Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)Why do we watch movies? Why do we go to plays? Why do we listen to stories about characters playing at life? For some, it's a way to escape the staleness of our everyday life; for others, it's a way to delve into a deeper understanding of important human themes and abstract concepts like "truth" and "love". And never the two shall meet? Birdman begs to differ, and slyly plays with the idea of escapism as a lofty "human theme", and the obsession with the spotlight, often confused for love.
|
|
Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)--yes, that's the full title--tells the story of Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton), a washed-up actor famed for his earlier days as a actor when he was a superstar putting butts in seats playing the titular Birdman in a superhero franchise series. Now, Riggan is determined to reaffirm his status as an artist by means of the Broadway stage, directing/starring in a Raymond Carver adaptation of "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love", all while trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his Hollywood past. Birdman is one of those rare films where everything fits together so snugly, so perfectly, and would be impossible, would be greatly diminished if even one element was out of place--the structure would crumble. Not because the film is lacking in talent; hardly, but so much of what makes this film unique and enjoyable has everything to do with a recipe that is more than the sum of its parts. Let's begin with the casting--both Michael Keaton and Edward Norton (as Riggan's star/antagonist Mike Shiner) are not only superb actors, but they are perfect for their respective roles, in no small part due to their own respective histories as actors. Both actors are simultaneously gifted and humble enough to poke fun at their respective public personae, and this knowing nod is not lost on an astute audience who has heard rumors about Edward Norton's reputation for commandeering productions--ironically, including The Incredible Hulk, which he also starred in as the title character--or has asked themselves, "what ever happened to Michael Keaton after Batman?" This holds true for much of the rest of the cast, including (but not limited to) the fantastic Naomi Watts as Lesley, and Emma Stone as Sam, Riggan's thoroughly modern daughter. This knowing ribbing of Hollywood, of Broadway, of a nation gone "viral" is the not-so-subtle subtext of Birdman, and establishes the film as arguably one of the first self-aware, self-satirizing, 21st-century twists on an industry bloated with escapism, conflicted with reality--a brilliant, mad pastiche...like if Jon Favreau and Louis Malle had a baby..."My Dinner with Aquaman". The story goes that filmmaker Alejandro González Iñárritu shared a picture of Phillipe Petit's tight rope walk between the twin towers of the World Trade Center and explained that this was what they were going to be attempting with Birdman--that "if we fall, we fall". Birdman is bold, is daring on so many levels. The film is presented as though to appear as (mostly) one long, continuous shot, but is not adverse to transition between solid, deep realism and with the snap of the fingers, fantastic movie magic and special effects. The idea that Riggan might be crazy, might have superpowers, keeps the audience guessing and fascinated by the unpredictability of the plot. A wild, drum-focused score by Antonio Sanchez permeates the film, and accentuates the sense of mania and tension driving Riggan to a breakdown. And mad, hysterical scenes are outrageously funny and forces you to experience Riggan's brand of anxiety and panic first-hand. Though Birdman is rich with tour de force moments, my favorite would have to be Riggan's brisk walk of shame through Times Square in his tighty-whiteys, trapped outside mid-performance, his humiliation laid bare for all of New York City; Spider-Man even makes a cameo, as if just to rub it in.
Birdman will be remembered for its daring presentation, appearing as an uninterrupted take, with virtually seamless transitions and deft cinematic wizardry. But more than just a stylistic flourish, it is a meditation on life, and how life is itself free from interruption; even our dreams have stories to tell. Of course this is movie magic, but it also means that we are always "in" the theater, where Riggin dares to be reborn. This also gives Birdman a sense of immediacy and unfiltered, improvisational chaos (albeit the idea that the film is improvised could not be farther from the truth, but that feeling is key), and the music compliments this, making the setting of a Broadway theater feel alive and real, like we were shadows haunting the St. James Theater ourselves, waiting in the wings. Riggan wants to put on a play on this famous stage, where he and Mike go on about the "truth" of the stage, which is itself ironic, because the play is a fabrication of reality, just as Birdman is of real reality, creating a metaphorical multitude of refracted truths. However, what Riggan's adaptation of Carver's story for the stage says of truth is but the frosting on the cake. The real explosions of truth come in the revelations that make up the whole of Birdman, and the interactions between our characters, off stage. This ambiguity of truth is a part of Riggan--as a person, and in his view of himself. He put on this play under the auspices of honoring his hero, Raymond Carver--who left him a cocktail napkin version of "notes" as a member of the audience in Riggan's high school play--but it is an escape, so that he can use this as a vehicle to once again find vindication as a star, and be warmed by the glow of adoration that has faded...in his public life and his personal life. What we get about Mike mirrors this to an extent, and the two battle egos in a tug of war; both "love" the theater--or claim to--and both know they can't share the spotlight, hence their conflict. In his privacy, Riggan displays apparent superpowers--which could certainly be explained away as a manifestation of his madness. But what if he's right? What if he is endowed with the gifts of a god, and must hide them from the world through an alter ego of a has-been Hollywood star of yesteryear? And, do these need to be mutually exclusive?
