BIRDMAN (2014)
A washed-up superhero actor mounts a Broadway revival of his career.
A washed-up superhero actor mounts a Broadway revival of his career.
Before the opening credits commence, before we’ve even been shown a title card, Alejandro G. Iñárritu’s Birdman—stylised as BİRDMAN or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)—opens with an epigraph. It doesn’t immediately pop up on the screen; clumps of letters in an uneven order are gradually displayed in a jerky, jittery rhythm, matching the distinct lack of forcefulness in the sound of drums accompanying this sequence. Both the sonic and visual elements are warming up, brimming with the tension that is soon to be unleashed throughout Birdman, with chaotic drums providing the appropriate musical backdrop for an equally chaotic feature film, all made to look as if it was shot in one take.
Birdman follows former superhero actor Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) in his efforts to stage a Broadway adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Love’. The play’s previews are a disaster, and the behind-the-scenes drama is even more tumultuous. No one’s more eager to flee the scene of mounting drama than Riggan, who frequently seems as if he’s on the verge of exploding with anger or giving up entirely: he regresses to both states on several occasions. Even in the silence of his dressing room, he’s surrounded by distractions, most notably ‘Birdman’ (Benjamin Kanes), the internal voice of his alter ego (and former role) that tells him his current pursuits are absurd, insisting that Riggan should return to his commercially-oriented career path before he’s forgotten about forever.
But while Birdman’s hesitant introduction appropriately sets up this gloriously chaotic mess, it has another function, tying into the quote from this epigraph, which is also taken from Carver:
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the Earth.
This poem of Carver’s, “Late Fragment”, is no ordinary work by the author. Not only is it the last poem from his final book, it is a work of art made by a man who was well aware that his days were numbered as he was writing it. Even though he passed away at just 50 years old, Carver was immensely grateful for his time on Earth. He touches on this in the poem ‘Gravy’, where he happily reflects that he had expected to die much younger due to his chronic alcoholism and that every moment that these 10 extra years of life had afforded him was ‘gravy’.
But in these poems, Carver was pointing to a very different feeling than what Riggan seeks out, even if they can be lumped into the same umbrella terms. For Carver, being beloved meant feeling warmth from the important people in his life, while for Riggan this concept most often relates to his celebrity. Being loved by his family, girlfriend and other people close to him is appreciated, but it is not nearly as addictive and rewarding as fame. After all, millions of people have wives and husbands and sons and daughters, but how many can say they are a household name? The exclusivity of this small, informal club that Riggan is a part of has wormed its way into his identity, gradually overshadowing all of his other accomplishments.
In his final years, Carver came to appreciate how boundless love could be when it is channelled from the ones you love to you, and vice versa. But Riggan sees love as all-powerful in terms of how many people recognise and adore him from afar, even if his status as a celebrity ensures he’s little more than an abstraction in their eyes. As a result, he becomes something of an abstraction to himself as well. On previous watches, I refused to believe that Birdman, and his incessant chirping (pardon the pun), represented Riggan’s true self. But for as much as the film’s protagonist denies his alter ego’s statements, there is a grain of truth to them too vital to Riggan’s identity to dismiss as mere pessimism.
The first few times I watched Birdman, I was less focused on its tragic elements, instead viewing the overall experience through the lens of comedy. Luckily, the film’s humour has not lost any of its charm in the years since its release, with the constant camera movements and spirit of buoyancy underpinning the behind-the-scenes sequences creating a snappy comic timing, which all of Birdman’s talented actors are seamlessly in sync with. Zach Galifianakis was the clear stand-out comedically amongst this talented cast, where he’s doing his level best not to drown under his responsibilities as Jake, Riggan’s best friend, lawyer, and the play’s producer. Galifianakis had already proved himself by this point as a talented comedic actor, but this was a rare instance where he was able to channel his natural ability to be funny into a fleshed-out character.
Jake’s hand gestures and brisk strides are a delight to watch, with an air of theatricality and forced momentum to them that act as a shield to keep him from breaking down. Part of what makes him such an important addition to the roster isn’t just that he’s the voice of reason, but also that his role as the exasperated, business-oriented professional trying to rein in an erratic and self-important creative fits a satisfyingly conventional comedic mould. There’s so much vibrancy in these characters’ struggles and tousles with one another that neither Jake nor any of the other characters feel cliché. But by the same token, it is just as clever a choice that the film doesn’t let Riggan’s obsession with perfectly executing a naturalistic play turn these characters into naturalist creations. The sharp dialogue and even sharper insults uttered by this roster are far too entertaining to be bogged down by realism.
