One of the first things we see in Alejandro González Iñárritu's thematically rich, technically astonishing film Birdman is a sign on a mirror that reads, "A Thing Is Just a Thing, Not What People Say About That Thing." It's a small but important clue to the contents of the mesmerizing story that follows, and one that offers valuable insight into the psyche of Riggan Thomson, the movie's presumably washed-up protagonist. Of course, the fact that Thomson is also levitating in that scene is also a notable point of interest, but that's just part of this masterful, complex film's mystery.
Riggan (Michael Keaton) is an actor whose career has seen better days. Best known for his portrayal of a popular superhero named Birdman in a series of Hollywood blockbusters, Thomson attempts to mount a comeback by writing, directing, producing, and starring in a Broadway staging of Raymond Carver's "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." As opening night approaches, however, Riggan's life is spinning out of control. He can't connect with his daughter and personal assistant Sam (Emma Stone), reign in his egotistical, critical-darling co-star Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), assuage his neurotic leading lady Lesley (Naomi Watts), or contend with his unstable lover/supporting player Laura (Andrea Riseborough). Meanwhile, as Thomson's best friend and loyal producer Jake (Zach Galifianakis) fights to keep the production afloat during the disastrous preview performances, malicious theater critic Tabitha (Lindsay Duncan) prepares her poison pen, and the weighty specter of Birdman looms just over the director and leading man's shoulder, insisting that he's setting himself up for a big failure.
At its core, Birdman is a fairly straightforward story about one man's search for personal and professional redemption against all odds. But even a simple concept such as that requires some complex mechanics to make it resonate, and working together with co-screenwriters Alexander Dinelaris Jr., Armando Bo, and Nicolás Giacobone, Iñárritu infuses this idea with genuine gravity and just enough mystery to hold us spellbound. From that opening shot in which Thomson sits lotus style, floating in midair with his back to the camera, it's apparent that there is much more to this aging actor than the public perceives. But thanks to some perceptive writing and an unguarded performance by Keaton -- face weathered by the years but retaining that vital light in his eyes -- we become intimately acquainted with not only Thomson's past successes, but his private failures as well. This is where the script for Birdman truly shines, because as effective as Iñárritu and his fellow screenwriters are at exploring the inner-workings of a Broadway production and the personality clashes that can throw everything off-balance at a moment's notice, it's their ability to summon Riggan's fears to the surface that gives the story universal appeal. Without that, Birdman would be just another tale of a troubled theatrical production; with it, the film becomes a transcendent experience that comments on the passion to create, the nature of ego, and the state of the arts during the current reign of the comic-book superhero.
At the center of this philosophical storm is Keaton. A veteran of comic-book cinema, the former Batman star has enjoyed a largely successful film career, albeit one marred by occasional missteps that, combined with his remarkable talent for disappearing into a role, no doubt made him a particularly strong choice for the role of the self-flagellating, psychologically tormented Riggan. Real-world history notwithstanding, it's Keaton's powerful ability to occupy that strange grey area between determination and self-defeat that allows us to get into Thomson's unique headspace and empathize with his inability to contend with his own flaws. Even if Keaton's performance were the only one worth mentioning, Birdman would be an exceptional film; incredibly, though, Iñárritu has populated the story with a number of compelling characters, each of whom are brought to life in vivid detail by a powerhouse supporting cast. It's a testament to Edward Norton that he gives the unflappable Mike a humanizing flash of vulnerability in a moment when it seems least likely, and as Thomson's unstable yet soulful daughter Sam, rising star Stone's unfiltered, showstopping speech to her father at a crucial impasse carries the weight of so many years and tears that we instinctively shrink away as though we've walked into a room during a family argument that's been brewing for decades. Even Galifianakis, widely known as the bearded oddball from such broad comedies as The Hangover and The Campaign, brings a deeply humanistic touch to his role as Thomson's put-upon producer and best friend -- one that's sure to elevate his career in the coming years.
Meanwhile, tying all of these characters together is Iñárritu's dynamic, almost impossibly fluid direction. Of course, with a cinematographer like Oscar winner (and six-time nominee) Emmanuel Lubezki behind the lens, there was never any doubt that Birdman would be a work of technical wizardry. Even still, the director of photography utilizes his talent for long takes in a way that not only echoes the dramatic challenges posed by live theater, but becomes a distinctive character unto itself by time and again achieving dynamic, seemingly impossible shots that break down the barrier between the screen and the audience. So seamless is his work that at times it feels as though the entire film was shot in a single take -- even in moments when we see an actor up on the rafters, and the camera swoops down to find that same actor performing on stage. Lubezki's cinematography, paired with Antonio Sanchez's jazzy, percussion-heavy score, creates an atmosphere of explosive tension that lingers strongly, even throughout Birdman's more satirical and fantastical beats.
Which brings us back to that arresting opening scene -- the one in which a meditating Thomson appears to defy the laws of physics. Throughout the movie, we witness Keaton's character apparently using telekinesis, sometimes in a fit of rage and other times in quiet moments of self-assurance. It's the singular unexplainable element in a film that is otherwise grounded in a very human, very existential struggle, and as such it's the one that leads us to wonder if there's more to this character than what's revealed through his inner-dialogues with his heroic alter ego or his interactions with his family and fellow performers. As such, it's also the factor that's likely to be the most divisive among viewers as they debate whether they're seeing a simple delusion or something more. Perhaps, much like that small affirmation affixed to Thomson's mirror, there is no definitive answer, and that's where the beauty in Birdman can truly be found.