From Goya to Honoré Daumier, art has never stopped reminding the powerful that it has the capacity (and, perhaps, also the obligation) to strip them bare, deprive them of their human dimension, and turn the mockery of the calamities they leave behind as a legacy into catharsis. A sentiment that Digger makes its own in a literal way at the end of a twisted path of excess and an accumulation of layers of fiction that the film's marketing has wanted to keep secret until the last moment. The message is crystalline and poignant, but the way in which Alejandro G. Iñárritu stages it also seems like a justification. Or, rather, a clarification: this is not a farce, but a commentary on the meaning of making a farce.