Speaking of which, one of the central conflicts of the production occurs when one of its key actors, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos), is knocked out by a falling light fixture on set. As Riggan secretly wished for this to happen moments before it did, he’s led to think that he caused it. This ties into Riggan’s belief that he’s supernatural, conveyed through shots of the character successfully executing the powers of levitation and telekinesis. Aside from being a humorous nod to Riggan’s former career choices as Birdman, as well as an explanation for his alter ego constantly nagging at him to switch back to a career path that suits him better, this is also a darkly funny representation of the protagonist’s absurdly high self-perception.
Not being a beloved celebrity who experiences constant waves of adoration is for Riggan a confirmation that he’s a mere mortal, which is perhaps more devastating for the character than any personal tragedy that could befall him or someone he loves. But it is not just that Riggan is callous towards the people that love him: if anything, he’s even more of an asshole to himself. In an anecdote to his ex-wife Sylvia (Amy Ryan), he recounts a time he was on an aeroplane that underwent a concerning amount of turbulence. As the other passengers became more anxious that their lives could be snuffed out at any moment, Riggan was more focused on the aftermath of his demise.
He wasn’t thinking about whether there was a heaven, or a hell, or a total lack of consciousness that the human mind can’t ever truly comprehend. The actor certainly wasn’t picturing Sylvia, his daughter Sam (Emma Stone), or his other loved ones. No, he was instead concerned with what the following day’s headlines would look like when they reflected on the crash. See, George Clooney was also on that flight, and everyone knows that newspaper headlines value brevity. Riggan’s only concern was that he wouldn’t get top billing in the public announcements about his death. He’s not just asking himself if life’s worthwhile and if should he stop being beloved as a celebrity, he’s also questioning whether death is even worth the trouble. It opens up interesting questions about legacy, given that Riggan can’t experience any catharsis from being beloved posthumously.
His line of thinking focuses on the very worst kind of legacy, largely because it’s functionally useless. It means nothing — for obvious reasons — to the deceased party, but it’s also no comfort whatsoever to the actor’s loved ones. Interestingly, it’s Sam who is talked about in terms of being a danger to herself given her substance abuse issues, though Riggan’s addictions are far more consuming. At least rehab, therapeutic processes, an easygoing job as her father’s assistant, and a burgeoning romance with actor Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) suggest positive developments for Sam.
Riggan has a girlfriend who longs to have children with him, a fanbase so enamoured with his existence that many of them would be willing to fork over their hard-earned cash to go out and see him perform, and a daughter who, for all her faults, he has ample reason to be proud of. But it’s not enough. Although this disease of fame isn’t incurable, it is a more pervasive force in Riggan’s life than booze or other illicit substances could ever be, as almost everywhere he goes he’s reminded of the cost (and glory) of celebrity. With an addiction to fame, there’s nothing tangible to stop using or consuming. It’s purely a mindset problem, which in some regards makes it easier to ignore, but also means it can still haunt the afflicted person whether they continue to be famous or not. The only off switch is a permanent change in perspective.
Riggan attempts this throughout Birdman, but it’s no wonder the actor is largely unsuccessful. While his alter ego wants Riggan to abandon his family and do more mainstream work, this protagonist is already quite neglectful of his loved ones’ needs, and his attempts to better himself artistically still stem from his ego. Besides, just look at the people in his life and how they confirm the importance of his (fading) status. Jake is Riggan’s friend, and beneath their business ventures he cares about the actor, but he wouldn’t be in Riggan’s life if this protagonist wasn’t famous. Non-famous people don’t usually have lawyers—if they do have someone they consistently go to for legal counsel, it doesn’t normally involve such a close relationship that a meaningful lifelong partnership is forged from it.
Even though Sylvia was the victim of Riggan’s self-centredness, delusions, and abusive behaviour, she ultimately pities him, because she can at least learn to move on from these incidents. Riggan, who by all accounts was the inconsiderate party in their relationship, continues to suffer from the parts of himself that have hurt and alienated those around him. He’s the permanent victim of his all-consuming ego.
