.

There were many of them,
but they never made it to the border.

When we tried to find them,

all that was left was their clothes,
some belongings.

No sign of the bodies.

Some say Our Lady of San Juan de Los Lagos
came to take them away.

Maybe it was an answer
to so much faith and despair.

-And you believe it?
-No.

I mean,
I don't believe anything until I see it.

But a documentarian
shouldn't believe or not believe,

he just needs to look
and know where to focus.

And some of these people
told the camera incredible stories.

-You're going to put that in your video?
-Yeah, I think so.

Because it's a big part of what we are,
a country of immigrants.

These people make sacrifices
and leave everything behind,

because here they're nothing,
they're looking for something better.

Cleaning the bathrooms
at an In-N-Out is better?

Yeah, for many of them it is.

No. They go 'cause they want to.
We left too.

No, it's not the same.

Yeah, but they don't have a choice.

They leave because there's no work.
Here, people kill them, extort them.

We didn't lack anything,
we're first-class immigrants.

What?

Who made you king shit?

You're 17 years old
and you act like you know everything.

When I was your age,

I was on a fishing boat,
working my way around the world.

That's what happens
when you give someone everything

and they never learn shit.

You don't appreciate anything
because you've never worked for it.

You've got no responsibilities.

What?

No one told me.
No one ever warns you about it.

Your kid becomes a teenager
and it's a full-time job.

Everything's a fucking problem.

You realize that, right?

That you don't respect anyone or anything,
not even your parents.

And those people,
whose lives you find depressing,

at least they respect who they are,
their ancestors,

their customs…

Their rituals existed way before the USA,

a country that only respects money,
learned to walk.

Yes, I insist.

Speak Spanish, dammit.

Because we're in Mexico,
we're Mexicans and we speak Spanish!

You couldn't pick up the phone?

Hello?

What?

Lorenzo, stop…

Enough!

That was Reynolds.

He said the rehearsal for the award
is next Tuesday at 5:00 p.m. LA time.

Our Lady de Los Lagos
didn't make those immigrants disappear,

they disappeared
because they fucking died.

-You know you're no different, right?
-What?

If someone praises Mexico,
you lecture them about how fucked it is.

But if a gringo criticizes it,

you recite all the reasons why Mexico is

the most fascinating gastronomical,
anthropological, and cultural experiment

the world's ever known.

Lucía, all I'm saying
is you have to leave Mexico

to realize what you've lost
and what they've stolen and destroyed.

Lorenzo was just trying to tell you
he thinks it's a poor country.

It's not poor, it's unequal.
There's a difference.

Perfect. You win again, Silverio.

Your justifications are faultless.

As always. When's the last time
you even strolled around Mexico City?

Let it go.

You really want another chance?

-At what?
-At being a good father.

-Yeah.
-Well, you've got one.

With Lorenzo and Camila.
They're still young.

-You just need to learn to be present.
-I'm here, Lucía.

Yeah, with your laptop
working on your fucking award video.

I'm going to pick up the clothes!

This desert is a killing machine.

If the heat and mountains don't kill you,
a snake or a scorpion will.

-Where are you going?
-Arizona.

We're going to cross through Nogales.

We're taking the god Centéotl
so they'll bring him back to life.

What happened to the god Centéotl?

He died. There's no corn left.
We're starving to death.

You don't have to die to go to Hell.

Just go to Chalchihuites
and you'll find it.

There, in our village,
everything is death, hunger, violence.

Are there more people with you?

Our grandkids.

Back there, they've got Centéotl.

My two kids were killed.

So we're going north to meet my brother.

Thanks.

Safe travels.

Do you have enough water?

There she is! They found her!

Listen to my sister! She's on the phone!

She says Our Lady of Los Lagos appeared
to them on the Cerro de las Piedras.

As they reached the top of the hill,
night turned to day.

And then she appeared!
She's blessing them!

Silverio…

Silverio…

Silverio, how are you feeling?

