Birdman

Director: Alejandro González Iñárritu
Screenplay: Alejandro González Iñárritu and Nicolás Giacobone and Alexander Dinelaris and Armando Bo
Stars: Michael Keaton (Riggan Thomas), Edward Norton (Mike), Emma Stone (Sam), Zach Galifianakis (Jake), Naomi Watts (Lesley), Jeremy Shamos (Ralph), Andrea Riseborough (Laura), Damian Young (Gabriel), Amy Ryan (Sylvia), Lindsay Duncan (Tabitha)
MPAA Rating: R
Year of Release: 2014
Country: U.S.
Birdman
BirdmanAlejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman is a tour-de-force media satire that is scattered in so many directions that it ends up wearing out its welcome. Iñárritu, best know for his triptych of emotionally combustible everything-is-connected dramas (Amores Perros, 21 Grams, and Babel), is working in the unfamiliar register of dark comedy, and it doesn’t really suit him. As with his dramas, he tends to ratchet the material one notch higher than it probably needs to go, and while some scenes work marvelously, there is a sense of strain throughout the film, which ironically reflects the central narrative about a washed-up Hollywood star trying laboriously to reinvent himself as a serious stage actor and director. I don’t think Iñárritu is trying to reinvent himself or make a meta-commentary about his own work, but he’s clearly attempting to stretch his wheelhouse, a risky endeavor that just barely pays off. He also doesn’t do himself any favors by using opening credits that mimic the late-’60s work of Jean-Luc Godard, thus asking for a comparison that is sure to leave his film on the short end.

In collaboration with cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezski (The Tree of Life), Iñárritu designed Birdman so that, with a few exceptions at the beginning and end, it appears to unfold entirely in a single long take. This aesthetic approach benefits the film enormously at times, as it effectively conveys the hectic nature of on- and behind-the-stage activity, but it is still not enough to corral all of Iñárritu’s narrative, emotional, and tonal detours (it is here that it feels particularly tepid in comparison to Godard’s wild cinematic experiments). It would seem that the single-take approach would enforce a kind of focus and linearity to the materiality, but at times it does exactly the opposite, allowing us to bob and weave in and out of the various intersecting plotlines, some of which cohere, others of which are left dangling and forgotten. The film doesn’t feel exactly sloppy, but there are times when one senses that Iñárritu is so involved with the physical choreography that he lost sight of some of the bigger issues.

The story centers on Riggan Thomas, a Hollywood actor best know for a trilogy of comic book-inspired films about the costumed superhero Birdman. Riggan’s star has fallen since refusing to do a fourth Birdman film back in 1992, and he has turned to the stage to redeem himself, writing, directing, and starring in his own adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” at Broadway’s famed St. James theater. Iñárritu’s decision to cast Michael Keaton, who reached his pinnacle of stardom in the late 1980s and early 1990s starring as the eponymous vigilante in Tim Burton’s two Batman films, is a cheeky meta in-joke that is more interesting on paper than it is on screen. Keaton’s career hasn’t been in freefall since he turned down the third Batman film, but he hasn’t been the center of the Hollywood universe, either, playing primarily supporting roles for the past decade (his last starring role was in 2008 in The Merry Gentleman, which he directed himself). Thankfully, Keaton’s performance is an impressive feat, as he captures the character’s interlocking sense of desperation and egotism, his ambition and his fearfulness. Riggan is a man truly on the edge, having sunk all of his own money into the stage production and being all too aware that, if it flops, he won’t get a second chance. As an artist, he is literally staring death in the face.

And, in the days leading up to the play’s opening night, it seems like everything that can go wrong does go wrong. When his male costar is knocked out by a falling light, Riggan and his lawyer/producer (Zach Galifianakis) must scramble to find a replacement, and he takes advantage of the seemingly serendipitous availability of Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), who is brought to their attention the play’s lead actress, Lesley (Naomi Watts), a fragile soul who is making her Broadway debut. Mike is a famously difficult actor who can turn in bravura performances, but he is also capable of destroying a production with his rampant ego, interpersonal difficulties, and uncompromising sense of artistry—which is the last thing the troubled production needs.