He’s not the only one beleaguered by self-importance. Mike, Ralph’s replacement when the latter was unfit to continue working after the light fixture incident, is so up his own ass that he can’t even finish a preview performance without completely sabotaging the affair. On the one hand, Mike wants to tamper with the written material days before the production’s opening night, even destroying the set to demonstrate how eager he is to unearth more emotional truth in this performance. But he’s so lacking in imagination that he throws a hissy fit over being unable to drink real gin onstage, or the fact he has to react to a fake-looking gun pointed at him in one scene. His argument to Riggan is that the prop’s appearance makes him feel like he isn’t staring at a real gun.
But a real actor would instead have the ability to look at something ridiculous and make it seem as though they are staring into the face of death, which is what the prop is in this world. That’s why, for as much as these actors—Keaton, Norton, Naomi Watts, and Andre Riseborough—do a decent job with their meta performances, they’re never so authentic as when they are portraying their characters’ real selves. To pull off these multi-layered performances so seamlessly demonstrates how much of a dramatic force these four actors are in Birdman.
Just like Riggan, Mike is someone who can’t help getting in everyone’s way (which is quite amusing given that his obstinance and controlling nature mirror rumours about how similarly nightmarish Norton has been on previous film shoots). Also like Riggan, one gets the sense that Mike is sick and tired of being such a nuisance, but that he feels too locked into who he currently is to change. It’s no wonder that when Sam asks him what he most wants to do with her, his answer isn’t related to sex (which is almost certainly on his mind), but instead how he would like to take out her eyeballs so he can see the world through the eyes of a young person.
These conversations between Mike and Sam are surprisingly heart-warming, with both of these damaged characters making the other person more comfortable with their existence through easygoing conversation. It’s fitting, then, that this rather bleak film, which is really only comedic on its surface, should focus solely on Riggan for the final 30 minutes or so of Birdman. It’s as if the actor’s ego is so pronounced that it overtakes even the film’s plotting, with some phenomenal VFX-infused sequences where he imagines himself as Birdman. These scenes, which are just as visually striking now as they were at the time of release, showcase the enormity of Riggan’s self-indulgence. Tellingly, a sequence that involves him soaring through the air, not unlike the superhero character he depicted long ago, ends with an irate taxi driver chasing after him for not paying his fare.
Much confusion amongst audiences has arisen from Riggan’s supposed powers, but the only clues as to whether they’re real demonstrate that once someone else enters the equation, this protagonist’s ‘superpowers’ are replaced by distinctly human actions. This maps onto how Riggan views himself as all-powerful when he listens to his alter ego, compared to what his ‘power’ looks like in his day-to-day routine as a famous actor. After a pretty embarrassing incident involving him speed-walking through Times Square with only his underwear on, he becomes the subject of a viral video from one of the many passersby filming him. Some strangers felt obligated to his time even in this compromised state, while others took delight in witnessing a celebrity being so uncomfortably unmasked. After showing him this video and remarking on its high view count, Sam tells Riggan that this is power.
She isn’t being rude or condescending; to someone invested in the world of social media and what’s relevant, this is exactly what she thinks of when she envisions power. When it comes to unwelcome fan interactions like this, Riggan is like a prisoner in a cage being prodded by captors who refuse to acknowledge their shared humanity. This would seem like the opposite of power, where simply rejecting an offer of taking a photo with a total stranger can cause ire from the person making the request, the same person who professes to love you. Birdman very articulately unpacks just how casually dehumanising it is to be a celebrity.
The most insidious example of this is found in Tabitha Dickinson’s (Lindsay Duncan) behaviour towards Riggan. An influential theatre critic who has pre-emptively decided to trash the actor’s play regardless of its quality, Tabitha is as close to a final boss as this movie will get. She offers a brutal assessment of Riggan to Mike when the three of them happen to be drinking at the same bar, where she remarks that his past work as a superhero will forever taint him. Such elitism isn’t shocking, even in the film industry that Riggan comes from—just look at the controversy stirred up before the 92nd Academy Awards when anonymous voters surmised that Adam Sandler and Jennifer Lopez wouldn’t receive nominations for their performances due to their ‘brand’ or ‘image’—but it stirs up righteous indignation nonetheless.
For all of the pathetic egos on display in Birdman, it’s Tabitha who stands out from the rest for her supreme self-importance, as she dares to presume that a person should be permanently typecast for actions they committed decades before. It is unclear whether much of the film’s tragedy can be put down to the fact that Riggan often shares these sentiments, or that the general public’s assessment of Riggan has made him part of the absurd spectacle that this critic believes is rotting society and its entertainment, pitting the protagonist in a cycle he can’t escape from.