You seem tired.

Peaceful.

Tranquil.

You're not scared?

Scared of what?

Of dying.

For you people,
death is a Christian affair,

a comfortable heart attack in bed.

For us, it's our daily bread.
Getting tossed in a mass grave.

Here in jail,
no one can come in and kill me.

But I can have you killed out there.

I used to be poor, invisible.

You all ignored me for decades.

Now…

I've got you by the balls.

We're walking bombs.

There are millions of us
in the poor villages.

We stand at the heart of the paradox.

We're a new species.

A different beast. We're not like you.

What should we have done?

You intellectuals

love running your mouths
about class struggle, the marginalized.

Then we show up.

The proletariat, the dejected,
the exploited, all that's old news.

There's something new out there,
raised in the mud,

schooled on the purest illiteracy,

and it lurks like an alien monster
on the corners of the city.

You're looking at
what you might call "post-poverty."

What changed out in the slums?

Cash.

We've got millions,

and you are all bankrupt
and are led by incompetents.

Damn straight!

Do you get it?

Our methods are agile,

you're slow and bureaucratic.

We don't fear death, you're dying of fear.

We pack real guns, you pack .38s.

We attack, you defend.

You say "human rights,"

we're cruel and show no mercy.

You've made us TV stars,
we've made you clowns.

The slum dwellers help us,
out of love or fear,

but they hate you.

You're regional, provincial,
nationalist, corrupt.

We've got 50 million
captive gringo junkies.

Our guns come from overseas,
from the Yankees, we're global.

We don't forget about you,
you're our customers.

You forget us as soon as the shock
of the violence we provoke has passed.

HONORARY MEMBER
OF THE MEXICAN JOURNALISTS UNION

How's it feel being
in front of the camera?

What's going through your head right now?

If I told you what I was thinking
right now, I'd get locked up for life.

Silverio, do you feel more gringo
or more Mexican?

My nationality is no nationality.

Do you understand
what's going on in your country?

No. Honestly,
I can't understand my country,

all I can do is love it.

How should we respond to
the most dangerous cartel on the planet?

The corporate cartel of the USA?

Will you take a photo with me?

Thanks.

I love your work.

I love your work too.

Thank you. Good night.

That arrogant son of a bitch.

No mezcal around?

I saw a waiter serving some over there.

Pa!

Darling! It's good to see you!

The flight got delayed,
it won't stop snowing in Boston.

So this whole party's just for you?

So it seems.

Horrible. Come on,
my aunts and uncles are over there.

-The whole family's waiting for you.
-Where are they?

-Where are they?
-In the back, Ma.

Brother-in-law!

Who paid for this blowout?
Thought you journalists were broke.

No matter if they treat you nice
or bad, you bitch anyway.

-Have a fucking drink, they're free.
-In that case…

My darky!

My dear sister!

I loved the documentary. So much.

So good. But a little whiny, no?

And a little long.

It's 90 minutes long, you lazy bum.

The jewel in the crown.

I clean up pretty good, don't I?

Maybe you can stick me in your next film,
even just in the corner as an extra.

Congratulations.

You finally made it, cabrón!

I missed you guys.

It's a miracle, cabrón.

My daughter got married, you bailed.
My father died, you bailed.

But they throw a party for you
and here you are.

You think his lordship
will come to our bullshit get-togethers?

Good to see you. Congratulations, cabrón.

They won't leave you alone.
They're disguised complaints, brother.

Who'd have thought you'd get an award

from the same bastards
you've been criticizing your whole life?

I know, right?

-You've got something on your nose.
-What?

A piece of shit
from kissing all that gringo ass.

Honestly, considering you're
such a dumbass, you surprised all of us.

Oh, piss off!

Seriously, though. I really admire you.

Thanks. I admire you too.

Keep your feet on the ground, okay?

How about you lift your fat ass off it?

He fucking got me!
He's calling me a loser, cabrón.

