4.5 stars. Rated R, for relentless profanity, sexual candor and brief violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.31.14
This isn’t merely a movie; it’s a
bravura display of cinematic pizzazz as mesmerizing as its three starring performances.
This one demands repeat viewing.
First time out, you’ll be overwhelmed by the stylistic approach — dazzlingly
so, to the point of wanting to applaud — and then you’ll need a second round to
better appreciate everything else going on.
 |
| When Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton, left) learns that co-star Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) has hijacked some of his best personal material for a lavish newspaper interview, raw fury propels the two men into the sort of laughably flimsy fist-fight that one would expect from two guys who haven't the faintest idea how to throw a punch. |
We’ve never seen anything quite
like this.
Granted, director/co-scripter
Alejandro González Iñárritu borrows respectfully from predecessors going all
the way back to Robert Wiene (1920’s silent The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari),
with strong nods toward Alfred Hitchcock (1948’s Rope), Roman Polanski (1965’s Repulsion) and Paddy Chayefsky (1976’s Network).
Much more recently, Joe Wright
attempted similar cinematographic trickery with 2012’s Anna Karenina, but
with far less success; the stage-bound stylization called too much attention to
itself, at the expense of the story.
But that, too, is the genius of
Iñárritu’s Birdman: The audacious approach is part of the story, indeed the
throbbing heartbeat of an exhilarating descent into artistic madness, whose
pulse is amplified by a score devoted solely to Grammy Award-winner Antonio
Sanchez’s percussive drumming.
That latter affectation is
jarring at first, particularly as Sanchez’s efforts become pervasive, his
shifting tempos altering the story’s rhythm and pace in a manner normally
handled by cutting wizardry. But editors Douglas Crise and Stephen Mirrione
seemingly have very little to do in this film, because cinematographer Emmanuel
Lubezki’s brilliantly composed scenes are — like our central character’s relentless
fever dream — one long tracking shot.
Yep. For 119 minutes. Over the
course of this narrative’s roughly three days and nights.
Not entirely true, of course,
which is why that word — seemingly — is so crucial. Despite having the
appearance of a single extended take, Iñárritu, Lubezki, Crise and Mirrione
collaborate quite cleverly to convey this illusion ... just as everything that
happens on a Broadway stage is pure artifice.
Except when it isn’t, which is
the whole point here. Even before we dive into his rapidly unraveling psyche,
Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) has lost the ability to separate his actual
life from what takes place on stage; his performer’s artifice may be the only
thing helping him cling to whatever remains of his sanity. Indeed, how many
actors, stretching back centuries, have insisted that they only come alive each
night, when they hit their marks ... their vivid, full-color nighttime dreams
far more real to them than the washed-out black-and-white of their actual
lives?
But Iñárritu and co-scripters
Nicolás Giacobone, Alexander Dinelaris and Armando Bo aren’t content with that
familiar cliché. Thomson’s performance anxiety is heightened further by the
full-frontal dive into meta-reality represented by Keaton’s casting. Thomson is
a washed-up, long-dormant Hollywood celebrity once famed for a series of
superhero films — the Birdman trilogy — who has mounted an ambitious Broadway
play as a means of (he hopes) reviving his moribund career.
Similarly, the woefully
under-appreciated Keaton has lost all the momentum generated by his pair of Batman films more than two decades ago. By the late 1990s, he was essentially
washed up, relegated to mind-numbingly awful flicks such as Jack Frost (dead
dad returns as a snowman???) and Herbie Fully Loaded, Lindsay Lohan’s entry
in Disney’s sentient Volkswagen comedies.
Few actors would be brave enough
to admit such professional failings with the unapologetic verve demanded by
this new film ... but Keaton plunges into these self-referential waters with
belligerent gusto. His reward, for this fearless and foolish act: a death-defying
performance guaranteed to re-ignite his career in precisely the manner this
story’s Thomson hopes will happen to him. Do I hear Oscar calling?
As is typical of Tinseltown icons
who stage such audacious assaults on The Great White Way, Thomson has chosen to
direct and star in his own adaptation of an obscure short story — “What We Talk
About When We Talk About Love” — by noted 20th century author Raymond Carver. Aside
from the dedicated members of the cast assembled for this production, the
endeavor is viewed by the wider world with amusement at best, outright
hostility at worst.
Regarding the latter, nobody gets
in a better jab than Lindsay Duncan, in a brief appearance as Broadway theater
critic Tabitha Dickinson, a vengefully nasty, self-appointed arbiter of
“quality” who is equal parts real-world New York magazine theater critic John
Simon, and George Sanders’ tart-tongued Addison DeWitt, in 1950’s All About Eve.
Thomson and Dickinson have a
breathtakingly nasty face-off as this story approaches its third act: a
confrontation that bespeaks a deliciously shrewd understanding of Hollywood and
Broadway by Iñárritu and his co-scripters. But this exchange is merely one of
many highlights in a dark-dark-dark comedy laden with both zingers and
perceptive jabs at everything from actor vanity to the self-absorbed senselessness
of a contemporary society that values narcissistic, social media twaddle over events
of real-world consequence, and of delusional cretins who believe they have the
right to become famous right now, thanks to Facebook and Twitter followers,
rather than by virtue of having built a body of work over years and decades.