Both the adoring fans and this dismissive critic treat Riggan as an animal, or worse, an object. But when Tabitha stands just a few feet away from someone she sees as representative of all that she loathes about the arts, she does not confront him. She is the worst of all of these pathetic characters, as she levies her sniping remarks from the sidelines in her reviews. This, along with Riggan’s fans viewing him like he’s an exotic zoo animal who has just broken out of their cage by happening to be near them, means it’s no wonder that the actor takes to drinking alcohol and smoking weed to drown out these stresses. But the real self-medication comes through in seeing himself as the megastar that he’ll always identify with—or long to, at least.
Even those closest to him end up shunning talk of this protagonist’s disturbed mental state, even if they’re only telling him what they expect he wants to hear. When Sylvia enters his dressing room midway through the opening night of his play to commend him on how brilliant his performance is, she ignores Riggan’s comment that he has a voice in his head attempting to ruin him. She also offers no words of support after his admission that he attempted suicide when they were married. Even if his ego keeps him wrapped up in a self-important swirl of confusion, Riggan seems oddly calm and self-aware here. Yet all he receives in return is more praise for his work.
It’s no wonder that Riggan, unable to take this charade any longer, hallucinates watching a stranger delivering a forceful, agonised rendition of Shakespeare’s ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ soliloquy from Macbeth. Recognising that he is who he is and cannot be changed, he takes to the stage and takes over it, in a moment that will have viewers’ hearts in their throats, not unlike the stunning ending to John Cassavetes’ Opening Night (1977). The setups are similar for these climactic scenes in both films, along with their tension and the feeling that because the drama is played before a live audience, it is somehow more alive than if the question it hinged on were to take place anywhere else. It is here that we’ve been fully taken in by Riggan’s outlook: this play really is everything.
Harkening back to his aeroplane anecdote, Riggan seizes this opportunity. Unlike how he imagined his death in that previous incident, this time he can savour the moment, as a glorious sequence plays that shows street entertainers performing on the stage. High art turns into low art, and vice versa, until the distinctions are so blurred that they become non-existent. There is also a shot of a meteoric star, burning with such intensity that one feels as if its spark will never go out, even if the dull grey clouds around it try to drown out its fiery essence.
This visual is present just before the film’s opening scene, and in both cases the meteor is descending rather than soaring into the stratosphere. That is because Riggan is not going to a higher place in these moments—that has already occurred—but is gradually returning to Earth, the superhero turning into a mortal man once again. And just like in Birdman’s opening, an ethereal, haunting shot of jellyfish lying on the shore is displayed. Anyone who has seen the film will understand what that cue means, and what Riggan must have been deliberating in the beginning of Birdman for it to be on his mind.
After his accident (which I can’t describe more accurately to avoid spoilers), Jake raves about what a success Riggan is, Sylvia doesn’t adequately explore the actor’s concerning statements the night before, and Sam, likely to numb herself from this harrowing event, spends more time talking about social media than how her father is holding up. Even Birdman is silent in his brief appearance. Nothing more needs to be said, after all.
The question to ask about the film’s ambiguous ending, which only involves Riggan and Sam, is this: if you were the child of an emotionally neglectful and self-absorbed father, would you prefer a grand gesture from them, almost euphoric in its presentation, or a series of small but considered steps toward improvement? And then reflect on what is shown, and ask yourself a simpler question: after everything that can be explained literally plays out, whose wish fulfilment is this?
Moments after an enduring, memorable image showing a character’s expression, the closing credits play out. The drums pick up with the same hesitancy that they started the film with and ambient sounds of people on what must be the New York City streets can be heard for minutes on end. One might be fooled into thinking that this means that the cycle starts over, but there never was a cycle to begin with. Life simply is, as Birdman’s meticulously calculated and incredibly satisfying attempt to convey a film shot in one take shows us. And so life must go on as normal, with no great awe or terror: there is something gently cruel about this sentiment.
But for those who are not as fixed in their mindsets as Riggan, this should also inspire hope. Important lessons can be gleaned from this protagonist’s mistakes, as he only looks towards the negative aspects of his past despite longing to regain the public image he once had. His ruminations on the future are predicated on inane meditations regarding legacy, which can’t bring him happiness since he wouldn’t be alive to appreciate these moments.
