Warning: spoilers within.
Birdman. Is this meant to resonate as an echo of Batman? Would it pose a different literary and creative response if it were called The Birdman, not unlike the slight symbolic and intimidatory difference between Batman and the Batman? Is it a coincidence that Michael Keaton is essentially playing Michael Keaton in a role that blurs his professional and personal life? Do these questions even matter?
First, some context: Tim Burton’s Batman was my Star Wars. It opened my eyes to the power of moviemaking. It made me believe in a world completely different than the one I knew. I had Keaton’s Batman on my bedsheets, my wall, even my mugs. Its influence still inspires me today. When Keaton reportedly turned down a $15 million offer to play Batman a third time, I basically understood Batman’s absence from the screen as Keaton’s absence from the public eye. Even occasionally recognizing him in other movies did not change my perception of Michael “The Batman” Keaton.
It is this absurd conclusion drawn between a public figure’s external image and the figure’s personal live that makes Birdman resonate. The film builds its paranoia, its internal anxiety, its metaphysical and metaphorical flourishes from Michael Keaton’s real life. Keaton is a revelation in the role of broke, washed-up, director, actor Riggan Thomson. He taps into a wounded psycho-comical vein that both frightens and delights. He’s a true chameleon, one who can pull off that eerie devilish smirk as easily as moments of quiet respite. The great irony here is that this is the role Keaton was born to play, but only because he first played Batman -- the character, the idea, the symbol -- years earlier. He is the actor who fell through the cracks of the very ground he broke.
Birdman may be the most audacious, intriguing, and meta-philosophical movie of the year. And I mean on Every. Single. Level. It’s audacious in its thematic structure as well as its technical execution. It’s intriguing in its commentary on fame, obsession, and success as well as its critique of criticism, media, and popularity. And it’s meta in a sly, tongue-in-cheek way of nodding to the audience, as if asking, “Hey, get the joke?”
Riggan Thomson is still most well known to the public as the actor who played the superhero Birdman nearly two decades prior. His daughter just got out of rehab and doesn't understand him; his ex-wife doesn’t want anything to do with him. Desperate to rediscover the creative fulfillment and financial success he tasted so many years ago, Riggan dedicates all of himself to staging a Broadway play, perhaps at a price higher than he could’ve ever imagined.
The titular Birdman first manifests only in a gruff voice (that not unlike Batman’s) in Riggan’s head. He is Riggan’s voice of reason -- a voice that critiques as much as it cajoles, lies, and praises. It begs Riggan to go back to their happier days, when they could appeal to the masses, draw a packed house, and reap the rewards. Later on in the movie, the Birdman begins taking on a more corporeal form, further blurring the lines between Riggan and Birdman. This process of assimilation -- or is it invasion? -- offers the film its most insightful and wondrous moments of release. Following an evening of drinking, Riggan wakes to imagine a world in which he is still Birdman, a world of explosions and helicopters and missiles and giant mechanical birds that screech through the skies. In this world, Riggan has influence; he has power. He has telekinesis and he can achieve flight, at one point soaring through the concrete canyons of New York in a bout of impromptu sightseeing. It seems that, for the first time in years, he can not only dream, but soar.
But not all is well in the production of his play. After a fellow actor is felled by a stage light, Riggan must quickly find a replacement. Jeremy Renner is busy with the next Avengers; Michael Fassbender is on X-Men duty. Enter Mike Shiner, a cocky, noble, self-aggrandizing method actor played by Edward Norton. Shiner scoffs at the nature of big-budget movie-making today; he dislikes the pandering of art to the lowest common denominator. The joke here is that Edward Norton, who starred in 2008’s The Incredible Hulk and was subsequently dismissed because his perfectionism irked the wrong people, has experienced his own struggles in the blockbuster arena. The implication here is real actors need to fully commit to the art of acting, going as far as drinking real gin on stage in lieu of water or getting a real gun instead of a plastic one. The illusion of art becomes more real, sure, but at what cost?
Despite its perception of art and fame, Birdman is not entirely a satire. It has genuine moments of illumination. At one point, Riggan confronts Tabitha Dickinson, the New York Times theater critic who could make or break Riggan’s show with her upcoming review. Scribbling notes in her notebook, she casually admits she intends to skewer his play, despite having not yet seen it. She doesn’t respect Riggan, his career, or his fame. Riggan responds by criticizing her work, remarking that her reviews don’t discuss or illuminate the merits of the subject, but instead simply attach labels to categorize “good” and “bad.” Critics, Riggan argues, don’t risk anything in completing each project; actors risk everything.
This exchange reminded me of several commentaries on the modern culture of critique. Since the onset of the internet, which allowed every John and Jane Doe in the world to broadcast their thoughts on absolutely any topic, the professional critics’ playing field seems to have shifted. What differentiates a critic who writes for a paper no one reads from an anonymous internet blogger with thousands of followers? In this new world, does the critic’s job description change? Do they respond to material with undue praise or vitriol in order to win a new audience? Or are they genuinely interested in discussing the merits of a piece of art?
After Riggan apparently kills himself in front of a packed house with a real gun, Dickinson's New York Times review declares the play a success because the artist has spilled his blood, figuratively and literally. It that what constitutes success? Effort and desire? Or did Dickinson praise the play for fear of public backlash at ridiculing a playwright while he’s recovering in the hospital? When does public perception change the narrative? Despite what they may claim, do critics ever compromise critical evaluation and cave to social pressures?
I’d be remiss to talk about Birdman without touching on its deceivingly elegant cinematography (not to mention, I would be guilty of Riggan’s exact complaint about critics). Shot by Emmanuel Lubezki, the director of photography responsible for Alfonso Cuaron’s Gravity, Birdman unfolds in what is apparently one single continuous take. Obviously, multiple shots are stitched together for form this illusion; but its audacity and execution is nothing short of extraordinary. But beyond its technical accomplishment, I found it fitting that Inarritu would choose this style of long-take cinematography. It instantly grants the film a sense of urgency, of uncompromised immediacy. Everything is live; everything that is happening in frame is happening in real time. This is an apt cinematic representation -- or perhaps imitation -- of a theater production. Theater after all, unlike movies, can’t afford to cut or reshoot or redress anything. Any errors in a show live on as errors. Everything is live; everything that is happening on stage is happening in real time. In this instance, it seems that the form directly elevates the content, and vice versa.
At one point, Mike, in all his thespian bravado, points out that “Popularity is the slutty little cousin of prestige.” Understanding where real power lies, everyone tries to push the play via Twitter and Facebook; but Riggan, stuck in his old ways, either doesn’t understand or doesn’t choose to listen. The quality of the craft alone, he believes perhaps naively, will lead to creative and financial reward. As Birdman cannibalizes Riggan’s very existence, we are reminded that the film comes with an alternate title -- The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance. Riggan may not be sane or sound; but perhaps like his superhero alter ego, he has more power than even he imagined.