Riggan is also trying to reconnect with his twentysomething daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), who is just out of rehab and is reluctantly working as his personal assistant. Riggan’s girlfriend, Laura (Andrea Riseborough), may be pregnant, and a haughty New York Times theater critic (Lindsay Duncan) is determined to destroy the show without actually seeing it because she detests the idea of a Hollywood celebrity trying to claim artistic relevance by going Broadway. Iñárritu’s decision to use Broadway as a convenient stand-in for true art, as opposed to the slick commercialism of Hollywood movies, is so facile that you have to imagine it’s part of the film’s satire, although never clearly so. The screenplay by Iñárritu, Nicolás Giacobone, Alexander Dinelaris, and Armando Bo crams in as many contemporary references as possible—Twitter! George Clooney! R. Kelly! Facebook! Jeremy Renner!—but it doesn’t so much illuminate the film’s satirical perspective on Hollywood bloat as it simply ensures that the film will soon feel dated.

Birdman’s best moments involve the frenetic intensity of staging a major production, and it is here that Iñárritu’s roving camera has the most impact, snaking through the tiny corridors of the aging theater, following various characters as they cross paths, interact, fight, try and fail to connect, all of which is propelled by jazz drummer Antonio Sanchez’s nerve-rattling percussion score, which sets up the interpersonal conflicts by hammering away at our nerves (I was reminded of the excellent use of a similar kind of score in Neil LaBute’s caustic 1997 directorial debut In the Company of Men). At times the film feels like little more than a series of staged confrontations, with each character having a “big moment” fight with every other character: Sam berating Riggan’s sense of entitlement, Lesley berating Mike’s literal and emotional impotence in real life, Mike berating Riggan’s acting abilities, Riggan berating the theater critic’s lack of real investment in her work, and so on. Each of these scenes is well-acted and convincing, but their cumulative weight doesn’t really add up. Each confrontation is just that—another confrontation—and then we move on. It isn’t insignificant that the film has not one, but two different scenes in which a major character may or may not have committed suicide.

The narrative structure is further muddied by the incursion of what can only be described as “magical realism,” as it is suggested quite literally that Riggan is endowed with telekinetic powers that allow him to levitate and move objects with his mind (the very first time we see him, he is floating in the air several feet off the ground in the lotus position). He is also haunted by the gravelly voice of his cinematic alter ego, who is constantly criticizing and heckling him, driving his ambitions and tormenting his insecurities at the same time. The question of whether Riggan is actually telekinetic or if it is all just happening inside his mind is left tantalizingly vague throughout the film, although the final image offers a fairly clear answer (although that hasn’t stopped the endless online debates). Not so easily clarified are some of the film’s more oddball touches, such as the inexplicable revelation in one scene that what we thought was the extradiegetic score is actually coming from a percussionist with no obvious reason for being in the scene. Take that, Godard!

We don’t actually see the Birdman until late in the film, when Iñárritu indulges in a bit of special-effects-heavy inner fantasy as Riggan imagines his walk down Broadway turning into a massive action extravaganza with explosions, machine-gun-wielding helicopters, and a gigantic robotic bird tearing apart a building. It’s a stunning sequence in its own right, but like so much of the film, it feels almost desperately overblown, which overwhelms the scene’s thematic connection with the film’s underlying satire of art versus entertainment. While this scene is unlike any other in the film, it is also emblematic of why Birdman doesn’t work as a whole: It’s a stunning bit of bravura filmmaking in its own right, but because it fails to fully connect up with everything else, it ends up feeling more shallow than profound.

Copyright ©2014 James Kendrick

Thoughts? E-mail James Kendrick

All images copyright © Fox Searchlight Pictures

Overall Rating: (2.5)




James Kendrick

James Kendrick offers, exclusively on Qnetwork, over 2,500 reviews on a wide range of films. All films have a star rating and you can search in a variety of ways for the type of movie you want. If you're just looking for a good movie, then feel free to browse our library of Movie Reviews.


© 1998 - 2024 Qnetwork.com - All logos and trademarks in this site are the property of their respective owner.