Without wanting to sound like an unremarkable self-help guru, it’s the present where hope persists, which Riggan is unable to recognise because that is the only place that isn’t built around a narrative; it simply is. While many of the film’s life lessons can be understood through how Birdman’s protagonist fails to see this, there is one moment where Riggan fights for what he believes in that stops me in my tracks whenever I watch this film. It occurs when he finally confronts Tabitha, and his outburst is so heartfelt that even this loathsome demon in human form isn’t able to sap Riggan’s passion.
I believe this moment, which from my first viewing of Birdman until now has been the immediate scene I think of when I reflect on the power of this film, ties into a cue card in Riggan’s dressing room, which reads:
A thing is a thing, not what is said of that thing.
So when Riggan proclaims to Tabitha that he’s a fucking actor and that this play cost him everything, it is such a moving and earnest repudiation of her condescending attitude that he transcends all of the negative assessments he has heard about him, along with all of the defeatist narratives he has been cocooned in for decades. No one can truly identify with celebrity, not in any earnest way; who’s ever proclaimed that their identity rests on not having any privacy as someone films them from across a restaurant, or stops them in the middle of the street to snap a picture together? But people do believe that they were born to act. And in the face of despair, to a woman who will show him no mercy and sees only the ugly spectacle of celebrity before her, he demonstrates that he cares about this craft more than she will ever understand.
Birdman couldn’t exist without its meticulous camerawork, which operates as the film’s other, nonspeaking main character. Iñárritu, who had already proved his directing chops with his ‘Death Trilogy’ (Amores Perros, 21 Grams, Babel) and Biutiful, four harrowing films that spare no victims in their brutal exploration of human behaviour, ascended to career-best heights with this film. There are obvious points where one can imagine the cuts between scenes, but they’re stitched together so fluidly that this doesn’t take away from the experience.
Riggan is in a constant state of freefall, where he’s helplessly fleeing from the series of minor car crashes that comprise his life. His relationships with all those closest to him are messy at best, and his enormous highs and crushing lows are like a constantly shifting tide that threatens to engulf him; even when the waters are calm he has to make an effort to keep himself from drowning. None of this could have been achieved without the fluid camerawork capturing his high and low points, which ensures that no stone is left unturned as we follow this protagonist down his tortured look at who he really is, beneath the subterfuge of celebrity and status.
Birdman is littered with excellent performances, with Stone perfectly encapsulating the listless agony of knowing that she is a nuisance to all those around her, but recognising that there is no other place in the world where she could be a better fit at this moment in her life. Though it’s fascinating to watch Sam’s outburst to her father about the impermanence and meaninglessness of his artistic endeavours, this is a role where the character’s muted emotions are far more interesting than the pronounced ones (just watch the notes of regret and remorse seep through her tough exterior directly afterwards). It’s also worth noting that anyone who has encountered a Sam in their life will easily recognise just how fantastic this portrayal is.
All of the other actors are excellent, but it’s Keaton who’s this film’s beating heart. This is a once-in-a-lifetime performance, the kind of role that, when executed successfully, feels tailor-made for an Oscar nomination or win. (Thankfully, Birdman has far too much artistic merit to be written off as Oscar bait.) While the film deservedly won for ‘Best Picture’, ‘Best Original Screenplay’, ‘Best Director’ and ‘Best Cinematography’ at the 87th Academy Awards, Keaton lost out for ‘Best Actor’ to Eddie Redmayne in the latter’s portrayal of Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything (2014).
Though Redmayne offers a committed performance, beyond the attention to detail required to imitate a real person, the role is trapped in a rather conventional romance story which fails to resonate half as deeply as Iñárritu’s outing. This is even more disappointing to consider given that this golden, seemingly in-the-bag opportunity for Keaton is to date the only time the actor has been nominated for an Oscar. But it’s clear that his performance, and Birdman as a whole, will be remembered with more fondness—and for far longer —than Redmayne’s Oscar-winning portrayal and the romantic biopic it’s couched in.
That said, in writing about the unfairness of an awards decision that is almost 10 years old, singing the praises of an actor who will never read these words, and concluding that their work will be more well-regarded with time, perhaps I am falling into the farce of legacy regarding art and celebrity that Birdman so brilliantly rips apart. I can’t entirely say. I just know that this movie deserves to be remembered.
USA | 2009 | 119 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH
director: Alejandro G. Iñárritu
writers: Alejandro G. Iñárritu, Nicolás Giacobone, Alexander Dinelaris Jr. & Armando Bó
starring: Michael Keaton, Emma Stone, Zach Galifianakis, Edward Norton, Amy Ryan, Andrea Riseborough, Naomi Watts & Lindsay Duncan.