Ruminations on cultural integrity is the theatre in "Birdman", a triumph of style and substance.

Rating: 8/10 (17 December 2018)

Actually, I WAS vaguely aware of the fact Farrah Fawcett died the same day as Michael Jackson - if not aware the same day, then certainly the same week: I also recall actor David Carradine dying at around the same time. Did you know that renowned English author Aldous Huxley died on the same day as John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas? Reading "Love, Poverty and War", a compendium of articles by an Anglo-American journalist, just recently, and with this very review in my mind, I learnt that C.S. Lewis died on this exact same day in 1963 as well. Eerie.
Such historical items of interest are at the core of "Birdman" - a delicious 2014 film by Mexican director Alejandro Iñárritu which is about what we consider to be worthwhile, with a particular emphasis on the world of art and culture. Nearer the end of the film, the lead of the piece, Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton), points out the Fawcett/Jackson coincidence, but bleakly noted that it was Jackson who got most of the publicity - as if Fawcett didn't matter. Within the universe of the film, Riggan only recently came through a plane-set emergency which happened to have George Clooney on board too - had it crashed, Riggan theorises that his own demise would have been swept under the rug for full coverage of Clooney's, and that terrifies him...
Trying to capture in a few words precisely how it feels to watch "Birdman" is difficult - the best I can do is that it is a little like "The Player" meets "Inland Empire"; its technical and aesthetical triumphs are to be marvelled at, but the film is so much more than a mere exercise in style - it has an interesting and intelligent hypothesis; it is attempting to say something; its characterisation is crisp and engaging. Having watched it twice in a week, I still came away feeling like I could see it a hundred more times and not pick up on absolutely everything: the significance of the red and blue lighting which interchangeably illuminate various scenes; whether there is any evidence either way to suggest various dream/telekinetic sequences are really happening; why seemingly random compositions of comets soaring through our atmosphere are important...
In a ramshackle theatre somewhere in New York City, Riggan Thomson (pronounced 'ray-gun') is directing and performing in an adaptation of an old play by Raymond Carver. He is consumed by doubt over its worthwhileness; staring monetary troubles square in the face and slowly being consumed by a developing schizophrenia. Years earlier, he was a fictitious superhero named Birdman for three films and grossed millions - now wracked by guilt for making money off the back of cheap entertainment, he attempts to pour his efforts into something more artistic. A scattered soul, he confuses the names of backstage staff he's been seeing for weeks; openly admits to his disgust for contemporary culture ('bad parents raise Justin Bieber'); does his best to keep his rebellious daughter Sam (Emma Stone) in check and must learn to work with a new actor played by Edward Norton, who carries with him his own challenges.
Embedded at the core of Riggan's existence is the irony that he will, in actual fact, ALWAYS be remembered within the confines of audio-visual culture anyway: as the man who played a superhero in a set of films everybody enjoyed. And yet, he is desperate to go down as somebody who did something else. Mirroring the film in a particularly uncanny way, so much so that one can never shake the sensation for the duration of the movie, is the fact Keaton himself played Batman in two films before largely disappearing from major the mainstream cinematic canon, only to now pop up in work like this for Iñárritu.
The film uses the confines of Riggan's mind to play out the war between high and low culture; of style vs. substance - the internal dialogue Riggan's increasingly antsy alter-ego forces him to have with himself provides us with the essay Iñárritu is attempting to convey in oral form. The argument is not delivered subtly, but with a series of jabs scattered throughout - the first of which occurs in the very first scene wherein Riggan is reminded that a large pay-cheque might have been his if only he'd opted to star in a crappy reality TV show rather than spend thousands on a play for a smaller audience. At its most aggressive, the film resorts to depicting an imaginary scenario straight out of a blockbuster whereby a huge alien bird attempts to destroy the city - a sequence so jarring, it reminds us that what we have seen to this point has appeared to be one unbroken take.
The internal war Riggan has with himself is, of course, a battle spilling out into the rest of the world: 'fame' now consists of going viral on the Internet; the 'worst' films make the most money; reading or attending the theatre are niche pursuits and nobody over the age of 17 seems to like any of the music we have nowadays. Lindsay Duncan's character, a merciless critic who hates modern films even more than Riggan, is afforded the duty to outline this with the best line in the film. "Birdman" seems to allow Sam to be the embodiment of this brave new epoch: she is pessimistic; smokes weed and wonders what on Earth possessed her father to pour all this energy into adapting Carver anyway - their confrontation is inevitable, and Riggan has no real answer to any of her points, inferring that resistance is futile.
What conclusions doe the film reach? "Birdman" opens with a quotation that to feel 'beloved on Earth' is to fulfil a good life - there is nothing in there about the quality of your output, while the film's subtitle even seems to conclude that ignorance is a virtue, albeit and unexpected one. I guess raising Justin Bieber makes you a good parent after all...