Click here to read this article in Spanish.
One of the most interesting periods in human history is Ancient Greece. Not only for being an influential era for language, politics, science, and art, but also for providing the world with a broad mythology that encompasses gods, heroes and, possibly its most extensive compendium, creatures. A bestiary full of majestic animals capable of sowing terror or admiration in the soul of any human being who reads about them. Fantastic monsters that have evolved through the centuries and still today work as a blueprint in countless products of mass culture, with one of the most popular being the phoenix. A bird endowed with fascinating abilities, probably the most striking and spectacular of all being the ability to die and be reborn from its own ashes. Riggan Thomson is a phoenix, Riggan Thomson is Birdman.
With his fifth movie, Mexican director Alejandro G. Iñárritu amazed critics and the public after its release in November 2014. It also received multiple awards, nominations at various film festivals, and was worthy of four Oscars, including Best Picture. So many years later, it’s still considered a cult film and one of the best of the decade. This makes us wonder: why? What reason is there for the Academy and the rest of the world to have it on a pedestal? The answer is simple. The film’s conflict is the perfect representation of a crisis commonly suffered by thousands of members of the cultural industry, especially in the art world, and this is the embodiment of those feelings of helplessness and fear of failure that are present in the last stages of any professional career.
Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) tells the story of Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton), a declining actor who became famous in the 1990s for playing a comic book superhero named Birdman. Now the actor’s career is at a standstill and his only possible outlet is to devote himself to acting on stage. That’s why Riggan decided to write, produce, and star in his theatrical adaptation of the classic short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver. And, precisely, it is with a sentence from said author that the film begins:
– And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?
(Raymond Carver, Late fragment)
– I did.
– And what did you want?
– To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
The first shot where we see Riggan is surreal, as he is levitating in his dressing room. He seems to be trying to keep himself in a state of calm and concentration that is interrupted by a thick and creepy voice. It’s like someone’s in the room with him. Turns out it’s the voice of Birdman, the hero he played so many years ago. A facet of the actor has become a being who reveals himself from time to time to annoy him and convince him that he is making a mistake in choosing the path of the theatre.
It is made clear that Riggan is fighting an internal battle. The feathered character was the one who gave him the glory in the past, but in return, he took over his image. Nobody remembers Riggan Thomson, the actor. Everyone remembers the superhero, Birdman. That’s why there’s no better choice to play Riggan than Keaton, who has experienced the curse of the iconic character in his own flesh by also playing Batman. A role for which he was pigeonholed until he was finally replaced by Val Kilmer for the third installment of the franchise. Every time Riggan argues with Birdman, it feels like Keaton is talking to the bat he dealt with so long ago.
In this same scene, the relaxed state in which Riggan tries to induce himself is also interrupted by a loud video call from his daughter, Sam (Emma Stone). The reason for the call is simple: the girl, who is working as an assistant, had not been able to find the flowers that her father wanted. Nevertheless, he tells her to buy any kind except roses. An interesting detail, since these are the ones that are usually gifted to the actors of a play for an exceptional performance. Riggan says he doesn’t like them, but that’s probably because he still doesn’t consider himself deserving of them.
After the call, Riggan looks in the mirror and in the reflection there is a giant poster of Birdman. The actor looks at it with disdain. It is here where the protagonist finds his two facets in front of the glass: the failed actor and the popular hero of the big screen. Then, the camera turns to the main character. We can no longer see Birdman, because his figure is hidden behind Riggan, or rather inside him. He’s part of him, but the actor does what he can to keep it hidden. He hates the “metaformation” that he engendered, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appropriate Birdman’s telekinetic powers to express himself in his vision of reality. The camera starts following Riggan and rarely leaves his side throughout the film. Likewise, the drum solos that give rhythm to this two-hour sequence shot are controlled by his walk, actions, and dialogue. It seems that in addition to wanting to take control of his life, he also wants to control the mise en scène.
At some point, Riggan complains about how new talented actors choose to wear the cape as well and may, like him, never be able to get it off. He returns to his dressing room and on his TV appears one of the most popular actors of the moment, Robert Downey Jr., better known for playing Marvel’s superhero, Iron Man. Then, another unrealistic event takes place: Riggan uses telekinesis to turn off the device and has another argument with Birdman, who accuses him of “handing over the keys to the kingdom to some posers.” Thanks to the manifestation of the bird, we can deduce that Riggan is, in fact, jealous and he misses being the topic of conversation like those new celebrities of comic-based movies are.