Go back to the other side
and kiss some more Mexican ass.

Don't fuck with him,
you'll wind up in the papers.

Look who's coming, Pablo Galindo!

Pablito, run and hide, cabrón.

You don't want word getting out
about your beach mansion in Baja.

I couldn't give a fuck, pal.

Here's to Silverio.

A toast!

-Cheers!
-Cheers!

Give me a cigarette.

These people are driving me nuts.

-Who is that?
-Where?

Over there.
The art critic. I forgot his name.

As usual.

Hey, Luis.

Thanks for showing up.

Thanks for not inviting me, cabrón.

-Lucía, how are you?
-Good, Luis. So nice you came.

I'm going for a mezcal, you want anything?

No, thanks. I'm good.

Mezcal, thanks.

The illustrious Don Silverio Gama.

Journalist, documentarian/artist.

The icon looking down on us
from his pedestal.

Who neither shows up for his interview

nor cares about the efforts made
by an entire live TV crew.

I'm sorry, Luis.

'Cause, to you,
everyone at this party is just a peon.

Yeah, each and every one of us.

But you're wrong.

Those of us who didn't high-tail it
out of Mexico, we're martyrs.

-Luis, I swear--
-Ditching me wasn't enough?

I've been trying to find you for days.

Why didn't you face me?

I know. I'm sorry, I am.

Why?

Luis, I'm thankful
you invited me on your show, but…

But what, cabrón?

I just couldn't do it.

-My show isn't good enough for you?
-Don't do this to me. Please.

You and I are friends.

Exactly, cabrón.

And when friends call, you pick up.
With friends, you shoot straight.

Especially you.

Mr. Truth, Mr. Critical Thinking.

Give me a break.

Come on, please.

You've trashed my work publicly
thousands of times.

Luis,

why did you invite me?

What do you mean, why?

If you hate my work so much, why bother?

I'm a journalist, not your fan or lackey.

You're my friend and I think
that's what you've come to proclaim.

But if you were, you'd say
the truth to my face, not publicly.

-You want the truth?
-I do.

You want to know
what I think of your documentary?

Shoot. I can handle it.

I think it's pretentious.
It's pointlessly oneiric.

It's oneiric to cover up
for your mediocre writing.

It's a mishmash of pointless scenes.

Half the time I wanted to crack up,
the other half I was dying of boredom.

It's supposed to be metaphorical,

but it lacks poetic inspiration.

It feels stolen. Plagiarized.
And you barely covered your tracks.

What's so funny? It's banal, random.

That shit with the soldiers
in blond wigs at Chapultepec Castle…

Come on.

First, the guy's on the train
with some axolotls,

then, bang, he's in his apartment
in the middle of the desert.

Just because. 'Cause that's how
it popped into your head.

Why there and not, say,
the Estadio Azteca?

-Why not?
-Because life isn't like that, man.

There's chronology.
Order. Causes and consequences.

It's a docufiction, Luis.
Humor's serious business.

Unintentional humor because you broke
every rule of good journalism.

Fuck objectivity,
neutrality, history, truth.

You couldn't check your ego,

you even put yourself
in the movie, cabrón.

You used historical figures
to talk about yourself.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Answer, cabrón!

Gimme a smoke.

If you want to talk about your life,
tell it straight.

Write an autobiography.

Screw that. Nothing could be more boring
or banal than my life.

What the fuck were you trying to say?

You talk about your private life
or the cosmos,

your personal tragedies or politics.

What was that?

A memoir, a farce, or…

I'm all those things
and none of them, Luis.

Oh, you sound like an artiste.

Maybe it's just a chronicle
of uncertainties. That suits me fine.

You've got to be crazy. A chronicle
of uncertainties, cabrón? Fuck.

Luis, I'm not interested
in talking about my life.

Memory lacks truth,
all it has is emotional conviction.

Anyway, I'm tired of saying
what I think and not what I feel.

