A fine line separates
ambition from hubris, passion projects from vanity projects. Though money and
the personalities involved play a role, mostly, the difference lies in an
individual’s subjective perception of quality: if you like a particular work of
art, then it’s a testament to the maker’s willingness to take risks and refusal
to compromise their creative vision, but if you don’t, it’s a self-indulgent,
bloated, even laughable mess. Alejandro González
Iñárritu’s Birdman suggests that there is, in fact,
no line at all, that the very desire to create art, whether it’s a multimillion
dollar blockbuster or an intensely personal, stripped-down play, is evidence of
humanity’s overinflated sense of self-importance. After all, only someone who
thinks very highly of themselves could be so delusional as to believe their
opinions, ideas and experiences are so singular and vital that they need to be
shared with the entire world. If the totality of human existence can be
confined to the temporal equivalent of a single square of a toilet paper roll, not
even the greatest, most innovative piece of art really matters, not in the
grand scheme of things. Artistry stems from both egotism and insecurity, the
confidence that you’re almighty and invincible and the fear – or is it the
knowledge? – that you’re not. Birdman
puts these conflicting impulses on display in a romp that’s by turns admirable
and aggravating, energizing and meandering, extravagant and slight.
Like a self-deprecating actor who’s
really looking for constant, external validation, Birdman simultaneously invites and inoculates itself from
criticism. In one scene, our “hero” Riggin Thomson, played with “get off my
lawn” gruffness by Michael Keaton, approaches a New York Times theater critic, whose review will determine the
success of his play adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story “What We Talk
About When We Talk About Love”, and unleashes a stream of vitriol at her,
accusing her and her entire profession of lazy cowardice. He argues that reviews
are nothing but strung-together labels for people’s opinions that ignore
structure and technique, the two elements that are notably Birdman’s strong suit. In presumably unintentional defiance of
Riggin’s lamentation, much has been made of Iñárritu’s
and cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s attempt to make the film appear as
though it had been shot in a single long take, a feat that is either an astounding
display of technical mastery or mere showboating, depending on who you ask.
Though the camerawork undeniably draws attention to itself, especially early
on, this approach largely works because it meshes so well with the overall tone
established by the movie. It evokes an impartial observer wandering through the
St. James Theater’s narrow corridors and cluttered dressing rooms, catching
snatches of conversations and backstage drama. Backed by Antonio Sánchez’s off-kilter,
discordant, drum-heavy score, the Steadicam transforms the film into a fever
dream with the feel of a jazz routine, propelled by hectic, improvisational
riffs and detours.
This fluid but detached approach
gives the satirical aspects of the movie just the right amount of bite, making
it seem incisive without coming across too mean-spirited or contemptuous.
Though Birdman is hardly the first
film to bemoan Hollywood as cynically profit-driven and devoid of true
artistry, the anxieties it expresses over the current state of the industry
especially hit home at a time when mainstream studios have become increasingly
reliant on established
trends and brands at the expense of riskier, more original ideas. When Riggin
needs to replace one of the main cast members for his play at the last minute,
his best friend and lawyer Jake (a wonderfully straight-faced Zach
Galifianakis) nixes each of his suggestions on the basis that they’re all
committed to superhero franchises, a bemusing scene that fittingly climaxes
with a Jeremy Renner name check. Most of the film’s commentary is like this,
simultaneously tongue-in-cheek and sincere, and it feels so strikingly relevant
that I can’t help but wonder whether it’ll hold up in the long run, once the
specific cultural references are no longer so of-the-moment.
Still, if the entire film had been nothing but two hours of a washed-up
actor wondering where the good ol’ days had gone, the satire likely would have
gotten tiresome quickly, regardless of the accuracy of its observations. What
stops it from devolving into generational nostalgia is that, as skeptical as
the movie is of a cinematic landscape dominated by mega-budgeted blockbusters,
it also deconstructs the valorization of stripped-down, “realistic” dramas,
which inevitably involve a lot of white people yelling and monologuing at each
other, as Real Art. Birdman suggests
that those who eschew fame and instead spout platitudes about wanting to “bare
their soul” and “wrestle with complex human emotions” are no less self-absorbed
than the movie stars they scorn. Edward Norton’s Mike Shiner is the epitome of
this kind of self-aggrandizing thespian as well as a clever exaggeration of the
Method actor’s real-life reputation for being obstinate
and difficult to work with. Continuing a recent string of lighter, less
intense roles, Norton gives one of his best performances in a while as he
excellently balances droll disillusionment with the cockiness of someone
genuinely convinced he’s doing the most important thing in the world, even if
that’s pretending to be other people for a living. Meanwhile, Emma Stone as
Riggin’s daughter Sam nearly steals the entire show with a scathing knockout of
a rant that tears down a decade’s worth of self-righteous pundits handwringing
over changing technology and millennial values.
As a character study, however, Birdman
doesn’t work nearly as well, in part because its central figure seems so
familiar. From Singing in the Rain
and Sunset Boulevard to Darren
Aronofsky’s companion pieces The Wrestler
and Black Swan, performers struggling
to maintain their success or revitalize their dying careers have long graced
the silver screen, and the character of Riggin fails to bring anything new to
the trope. His narrative bears strong resemblances to Nina Sayers’s, down to
the clashing duel personalities, mirror motifs and self-destructive bent, but
this movie lacks the poise and ruthless, visceral psychological intimacy that
made Black Swan such a memorable
experience. Ultimately, Riggin and many of the supporting characters, with the
main exceptions of Mike and Sam (despite a certain misguided development in
their relationship), feel more like archetypes or stand-ins/mouthpieces for
ideas than fully developed human beings. Amy Ryan’s Sylvia in particular gets
the short end of the stick, coming off as so perfunctory and flat that I
initially thought she was a figment of Riggin’s imagination.
Part of me wishes that the entire movie had stayed confined to the
theater, because there, it came most to life, the byzantine and claustrophobic
space forcing the characters to collide the way that the limits of a stage can invigorate
actors. The more the story expands beyond the St. James Theater, the more its
emphasis shifts from broader cultural critique to Riggin as an individual, and
as a result, the less interesting and exciting it is. The third act offers two
possible endings, one of them fitting but predictable while the other is
weirdly pat and conservative for a movie that had previously been proudly
elliptical. It’s this second one, the epilogue, where Birdman really flounders. By reducing Riggin’s and Sam’s problems
to a matter of his abilities as a father (Sylvia’s mothering skills go
unremarked upon), the film undercuts its earlier wild brazenness and proves
unable to find a meaningful conclusion for its exploration of the entertainment
industry. Just as the New York Times
critic simply walks away after Riggin’s aforementioned rant, seemingly
unaffected by his impassioned, if overly indignant accusations, Birdman begins as an urgent, inspired howl
and ends with a noncommittal shrug.
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