Upon arriving at his private sanctuary after an embarrassing first preview, we find that his ex-wife Sylvia (Amy Ryan), is waiting for him. It’s an important scene because it is the first time that Riggan has tried to put into words the conflict in which he feels trapped. He tries to explain it through an anecdote: it turns out that on his last flight to Los Angeles, the actor had George Clooney sitting two seats in front of him. Suddenly a storm hit the plane and caused it to suffer strong turbulence. As people cried and prayed, Riggan was stunned in his seat. He thought that if the aircraft crashed and Sam read the newspaper the next morning, her father’s face would not be on the front page, but rather the one of the celebrity who participated in the iconic Ocean’s Eleven.
Unfortunately for Riggan, even the mother of his daughter doesn’t take him seriously. She calls him ambitious and starts reproaching the past sins he has committed. A similar conversation also happens with Sam who accuses him of not wanting to do the play for the love of art, but rather for wanting to become relevant again. After these lost discussions where Riggan fails at positioning himself as a serious actor, he manifests his powers once again by moving a metal box on the table. Why? Simple: he wants to feel in control of the situation, even if he needs to alter his view of reality. Everything that his relatives said about him was right, he had no defense or counterarguments.
The phrase that came out before the opening credits makes sense now. Although Riggan partly wished that his daughter would be proud of him, what he really wanted was the world to love him for his acting prowess. His plan was to stop being a famous retro action hero and to become a renowned modern artist, besides gaining respect within the industry, he could once again taste the glory. Indeed, an ambitious goal, but one that is understandable and valid. Riggan’s problem is that he is unable to accept his true intentions and his true self. He is ashamed of his past and his career, when it is what he should be most grateful for and proud of.
He forces himself to adapt a work by Carver, an author who is known for being the greatest exponent of the literary movement called “dirty realism,” which only deals with everyday issues and is distinguished for being extremely minimalist, without offering anything extraordinary and without dedicating a space for metaphorical concessions. Riggan is the opposite. He uses the powers of a fantastic character to make his reality something more controllable. It is impossible for him to experience a conflict without Birdman intervening. He cannot bury it. He is the definition of unreal. He does not even adopt the philosophy of love that Carver permeates in his works. He is unable to express this feeling with himself and others. He despises himself and his past. Riggan is a man shaped by Hollywood and, to be someone on Broadway, he has to accept that fact.
When he decides to drown his sorrows in a bar that same night, a famous New York Times critic makes it clear that she is going to destroy his play no matter what he presents on opening night, as she doesn’t believe that a clown from Hollywood could achieve anything on stage. The next morning, Riggan wakes up on the street with his head leaning on a garbage bag. He’s hit rock bottom and he knows it. This is where we finally see the materialization of Birdman who, for the first time, speaks without being interrupted by Riggan. The actor accepts the facet that he has always wanted to bury and presents us one of the best sequences of the whole film. It is the first manifestation of self-esteem that we can see from him, as he finally accepts that Birdman is part of him. Now he’s one with the bird.
After the surreal scene, we are transported into the night. People leave the theater applauding Riggan’s performance. The camera stops focusing on the entrance of the building and enters through the window of the actor’s dressing room. There are thousands of roses, this time quite meritorious. After a conversation with his wife, it’s time for the final act where Riggan’s character blows his brains out with a gun. But something is different this time. The actor decides to use a real weapon. We follow Riggan, now one with Birdman. The duo wants to put on a show that surpasses the fiction that the public loves so much. His monologue ends, he points the gun at his head and pulls the trigger. The audience is startled by the sound of the gunshot and immediately stands up to applaud.
He’s done it! The review written by The New York Times journalist, who once threatened him, ended up being positive. A slave to surrealism gave the audience a super-realistic ending. The price to pay? Giving up his old face to get on the front page. He didn’t blow his brains out; he messed up his nose and was given a new mask. Riggan Thomson, who once was a bird, has been reborn like a phoenix.
At the end of an artistic career, you almost always have to go through a long and lonely road, full of suffering and longing for the climax of our life. There’s no doubt. But there is always a possibility for redemption in sight when you use everything you have learned along the way. No one should look down on the past. Rather, we should look back and revise lessons for the future. And just like Riggan Thomson, become the unexpected virtue of ignorance.