You're a journalist.

You have to say what you think
and think what you say.

At least you used to have solid ideas.

What good are solid ideas in a world
that slips through our fingers?

You're getting old, cabrón.
A clear case of a midlife crisis.

Could be.

At this age, life goes so fast

it starts to feel like a convulsion.

A tumult of images,

memories, slivers all knotted together.

How beautiful this ugly city is,
don't you think?

For fuck's sake, cabrón.

-Sorry to interrupt.
-No problem.

Luis Valdivia!
Can we take a photo? Please?

-Of course.
-Thank you.

-In the middle, please.
-Yes.

Perfect.

One, two…

-Excellent.
-Thanks so much.

We're huge fans of your show.

Thanks. Good night.

Just don't forget, Silverio,

where you come from
or who you were before you met me.

What are you laughing at, dickhead?

At your fucking certainties, cabrón.

Categorical, like your journalism.

Blinkered, like your acumen.

As mediocre as your artistic aptitudes.

I'm laughing at your short-sighted,
flag-waving nationalism.

Your provincialism.

How you bow down to an industry

devoted to public humiliation
and online lynching.

The clicks that tell us what to believe.

The new gold mine for corporations.

Luis, I am who I am because I got away
from you, from here, from TV.

Look at you.

Vulgar.

Spiteful. And proud of it to boot.

You're a fake.
Scrounging for likes on your socials.

Strolling around with your goons.

Rubbing elbows with the president,
pushing faddish ideologies and idiocies.

You're the perfect image
of today's journalist, Luis.

An entertainer, an opinion peddler.

It's people like you
who've left us without truth.

Beat it, go dance,
I'm tired of hearing you.

That's my father's line,
and I forbid you to use it.

Go, I'm sick of hearing your voice.

I told you I'm sick of your voice.

-Finally.
-How was it with Luis?

Tell me.

Marvelous.

Seriously?

Come on. Let's dance.

-Let's have a mezcal.
-Let's dance instead.

Please.

-No, wait!
-Let's dance.

I don't feel like it.

There are 100 or more guys at this party
who'd kill for a dance with me.

Oh, it seems the jungle's calling.

Pa!

You recognize this song?

-Which one?
-This one.

My apologies, everyone.

The festivities will continue in a moment.

Before we invite up our guest of honor,

we'll hear a few words from our esteemed

Secretary of the Interior,

Mr. Siniestro Quiñones.

Let's give him a round of applause.

Thank you.

Thank you so much.

This celebration will close
with a major award.

An award that fills us with pride,
that for the first time,

will be given to a Mexican

or Latin American journalist.

Where is the guest of honor?

Come up and say a few words.

-Dad, where are you going?
-Where is he?

He'll be here soon.

It seems he's missing.

Let's all shout his name!

I've said my piece,
now it's Silverio's turn.

What is this?

Impossible.

My little boy has turned so gray.

-I'm nearly your age, Pa.
-You're an old man now.

Age comes without warning.

Then it turns into a full-time job.

Walking, eating, using the bathroom…
everything's a problem.

No one ever told me.

Nobody ever warns you about it.

I'm glad you came.

How could I miss my boy's party?

I'm sorry your mother couldn't be here.

The thought that I'll never be
with her again is unbearable.

But sometimes I visit her in her room
and I pull her by the legs.

Son…

I'm so sorry I never told you

how proud I am of you.

You did, though, Pa.

In your way. Without saying it.

I realized that eventually.

You were a great father.

I lost all I had.

That's why I couldn't be more.

A father and sometimes a husband.

But I was always ashamed

of what I could have been but wasn't.

But you, you're a man of the world.

You're very successful.

And you were such a loser.

I promise, your mother and I
never saw this coming.

I know!

Me neither!

You know,

sometimes I'm also ashamed of what I am

and what I should have been.

Are you okay?

It sure would have helped me to know
how you felt about me back then.

To hear it.

To know you saw me.

