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| (Fox Searchlight) |
Birdman
opens – after an abstract introduction of what looks like a flare being shot
into the sky – with Riggan Thompson (Michael Keaton) meditating, shirtless and
in white boxers that are a tad too tight, in midair. Inarritu makes a
lot clear with this introduction – this is not a film committed to realism,
it’s not going to be taking itself very seriously, and Michael Keaton is leading
a movie for the first time in, well, quite a while.
Riggan is a faded movie star whose claim to fame is
the popular superhero film series Birdman;
he’s working both to resuscitate and re-invent his image by starring in,
directing and writing a new play on Broadway (the play is, humorously, an
adaptation of Raymond Carver’s What We
Talk About When We Talk About Love). Birdman
mixes Riggan’s struggle to maintain control of the play with his personal
feelings of failure, emotionally contentious on-stage talent (played by Naomi
Watts, Andrea Riseborough and, most notably, Edward Norton) and fragmented
familial relationships (Emma Stone stars as his daughter Sam, just out of
rehab, while Amy Ryan plays his ex-wife Sylvia).
All of this would sound sort-of-interesting,
sort-of-pedestrian if I left out this fairly major caveat: Inarritu
and cinematographer Emmanuelle Lubezki (fresh off an Oscar win for the equally
innovative Gravity) have fashioned Birdman to look as if the entire movie
unfolded in one continuous take, with breaks in shooting only remotely obvious
when characters would move through the dark or burst through doors.
And to watch that – to watch the camera move,
characters flow in and out of focus and of frame, great actors working without
a cut for minutes at a time – is absolutely thrilling. One could fairly call it
a gimmick, but it doesn’t really matter: it feels like something new and bold
in cinema, and it’s both exciting and curiously nerve-inducing. It also adds a
surprising level of realism: to see Zach Galifianakis, who gloriously plays against-type
as a stiff producer, fumble through an epic rant feels less like an actor off
his game than genuine, imperfect speech from an appropriately-awkward
character.
Birdman,
narratively, wants to do a lot of things. It fancies itself as a satire of both
the blatant elitism of American theatre and the populist nature of American
moviemaking. It swivels between embracing broad archetypes – the actress
finally getting her Broadway break (Watts), the compassionless and
self-satisfied critic (Lindsay Duncan, sorely underutilized) – and incisively
tackling parent-child complications, artistic self-doubt and the curious ways
in which romantic connection can manifest itself. Most clearly, Birdman is unapologetically all over the
place tonally – its comedic stylings can be screwball, broadly satirical or
cringe-inducing, and it can turn heavily dramatic or fantastical for decent
lengths of time. The greatest criticism of Inarritu’s past few films
has been his unwavering commitment to dread, to drama. It’s refreshing
to see the director loosen up in that respect; yet even on a broader scale, Birdman stands out for its confidence in
changing up the formula every few minutes or so.
The film is also exceptionally well-acted. Keaton is
a force in this leading role, going to very different places while always
retaining a razor-sharp comic edge. Stone and Norton have the most substantial
roles of the supporting cast, and they hit their marks – Norton, especially, is
wonderfully madcap and physically goes all-out. But really standing out are top
actors that took on smaller parts. Watts does her best work in a while by
delicately expressing a naivety and an emotional vulnerability in her
long-struggling actress, while Ryan is called on to ground the film and provide
it with some warmth and humanity; with a terrific scene near the movie’s end in
particular, she is more than up to the task.
Yet for all of the film’s admirable elements, Birdman operates at such a distance
that, too often, it’s hard to connect with it. Inarritu and Lubezki
keep you in awe as the camera flows flawlessly from room to room and floor to
floor; consequentially, the director projects a lack of investment in, say,
Riggan’s troubled dynamic with his daughter or Ms. Stone’s eventual flirtation
with Mr. Norton. These scenes, and others slightly away from the main action,
don’t really land – able and game as their performers are – because where Birdman is intending to evoke feeling,
archetypes or characters on the periphery are suddenly thrust into the film’s
core emotional moments. This is not always the case – as previously mentioned,
both Watts and Ryan ably take the film to deep, honest places – but too often,
these moments feel stifled.
This becomes a greater problem as Birdman rolls on. Stone, for instance,
is solid in this part, and she wields a wicked monologue at her father about
living and existing as an artist, as a person hoping to matter. But she’s not
given that much to work with in terms of character, and as a result the
performance ends up a tad one-note. She plays abrasive, snappy and irritated
very effectively, and she gets that obligatory moment of softening up just
enough, but that’s really it. She lacks interiority. She doesn’t occupy enough
of a space thematically, or in relation to our protagonist, or even
comedically; only in plot. A similar problem weighs down Norton: in the film’s
first act, he’s tremendous as a too-committed, unstable actor new to the production.
Eventually, though, he’s saddled in a brief romantic entanglement with Stone,
and by the film’s final third he’s all but disappeared.
These criticisms do not mean to diminish the
achievement or frequent work of excellence that Birdman is. But they do speak to what hinders it from being truly,
unequivocally great. Inarritu frequently opts for admiration and awe,
rather than creating something evocative and human. It’s frustrating, because
as he demonstrated even in the very-flawed Biutiful,
this is a director that knows how to make you connect with his subjects and
with his work. In Birdman, he
operates spectacularly when he allows himself to be odd, like a spectacular
Keaton/Norton wrestling match (again, in one continuous take), or to be human, as
when two great actors in Keaton and Ryan are called on to convey history and
compassion and understanding. But just as often, Birdman feels calculated, both in its comedy and its drama. This
movie name-drops way too much – Ryan Gosling, Michael Fassbender, Robert Downey
Jr., Martin Scorsese, and on – and when it does, it feels more obnoxious than
amusingly satirical. Sometimes, Inarritu goes far too broad –
comedically, with the “every great actor is busy starring in a superhero movie”
trope, and dramatically, with the critic that vows to destroy a play she hasn’t
even seen. And though a final act twist initially shocks, it eventually
illuminates a hollowness that permeates through the film in its entirety.
Real as these qualms may be, Birdman is mostly an absolute pleasure, a few steps away from the
greatness it aspires to. Lubezki’s cinematography is as breathtaking as
advertised; best of all, it allows us to watch great actors uninterrupted, as
they twitch and fumble and just totally commit to this material. Its eclectic
score joyfully, sometimes maddeningly, plays like an infinite drumroll,
interrupted by bursts of fittingly operatic sequences. And when on point, its
script is savagely funny and uniquely thoughtful.
It’s important to point out Birdman’s flaws to demonstrate that it doesn’t quite get there. But
it never ceases to amaze through its craft and virtuosity. Even as Inarritu mercilessly mocks those films that serve to merely
“entertain,” it’s ultimately what Birdman
does best, perhaps better than anything else this year.
Grade: B+