Flying high

Director Alejandro Iñárritu finally lightens up, and ‘Birdman’ soars

Alejandro González Iñárritu made a movie that didn’t cause me to walk out of the theater when the credits popped up, sit in the car and stare hopelessly at my steering wheel for a solid 10 minutes, pondering the futility of the human condition, wondering if its transient joys were truly worth the pain of being alive. It’s as if Lars Von Treir decided to make slapstick comedy with zero sexual hangups or uncontrollable forces crushing his protagonist(s) into dust.

Iñárritu, a multi-lingual, multi-cultural master, can be held up alongside greats such as Lars von Trier and Darren Aronofsky—not only for pushing cinema to new heights of often dizzying emotional and technical complexity, but also for making peerless films that, in some cases, you’ll likely never want to see again. (Or, at the very least, film’s you have to recover from.) “Amores Perros,” “Babel,” “21 Grams” and “Biutiful” are many things (including award-winning), but mirthful—and easily digestible—they aren’t. They’re date movies for the clinically depressed. (And I mean that in the best way possible.) 

But this time, I left Iñárritu’s latest, “Birdman,” ecstatic—charged with the pure energy that leapt off the screen from practically the first frame, feeling a narcotic rush from the best film I’ve seen all year. 

Michael Keaton is Riggan Thompson, a former A-list movie star famous for a successful superhero franchise called Birdman (sound familiar?). He left it all behind in the early ’90s, opting for art instead of commerce, and he’s now fixated on doing something meaningful—to the point of delusion.  

To that end, Thompson is writing, producing, directing and starring in a Broadway adaptation of a Raymond Carver short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” When we meet him, he’s sitting in his underwear in lotus fashion, levitating two feet off the floor, moving objects telekinetically and hearing the voice of Birdman (his voice), skewering his artistic ambitions—while enticing him to return to the glory of Hollywood.

Preview performances are under way, the money and schedule are tight, things aren’t working out so well, and the pressures of staging the production are immense. While he has a fine lead actress in Lesley (Naomi Watts), Thompson is saddled with a terrible lead actor, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos). Sensibly enough, he rigs a stage light to fall on Ralph, though without thinking through his replacement.

That replacement serendipitously arrives in the form of Lesley’s boyfriend, Mike (Ed Norton), a famous and driven actor with a reputation for being hard to work with (sound familiar?), who quickly turns out to be hard to work with. Mike blows up a preview and trashes the stage when he discovers his glass doesn’t contain real gin. During a scene under the sheets with Lesley, his sudden erection inspires him to try and go full-on method for the sex, in front of a packed audience. The stage is the only place Mike actually has emotions.

Unfortunately, Mike comes with a hefty price tag, so Thompson—facing not only the crushing weight of the play but the possibility that his costume assistant/girlfriend, Laura (Andrea Riseborough) might be pregnant with their child—is forced to, once again, disappoint his recovering addict daughter, Sam (Emma Stone) by refinancing her house to ensure his dream comes true.

As the previews commence Thompson becomes obsessed with Mike stealing his thunder (and daughter), his own self-doubt, and the opinion of the Times theater critic, Tabitha (Lindsay Duncan), whose opening night review can either nurture or destroy Thompson’s idealistically narcissistic vision.

Iñárritu (who co-writes, produces, and directs) has made something wholly distinct, and not just from his past works. Sure, it’s not the only satire about the behind-the-scenes sausage-making involved in getting a theatrical production off the ground. Nor is it the only commentary on the skewed relationship between the artist and the critic. And it’s certainly not the only meta-fantasy of an adequate man beset by delusions of grandeur, either. 

But, with its kinetic, graceful, and atmospheric visual prowess, bristling performances, whimsical Icarus themes, and brilliantly timed sense of meta-humor (Christ, that Norton/Keaton fight is not only hilarious—it’s also Batman fighting the goddamn Hulk), “Birdman” is an utterly unique, breathlessly-paced, visually-arresting wonder.

Iñárritu, with his miraculous cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki (Academy Award winner for “Gravity”) craft the illusion that the entire film takes place in one dream-like take. Effortlessly gliding around scenes, falling into the flow of the action, or lingering on the faces of its actors, writ large through means so truthful that they almost redefine the medium, the look of “Birdman” is nothing short of astonishing.

But all that effort, from the stunning execution to the vivid writing and percussive score (with Antonio Sanchez’s scintillating debut as composer) would be for naught without the performances from Iñárritu’s uniformly incredible cast.

Keaton shouldn’t be a revelation at this point, but he is—and this might be the role of his career. As Riggan Thompson, he sears the screen, perfectly balancing that slightly unhinged intensity with the quiet desperation in his character, along with his trademark comedic timing. Keaton’s as cool as Bill Murray, but no one seems to remember that anymore. I can’t think of higher praise.

Norton is equally on fire, and the electricity between him and Keaton could power a small city. Mike is even more narcissistic and borderline-insane than Riggan, and Norton lands comedic body blows like a prizefighter, while striking a completely believable caricature of himself that revels in his volatility and his immense insecurities.

Naomi Watts is vibrant as Lesley, easily holding her own in the comic timing department alongside Galifianakis, Keaton and Norton, and Zach Galifianakis, who plays Thompson’s lawyer and longtime friend. Equally, Emma Stone is a force as Sam. Her soliloquy to her father about the ultimate importance of anything (much less him and his stupid play) is a withering, fatalistic, and ultimately sad exchange in an award-worthy scene. Supporting performances from Andrea Riseborough, as Riggan’s girlfriend, and Amy Ryan as his understanding ex (and Sam’s mother), Sylvia, elegantly fill the narrative periphery, lending even more heft to the main characters, and Iñárritu’s tangible, utterly cinematic world.

“Birdman” is a rare beast—a masterpiece of structure and form that not only lives and breathes, purring like a 12-cylinder Jaguar on the Autobahn, but does so with such great intelligence, effortless imagination, and a seemingly limitless well of fulfilling entertainment. It’s fan-fucking-tastic—the kind of film that, if it enjoyed real commercial success, would not only be meta-ironic, but also give me hope for the soul of the American filmgoer.

“Birdman” runs exclusively at Circle Cinema through Nov. 20, with additional showings possible. For tickets and showtimes, visit circlecinema.com.

Want more from Joe? Look no further for his reviews of Daniel Radcliffe's "Horns" and "Skeleton Twins" with Kristin Wiig and Tulsa native Bill Hader. More mature audiences can follow him and Voice writer Joshua Kline on a deep-dive into some (extremely) dark horror.