I did the best I could.

We always do our best,

but it's never enough.

Success has been my biggest failure.

I'd trade everything

to give Camila and Lorenzo
what you gave us.

Come on. Chin up. This is a party.

Depression's a bourgeois illness,
fruit of too much leisure.

We've got no time for sorrow.

I see you every day.

I feel you close to me,
because I let you go.

I miss your big hands, your pure scent.

I miss our talks.
You always brought out the best in me.

I'm always here, son,

whenever you need me.

I still can't let Mateo go.

You'll eventually learn how.

Life is just a brief series
of senseless events.

You must surrender to it.

Clench your fists.

Hold your head high.

Let's drown our shame with a drink

and toast to your success.

-Cheers.
-Cheers.

Remember what I always told you?

-Take a swig of success.
-Take a swig of success.

Swish it around, and spit it out.

Otherwise, it'll poison you.

Who's there?

Hi, Ma.

What a surprise.

I didn't know you were coming.

Yes, I called you yesterday,
we talked for a good while.

I said I'd be here today.

Did you talk to your brother and sisters?

I saw them at the party.

What party?

The Mexican journalists
held a tribute for me.

I was going to invite you but I thought…

I thought you'd come with the kids.

How are Camila and Mateo?

Lorenzo. Camila and Lorenzo.

Yes. What did I say?

Mateo.

Impossible.

Your Mateo was born dead.

He wasn't born dead, Mamá.

He lived for a day, 30 hours.

That's not living.

Just like this isn't living.

I should be dead.

Mamá, you've been saying that
for ten years.

Everyone's croaked and you're still here.

-What'd you do yesterday?
-We went to the movies.

With Aunt Elvira and her friends
from the nursing home?

Yeah.

And?

A bunch of old people.

Really boring.

What did you expect?

People like me.

My age.

Something weird happened.

What?

I went to the bathroom in the cinema…

You won't believe it.

My bed was in there.

Someone had put my whole bedroom in there.

-You must have dreamed that.
-No, son.

Someone took my home to the cinema.

There it is,

outside.

All I wanted was to see
the end of the movie.

We're at your home, Ma.

Look, come here. Let's look at the patio.

See how the shrub blossomed?

This is your patio, this is your house.

How are things with Susana?

Oh, son…

this maid is robbing me.

She's not a maid, she's your nurse.

These people are all the same.

Susana's educated, she's a professional.
Why do you look down on her?

A few days ago, your papá
brought me some bracelets

that belonged to your grandmother.

And now I can't find them.

Papá died eight years ago.

No, he didn't.

He died, Mamá.

What are you saying?

I saw your father at Christmas
at your brother's house.

He wouldn't talk to me.

He must have been angry,
or else he's with some other woman.

He comes to see me now and then,

when I'm sleeping on my stomach,
he grabs me by the legs.

Then he lulls me with his song.

What song?

I don't remember.

It's that…

the first time I made love with your dad,

we listened to that song.

And then

he'd whistle it to you
when you were in my belly.

And when you were little,

and you'd scream and throw tantrums,

he'd whistle that song to you

and you'd calm down.

Really? I don't remember.

I don't remember anything
from my childhood.

Who sang it?

Agustín Lara or…

Pérez Prado…

Doesn't ring a bell.

Talk with your mouth, son,
you're driving me crazy.

Sorry.

But try and remember the song, Ma.

Who sang it?

The selfish man took it with him.

Excuse me.

Good afternoon, señor. What'll you have?
We've got tripe, campechano…

Give me two beef tongue, please.

Coming right up. With everything?

Yeah, everything.

-Are you okay?
-Yes.

-Do you need help?
-No.

-Let me…
-Don't touch me!

What's up with her?

-I don't know.
-Is she dead?

I'm not dead.

I'm missing.

But you are right here, señora.

Leave her. They do this all the time.

They go missing
yet they keep pestering everyone.

They neither return nor die.

