As such, I found Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's concept for Birdman quite intriguing: what would happen (or, he argues, what is happening) when an actor famous for playing a superhero tries to break into the real world of acting? Can he simply drop the cape in favor for a spot in the latest art film? Or will his following demand nothing less than a gagillion sequels to his most famous role?
If that wasn't enough, in the most brilliant bit of meta-casting possibly ever, he hired Michael Keaton to play the titular star. Keaton, who became a household name playing the Dark Knight in 1989's Batman and its 1992 sequel Batman Returns, has never regained his footing after playing arguably the world's most popular superhero. He had Beetlejuice and Mr. Mom before, and he had Jackie Brown shortly after leaving Gotham City for good. But there was nothing really meaty for Keaton to chew on after Batman, nothing to challenge him as an actor.
Ironically, the greatest performance the actor has ever given wouldn't have worked nearly as well without Batman.
Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) is one of the standout movies of 2014, with tremendous acting from its pitch-perfect stars and some of the most gorgeous cinematography ever shot. It looks at the very relevant issues of our cultural obsession with superheroes, and makes us question our own importance in the universe.
It's a striking critique about superhero culture and fandom, but it's more than just that. It would have been very interesting to stop there, and just look at the Golden Age of the Superhero Movie. The film takes the argument one step further, however, by also assessing the state of prestige work, and at the stuffiness around what we called "art". The film did extraordinarily well in not only Los Angeles, but in New York City as well, where the film takes place. It makes fun of Broadway actors and critics, and their irrational fear of Hollywood invading their turf. It's a satire of both the movies and the stage, and you need to understand this in order to get the full grasp of the film.
Michael Keaton plays Riggan Thompson, an actor most famous for playing a superhero and now trying to make a comeback by directing, writing, and starring in a Broadway play. He's haunted by the voice of Birdman, who both encourages and degrades him, and has to deal with a neurotic producer (Zach Galifinakis), his psycho mistress (Andrea Riseborough), and the self-conscious actress Lesley Shiner (Naomi Watts). Lesley's husband, the critically acclaimed stage actor Mike Shiner, (Edward Norton), also joins the cast, but proves to be an egotistical nightmare who's high-brow thinking causes tension with the other cast and crew. And, on top of all that, Riggan's family life is in shambles: his ex-wife (Amy Ryan) keeps trying to enter the picture, and his daughter Sam (Emma Stone) is fresh out of rehab and forced to work with him on the production, much to her disdain.
Riggan begins to have a psychotic break after his play earns poor initial reception and the actors cannot seem to get along. Meanwhile, Mike and Lesley are having marital problems, and as a result Mike grows fond of the spunky Sam. Riggan tries to hold his life together, but everything with the play seems to be going horribly, making him question the point of what he's trying prove.
The acting ensemble is absolutely phenomenal, led by Keaton's sure-fire-Oscar-winning performance. He's angry, depressed, hilarious, optimistic, and unsure all at the same time, and the result is volcanic. Edward Norton is also a lock for an Oscar nod, though I was less fond of his performance than Emma Stone. She brings a vibrancy to the picture, and adds an element of fun amidst the darkness surrounding the protagonist. Stone steals every scene she's in, and her abrasive dialogue and strong personality works incredibly well. The other actors do some great work as well, though its the three former superheroes that have the best parts.
I've heard the film was created to look like one long shot, with the cuts hidden in the editing. I was pretty skeptical about this, until I learned who the director of photography was: Emanuel Lubezki. That's right, the creative genius behind Gravity is back in Birdman, and his work in the Cuaron movie seems like target practice when compared to the elegance of this Inarritu film. Believe it or not, this movie actually looks like one long, continuous shot. I counted only a handful of incidents where the film cuts, and I'm curious to hear how many there actually were. Regardless, this filmmaking is insane when you think about it. How they pulled this off is a minor miracle, and it's only with divine magic that I can attribute such astoundingly gorgeous work.
The film uses the film-length long shot to its advantage, making the story seem claustrophobic and significantly uncomfortable. The sets are tight and narrow, and the dressing room is shot so that it always feels like its getting bigger and bigger. We desperately want the cameraman to cut away, to move far from where we are, but we're stuck in that room until another character opens a door or moves into another area. Kudos to the actors once again for being able to work under such strict conditions as a continuous long shots, having to traverse the immense, tight set and get to their next spot before the camera gets there. In any situation, this is some of the most brilliant filmmaking I've ever encountered, and I'm still wondering how they ever possibly pulled it off.
The editing ensures that we think the film is indeed in one long shot, cutting together clips, visual effects, and scenic transitions to make the final product seamless. It moves at a sort of dream-like time, highlighting the movie's grand imagery and intriguing uses of light. There's an existential dread in the editing, forcing us to keep moving through these characters days with no breaks. That's not to say that the film is boring; rather, it's a fascinating new way of making movies that will hopefully inspire filmmakers to try and replicate the marriage of cinematography and editing featured in Inarritu's film.
Drums seem to be playing a big part in film scores this year, and like Whiplash, the percussion adds a heavy intensity to the narrative. In Birdman, it's erratic, hectic, and seemingly random beats that adds a layer of confusion to Riggan's ever-degrading psyche. There's also hints of orchestra in some of the more emotional scenes, which compliment the action but overall are not as effective as the drum sets.
Like the meteor that you see crashing down in the first frame of the picture, Birdman is an out-of-this-world dramedy with some of the best filmmaking in recent memory. Keaton is awe-inspiring, and it's equal parts fun and horrifying to think that Riggan's life is how Keaton probably feels trying to escape the shadow of the bat.
Sometimes, the unexpected virtue of ignorance is going to see something you expect to be horrible, but end up loving. Other times, it's seeing something you think you'll love, and end up having a revelation about your own passions and place in the universe. Birdman is a film for film lovers, a mind-blogging movie about moviemaking, and cinema in its most original form.
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