Mere words cannot express the vibrant,
medium-bending technique and talent on display in this film.
Thomson’s play is a four-hander;
he has taken the key male role opposite the voluptuous Laura (Andrea
Riseborough), also his current girlfriend, and insecure lead actress Lesley
(Naomi Watts), nervous about her own Broadway debut. Down to the final
rehearsals, with opening night only a few days away, a freak stage accident
injures Thomson’s talentless male co-star, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos), badly enough
to take him out of action.
Not an accident, Thomson quietly
insists to best friend and producer Jake (Zach Galifianakis), for our
increasingly jumpy protagonist believes that he possesses telekinetic powers
that grant him the ability to move objects by mere thought. Additionally, when
in the isolation of his dressing room, he also carries on conversations with
the costumed alter ego who made him famous years ago, and now derisively
insists that Thomson should abandon this foolish Broadway venture and accept a
long-standing offer to make Birdman 4.
Believing they’re well rid of
Ralph, Thomson impulsively accepts Lesley’s suggestion to contact her current
lover, Mike Shiner (Edward Norton). On the one hand, Shiner is a much-admired
stage icon guaranteed to sell tickets; on the other hand, he’s an unpredictable
loose cannon who embraces every role with the sort of “method” intensity that
is ripe for Iñárritu’s caustic satire.
Shiner is just as aggressively
self-absorbed as Thomson, albeit in an entirely different way. For all his
failings, Thomson remains a sympathetic character: a guy struggling to hold
himself together long enough to reap at least some reward from a last-ditch
gambit. Shiner, in stark contrast, is a condescending jerk who Knows Best and
never hesitates to make a point, even if it means ruining a ticketed dress
rehearsal.
(Just in passing, is there
anything more ridiculous than charging admission, even at a discount, so that
members of the public can witness a play still in the final throes of assembly?
It strikes me that people who attend such performances are akin to the ghouls
who watch NASCAR in the hopes of witnessing a fatal wreck ... a comparison that
seems equally apt in this theater context.)
And, as if this weren’t enough of
a combustible brew, the angst-y intensity is heightened even further by the
presence of Thomson’s foul-mouthed, fresh-from-rehab daughter, Sam (Emma
Stone), serving as his personal assistant. Laden with her own issues,
alternately furious with and fearful for the father she believes wasn’t around
enough during her formative years, Sam hides behind her own mask of dark eye
shadow, which does little to obscure the unsettling intensity of her stare.
Given the surfeit of identity
issues running riot through this lunatic asylum disguised as a Broadway stage
play, can it be any accident that the theater across the street has mounted a
production of Phantom of the Opera, its signature masked poster frequently
caught by Lubezki’s roving tracking shots?
Keaton’s performance is galvanic,
incandescent and breathtaking. He rarely speaks his dialogue, preferring
instead to hurl lines with a feral snarl that never quite conceals the terror licking
at Thomson’s soul. Keaton always has been known for the lightning-swift speed
at which his expressions can change, and Iñárritu makes the most of that gift.
Norton also is raw, frequently
uncontrolled fury ... except when Shiner is being “instructive” in that
oh-so-blatantly patient manner of a tut-tutting adult correcting an
uncomprehending child. At those moments, Norton is even more hilariously
annoying.
Stone and Norton enjoy several
rooftop confessional scenes that are both sharply observed and uneasily
intimate in a way that feels ... dangerous. Elsewhere, Thomson and Sam share a
father/daughter dust-up that grants Stone a spectacular tirade: one that
emerges with such wrath that the actress herself seems surprised by its
intensity, in the subsequent pin-drop silence ... just as Sam is immediately
chagrined by what her words have done to her father.
More meta. Sheer, impudent
brilliance.
Amy Ryan establishes a
sympathetic presence as Thomson’s warmly supportive ex-wife, Sylvia, who
somehow pops up just when he needs her. The usually manic Galifianakis plays
against type as this saga’s rare “normal” individual: a pragmatist clinging for
life amid a bevy of fruit bats.
Most comedies are lucky to
achieve this script’s rat-a-tat ferocity for a few choice scenes; Iñárritu and
his fellow scribes maintain that intensity for damn near the entire film, with
a dark anger that echoes what Chayefsky did in Network. That’s no small
thing, and Birdman is no small film. It’s a dazzling statement of our times:
a scathing, penetrating indictment of human existence, cloaked in the artifice
of a play within a movie within ... something else.
Nor is it anything like what the
film’s cleverly deceptive trailer suggests, so don’t make dismissive
assumptions based on that preview. You don’t want to miss this one ... even
though, yes, it’s aggressively, unapologetically weird. And uncomfortable.
And memorable.
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