What's going on, señora? Tell me.

I can't.

They stay by not staying.
All they do is complain, buddy.

Please, tell me what's wrong.

Trust me, it's best not to know.

Martín!

Police!

Ideas ate the deities!

The deities became ideas!

Great bladders full of bile!

The bladders burst!

The idols exploded!

Putrefaction of deities!

Swarm of flies!

The sanctuary was a dungheap!

The dungheap a nursery!

Armed ideas sprouted,

idealized ideodeities,
sharpened syllogisms!

Cannibal deities.

Ideas idiotic as deities.

Rabid dogs.
Dogs in love with their own vomit.

We have dug up rage.

The amphitheater of the genital sun
is a dungheap.

A dead country where none of us die.

Who do you think you are,
stealing Octavio Paz's ideas?

His words exist
because I existed, Don Silverio.

Don't make me laugh, Cortés.

You were just a thug,

a jackal with a machete,
slicing blindly through the jungle.

-There's not a single book in your body.
-You don't know me.

No one knows me.

If your sense of shame
was proportional to the disaster

your conquest wrought,
maybe you'd be a bit humbler.

Got a light?

I know what you're thinking.

Five hundred years people have blamed me
without understanding shit.

-Don't you realize where you're sitting?
-Don't you? Look around.

The most beautiful city I ever saw,
inhabited by 300,000 Indians.

-They weren't Indians.
-Fine, Americans.

-Still wrong.
-Whatever.

How could 400 Spaniards
with 16 horsemen and a little gunpowder

trample an empire like that?

-Those Indians were…
-They weren't Indians!

Cannibals, whatever.
They ate each other like savages.

They all hated each other.

And they all hated the Tlatoani.

In that corner right there,
I met Moctezuma.

-Good dude.
-No.

That corner right there

is where we discovered Europe.

We were just trying to help you.

We gave you our God and our language.

And smallpox and measles
and the fear of Hell.

And gonorrhea.

And your army
and the oligarchy and your church

and 300 years of
the ugliest fucking viceroys imaginable.

Look at Centéotl.

You buried our gods
and brought us a new one,

still bloody, tortured, and crucified.

Don't be a moron, Cortés,

you were nothing more
than a useful foreigner.

It's easy to win a war when the enemy,
our people, betrays and attacks itself.

I never wanted war.

I fell in love with this land
and its people.

Pretty words from the mouth of a murderer.

Murderer?

I laid the foundations for a new world.
My children were the first Mexicans.

Therefore, I am your father,
like it or not.

I lived a Mexican,
and I died more Mexican than anyone.

I'm sorry to say, people hate you
in Mexico as much as they do in Spain.

There's not a single statue of you.

Sometimes we think
we're from several places,

when in fact we're from nowhere.

Maybe hatred is every great man's fate.

And quit with
the childish tantrums, Silverio.

Why are you so mad?

It's not like you're an Indian,
mulatto, mongrel.

Look at yourself, you're more Creole
and Mestizo than my own children.

You don't want to be Indians.
Or Spaniards.

You've willfully condemned
yourselves to bastardy,

to coexist in limbo.

For fuck's sake!

Turn that shit off, you're gonna blind me!

-What is it?
-He burned me with that fucking cigarette!

Don't move.

Don't move.

Stop moving! Stay still!
We're doing another take!

Cut! Martín!

Martín, don't let anyone move,
for Christ's sake!

What's up, cabrón?

-Five minutes!
-Wait!

Dead and missing people to your positions!

Martín, we're doing another take.
Everyone stay still! Goddammit!

I'm good. Nah,
I'm here shooting with a cocky director.

One of those movies about Hernán Cortés,
or some bullshit.

Sube, Pelayo, sube!

Nice fucking house, man.

How much did
Pablo Galindo ask you for rent?

He just lent it to me
for a couple of days.

Rich people don't do anything for free.

That's why they're rich.

This is gorgeous.