Birdman opens with an exchange from Raymond Carver's poem, "Late Fragment", which talks of being beloved on this earth, and aptly prefaces Riggan's existential crisis, his addiction to fame. His ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan), astutely observes that Riggan confuses love for admiration, after he recalls a story about when he was on a flight set to crash with George Clooney, and all he could think about were the headlines recalling Clooney's death, and not his own; and to think his daughter was the one in rehab when his obsessive need to escape is like an addiction. Riggan has an image of himself in his mind--as we all do, although I would presume most don't see themselves as a winged superhero--and he envisions himself not only as his superhero alter ego, but as the tragic, mythic Icarus, another larger-than-life legend much like a superhero, consumed in flames as he plummets toward the cruel earth below, in a shot evocative of the conclusion to the cinematic poem, Koyaanisqatsi. Strange as it may sound, Birdman also reminds me of another film: Network, because of the introspective, satirical look at the theater as this elitist counterpoint to commercial Hollywood, much like Network satirized television. Theater is portrayed as though it were the snooty cousin to movies, much like Mike's comment to Riggan about popularity being the slutty cousin to prestige. Mike may preface this sentiment with his self-aggrandizing method acting, but theater critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan) embodies it, willing to play gatekeeper to prevent Riggan's play from succeeding on principle, in violation of her presumed integrity. She gives the impression she would cut off her nose to spite her face, ironic given the film's conclusion, just as so-called "fans" of a convention or brand would tear down anything that compromises their fragile view of their precious venues of entertainment, because they cannot stomach the thought of it "marred" by the efforts of another. Her presence even feels a bit like a knowing provocation toward critics, daring them not to like this film. Birdman is one of those movies that if you were to describe it in terms of raw components to someone, it would seem implausible that it could be the kind of film to win Best Picture, but there it is--a philosophical movie about madness and stagecraft.
Recommended for: Audiences who enjoy a knowing wink that comes from a self-aware movie that bends (or even breaks) expectations. And for people who like a smart satire of the entertainment industry as a whole. Birdman's special way of simultaneously dancing the line of drama and escapism make it a rare treat.
Birdman will be remembered for its daring presentation, appearing as an uninterrupted take, with virtually seamless transitions and deft cinematic wizardry. But more than just a stylistic flourish, it is a meditation on life, and how life is itself free from interruption; even our dreams have stories to tell. Of course this is movie magic, but it also means that we are always "in" the theater, where Riggin dares to be reborn. This also gives Birdman a sense of immediacy and unfiltered, improvisational chaos (albeit the idea that the film is improvised could not be farther from the truth, but that feeling is key), and the music compliments this, making the setting of a Broadway theater feel alive and real, like we were shadows haunting the St. James Theater ourselves, waiting in the wings. Riggan wants to put on a play on this famous stage, where he and Mike go on about the "truth" of the stage, which is itself ironic, because the play is a fabrication of reality, just as Birdman is of real reality, creating a metaphorical multitude of refracted truths. However, what Riggan's adaptation of Carver's story for the stage says of truth is but the frosting on the cake. The real explosions of truth come in the revelations that make up the whole of Birdman, and the interactions between our characters, off stage. This ambiguity of truth is a part of Riggan--as a person, and in his view of himself. He put on this play under the auspices of honoring his hero, Raymond Carver--who left him a cocktail napkin version of "notes" as a member of the audience in Riggan's high school play--but it is an escape, so that he can use this as a vehicle to once again find vindication as a star, and be warmed by the glow of adoration that has faded...in his public life and his personal life. What we get about Mike mirrors this to an extent, and the two battle egos in a tug of war; both "love" the theater--or claim to--and both know they can't share the spotlight, hence their conflict. In his privacy, Riggan displays apparent superpowers--which could certainly be explained away as a manifestation of his madness. But what if he's right? What if he is endowed with the gifts of a god, and must hide them from the world through an alter ego of a has-been Hollywood star of yesteryear? And, do these need to be mutually exclusive?
Birdman opens with an exchange from Raymond Carver's poem, "Late Fragment", which talks of being beloved on this earth, and aptly prefaces Riggan's existential crisis, his addiction to fame. His ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan), astutely observes that Riggan confuses love for admiration, after he recalls a story about when he was on a flight set to crash with George Clooney, and all he could think about were the headlines recalling Clooney's death, and not his own; and to think his daughter was the one in rehab when his obsessive need to escape is like an addiction. Riggan has an image of himself in his mind--as we all do, although I would presume most don't see themselves as a winged superhero--and he envisions himself not only as his superhero alter ego, but as the tragic, mythic Icarus, another larger-than-life legend much like a superhero, consumed in flames as he plummets toward the cruel earth below, in a shot evocative of the conclusion to the cinematic poem, Koyaanisqatsi. Strange as it may sound, Birdman also reminds me of another film: Network, because of the introspective, satirical look at the theater as this elitist counterpoint to commercial Hollywood, much like Network satirized television. Theater is portrayed as though it were the snooty cousin to movies, much like Mike's comment to Riggan about popularity being the slutty cousin to prestige. Mike may preface this sentiment with his self-aggrandizing method acting, but theater critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan) embodies it, willing to play gatekeeper to prevent Riggan's play from succeeding on principle, in violation of her presumed integrity. She gives the impression she would cut off her nose to spite her face, ironic given the film's conclusion, just as so-called "fans" of a convention or brand would tear down anything that compromises their fragile view of their precious venues of entertainment, because they cannot stomach the thought of it "marred" by the efforts of another. Her presence even feels a bit like a knowing provocation toward critics, daring them not to like this film. Birdman is one of those movies that if you were to describe it in terms of raw components to someone, it would seem implausible that it could be the kind of film to win Best Picture, but there it is--a philosophical movie about madness and stagecraft.
Recommended for: Audiences who enjoy a knowing wink that comes from a self-aware movie that bends (or even breaks) expectations. And for people who like a smart satire of the entertainment industry as a whole. Birdman's special way of simultaneously dancing the line of drama and escapism make it a rare treat.