He will charge for this
one way or another.

Hortensia and I are going
to the club to get our beach stuff.

-On my way. Get Lorenzo to help.
-Lorenzo is taking a nap.

No. There'll be time to nap later.

Life's rich with rich friends, brother.

I'm going to the beach
before you start breaking my balls.

Don't steal the flatware, cabrones!

-Only the real silver!
-Or some nice wine!

Good morning, señor, go on ahead.

Pa, come here!

-What's up?
-This man won't let Hortensia in.

Why? Is there a problem?

-Servants can't enter…
-She's family.

-Those are the rules of the place.
-You can't make an exception?

We're guests of Mr. Pablo Galindo.

-We're staying at his home, and--
-Sorry, señor.

But all the owners agreed to the rule.

Servants can't use the facilities.

Not even to walk the beach?

I'm sorry, señorita.

Who's your superior?

He's off today.

-Hortensia, go home and--
-No! If Hortensia can't go, no one will.

-Those are the rules of the place.
-You have to do something.

-At least call--
-Those are the rules of the place!

-I'll call Pablo, and--
-Why bother, señor?

It's those rich people who make the rules.

Let's get out of here.
Stick your beach up your ass then!

-It's official.
-What?

Amazon just bought Baja California.
This beach belongs to the gringos.

Amazing!

Let them buy all of Mexico.

We'll be better off.

I had no idea that people
in my own family were so unpatriotic.

Imagine what it would be like…

-What?
-You seem famished.

The fruit tastes like fruit here.

How are you?

Fine.

Mamá wants to go to the beach,
she says it's a way off.

-She wants to get there before sundown.
-We'll leave soon.

But tell me, how are things?

-What things?
-How's everything in Boston?

You still with Mark?

Yeah.

You don't sound convinced.

It's not that.

Everything's fine with Mark.

Not everything, I mean, it never is, but…

I wasn't even thinking about him
till you said his name.

Well then?

I don't know.

It's weird being here.

Where? On the beach?

In Mexico.

I don't get it.

You do.

Why? Your cousins are here,
your aunts and uncles…

-Exactly.
-Exactly what?

It's everything that never was.

And seeing them reminds me of that.

Everything that wasn't.

Yeah.

Including Mateo.

Mateo's not the only one in Bardo, Pa.
Sometimes I feel like we're all with him.

Camila, your family will always be here,
your home's here, your grandparents…

Dad, stop, I am fine. I am just sad!

And that's okay,
feeling sad is good for you sometimes.

But you always want to fix things,
explain them away.

Some things just are what they are.

My lease is up next month.

-I was thinking of coming back to Mexico.
-Why?

To live here.

What about your job in Boston?

The job's fine,
but I can't grow there anymore.

I am tired of eating a salad
on a plastic tray alone at my desk.

What will you do in Mexico?

I don't know.

I like the idea but you'll have
to get used to being way more careful.

All my friends live here
and nothing's happened to them.

Because they live in a gated community
with guards all around

and drivers take them everywhere.

Are you up for that? I'm not.

At least they don't live
in a pasteurized reality like us.

A pasteurized reality
where you can walk around at night

or take public transportation.

You've never used public transportation.

-I use it.
-Come on.

Where's the Santa Monica train stop?

Between Ocean and Venice.

How much is a ticket?

-I don't know.
-Of course you don't.

We're grown-ups, Pa.

We're free to choose where to live.

Okay?

Camila, you know I'm here for anything.

But you can't ask me
not to want the best for you.

Get a move on.

It's getting late.

Sometimes what's best for you
isn't what's best for us.

Let's go before Mamá chews us out.

How's that going?

It's going.

Hey, tell me if you want to invite
Jon and Stephen, okay?

Pa…

Remember Paco?

Who?

Paco, Guido, and Ernesto.

-My axolotls. When we lived in Mexico.
-Yeah, sure.

What is it?

I never knew any of that.
Why didn't you tell me?

I think you were gone.

You were in Morocco doing something.

Or maybe you were home, I don't know.

Doesn't matter.

If you look me in the face,
you might recognize me.

That's enough, Pa.

Papá, drop it!

The bastard should apologize.

What happened? Pa, drop it.

-Those are the rules of the place.
-What rules?

What the fuck are you,
Mexican, Chinese, fucking Swedish?

I won't calm down, damn it!

You speak Spanish, right?
You look more Mexican than I do.

Are you afraid
they will realize you're Mexican?

They even stole our fucking name.

Lorenzo, move your suitcase!

Okay, I'll do it.

I'm gonna take a walk.
I still have a headache.

Come here, lie down for a bit.

See if you can change
the old walrus face you have on.

You can't go to the awards ceremony
looking like that.

No, leave them alone.

Leave me alone, Grandma.

Shit.

Are you okay, señor?

Do you need help?

I don't understand you.

I don't understand you.

Is it normal?

-What?
-That sound. Is it normal?

Yes, it's normal.

The sheets are soaked.

He's wet.

Maybe the bag was full.
I think they forgot to change it.

I'll call the nurse.

Do you see any improvement, doctor?

No. All we can do is wait.

There's a major hemorrhage in one lobe.

-This could take a long time.
-How long?

I don't know.

Do you think he's here with us?

Can he hear us?

Sure he's here.
But at the same time, he's not.

A coma is basically a mystery, Camila.

What's he doing with his eyes?

It's a reflex.

It feels like he's squeezing
when I take his hand.

Yesterday we put on some music

and some recordings
from when we were kids,

and he cried a little.

Can you hear me?

Where are you?

I feel you can hear me.

No one lifted a finger to help him.

At the train's last stop,
he was the last passenger.

A cleaning woman found him.

A compatriot of ours,

Doña Refugio Domínguez.

Hello, Refugio.

-Hi.
-We managed to catch up with her today.

We'll have the pleasure
of speaking with her.

Thanks for joining us.
Tell us what happened.

I went in to clean the train car,
as usual, and saw it wasn't empty.

I thought at first the guy might be
a drunk because that's common here.

But then I saw the fish on the floor.

How are you feeling?

You seem tired.

Peaceful.

Tranquil.

What the fuck was my dad doing
on the Santa Monica train?

He wanted to feel more Mexican.

But with all those Mexicans around,

his head exploded.

You're such an asshole.

Something weird happened a few days ago
in our bedroom in Los Angeles.

I was sleeping on my belly

and something grabbed my feet
and started pulling.

It jerked me upward,
there was nothing I could do.

The dream was so real,

and I'm sure it came to me
right when Silverio had his stroke.

Thanks for bringing him to Mexico.

Hey, Papá!

Hey, Pa! What's the name of that song?

I don't remember the name, but I love it.

You always do the same thing.

First you take something away,
and then you don't remember.

But Ma, you always danced
to that song with Papá.

Son, your father was a drag,
he never liked dancing

and it's my favorite thing in the world.

I was comfortable at home watching TV

and look at where you've taken me.

All I wanted was to see
the end of the movie.

Okay, Ma, but can someone tell me
the name of that song?

What are you talking about?

Brother, do you remember
the name of that song

Papá whistled to us when we were kids?

Where did you bring us, brother?

He never even whistled me a ranchera song.

Don't leave again, darky. Come back.

You're leaving without putting me
in one of your movies.

Not even as one of those extras.

Keep going!

-Where are you coming from?
-From the North!

From Hell, but they don't even know
they're living in Hell there.

-Where are you taking him?
-To the South.

We'll use this piece to resuscitate him.
He will rebuild himself completely.

Let the whole world look to the south!

How do you know it's in that direction?

Pa!

Lorenzo!

You need to go the other way!

No, Pa!

We're going with you!

Turn around! There's nothing here for you!

And you?

I'll see you when I get back!

When might that be?

When?