2/17/15: Where Eagles Dare

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21 Grams, 87th Annual Academy Awards, Academy Award Nominee, Alejandro González Iñárritu, Alexander Dinelaris, Amores Perros, Amy Ryan, Andrea Riseborough, Antonio Sanchez, Armando Bo, art films, auteur theory, Babel, backstage drama, Best of 2014, Birdman, Biutiful, Broadway play, cinema, co-writers, colorful films, difficult actors, divorced parents, Edward Norton, Emma Stone, Emmanuel Lubezki, father-daughter relationships, favorite films, Film auteurs, film festival favorite, film reviews, films, glory days, hallucinations, infidelity, insanity, Lindsay Duncan, mental breakdown, meta-films, Michael Keaton, Mike Shiner, Movies, multiple award nominee, multiple writers, Naomi Watts, Nicolás Giacobone, Raymond Carver, Riggan Thomson, single-take shots, superheroes, washed-up actors, writer-director, Zach Galifianakis

Amidst the stunning technical razzle-dazzle of auteur Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman (2014), there’s one scene that, perhaps more than others, exemplifies how truly impressive the film is: after discovering the remains of a joint in the possession of his fresh-out-of-rehab daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), washed-up Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) explodes into a mess of self-righteous fury, blaming her for trying to scuttle his chance at a comeback, only to have her turn the tables by giving as good as she gets. Sam slashes her blowhard, absentee dad to the bone, reminding him of just how irrelevant he really is, how little he matters in the larger scheme of the world.

After all, what makes him any different from the faceless slobs who live, toil and die in anonymity: what kind of massive, sick ego makes him think that any of his shit is more important than anyone else’s? The camera stays on Sam after she finishes her rant, however, allowing us to see the pain and sympathy that’s crept over her formerly hard, angry features. Everything she’s said is true, no two ways about it: Riggan doesn’t really have anyone but himself to blame for his current situation. But words can hurt as much as weapons and the instant regret that we see is confirmed when the camera finally turns to show the defeated, shamed shell of a man who stands before her. It’s a lot easier to “cut someone down to size” if you don’t have to actually look them in the eyes, after all.

Much of the attention centered around Iñárritu’s extraordinary follow-up to Biutiful (2010) will probably center around two key elements: the film’s duly mind-blowing cinematography and technical polish and Michael Keaton’s all-in lead performance. To be fair, there’s certainly nothing wrong with that reaction: the filmcraft is masterful and Keaton hasn’t been this commanding since the ’90s. In fact, on the first go-through, both of these aspects loom so large that it might be difficult to focus on everything else. This is tunnel-vision, however, since multiple viewings reveal an endless variety of subtle details, outstanding performances and sly commentary on everything from the nature of celebrity to the virtue of sacrifice and the dangers of complacency. In every way, shape and form, Birdman is an extraordinary film, one of the very best of 2014 and, quite possibly, one of the biggest “no-brainers” for early inclusion into the canon of classic cinema. For the fifth time, in a row, Iñárritu has delivered something unforgettable: how’s that for consistency?

Birdman follows (quite literally) the aforementioned Riggan, a former shining star in Hollywood who portrayed the titular superhero in three blockbuster films before hanging up the costume in order to focus on more “serious” pursuits. We know how this story always ends, however: the general public is much more interested in superhero punch-ups than maudlin drama, so Riggan has seen his star gradually fade as he’s distanced himself from the multiplex junk that used to pay the bills. In a final, desperate bid for relevance, Riggan has turned the Raymond Carver story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” into a Broadway show, which he directs and stars in.

When one of Riggan’s co-stars, Ralph (Jeremy Shamos), is taken out of commission by a falling stage light, he’s forced to come up with a replacement at incredibly short notice. Ralph was a terrible actor, however, so Riggan is more than happy to have him gone: he’s even happier when another co-star, Lesley (Naomi Watts), is able to get her famous actor boyfriend, Mike Shiner (Edward Norton), to agree to step in. Riggan’s best friend/producer/lawyer, Jake (Zach Galifianakis), is thrilled with the development, since Shiner has instant name appeal and will help give the production the visibility it desperately needs, with opening night on the horizon.

Turns out, however, that Mike is a pretty terrible person: egomaniacal, given to violent, drunken outbursts and so shifty and backhanded as to be one step removed from an outright villain, Mike is a human wrecking ball and the last thing that a struggling play needs. He’s big in the theater world, however, which is what Riggan needs if he’s going to win over people like stodgy, unpleasant critic Tabitha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan), a Broadway power-broker whose poison pen can either make or kill a production, regardless of its relative merits.

As Riggan juggles all of this, he must also deal with his caustic, perpetually unpleasant daughter/assistant, Sam; his concerned ex-wife, Sylvia (Amy Ryan); his pregnant girlfriend/co-star, Laura (Andrea Riseborough); his own feelings of inadequacy and anger, as well as his increasingly precarious mental state. You see, while all of this is going on, Riggan is constantly harassed, mocked, pestered and belittled by his gruff-voiced Birdman alter-ego: Birdman doesn’t think Riggan is living up to his full potential and wants him to don the suit again, in order to resurrect both the feathered crime fighter and his own flat-lined career. As his world begins to collapse into chaos, Riggan becomes increasingly unfettered from the constraints of reality: Riggan Thomson, the man, may be a laughing-stock but there still might be a chance for Birdman to swoop in and save the day. Will Riggan be able to stand his ground, defy the naysayers and fulfill his lifelong dream or will he retreat to the safety of public acceptance and weekend box-office returns?

Right off the bat, Birdman looks and sounds amazing: while the Academy doesn’t always (or often) get their nominations right, I don’t think anyone can deny that Iñárritu’s film absolutely deserved nods for legendary cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s camera-work, as well as the truly impressive sound design. While the single-take element of the film was thoroughly impressive the first time I watched it, I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing subtle cuts: there was no way it could all be one take. After watching it a second time and really focusing on the cinematography, however, I’m pretty sure I’m dead wrong: with the exception of the obvious cuts at the beginning and end, as well as a small handful of moments during the film (the genius transition into the bar, a possible moment where the camera passes into darkness), I’m pretty sure this was all done as a single-take. In a word: wow.

The sheer level of planning and raw talent that goes into planning something like this is truly mind-blowing, especially when one considers the frequency of mirror shots in the film, the seamless integration of CGI elements and the overall length of the piece: DePalma gets plenty of love for his long, single-take scenes but that’s child’s play compared to what Iñárritu and Lubezki come up with here. Even though the camera can’t cut, we still need to be able to transition to other characters, locations, and time spans: it’s in these moments where the film really flexes its considerable muscles. Employing a technique whereby the camera follows one character before “jumping” to another, we seamlessly follow the action from Point A to Point Z, giving us a complete overview of everything that’s happening. It’s dizzying but, once you surrender to it, completely intoxicating: there’s a flow and poetry to Birdman’s camera movement that manages to blur the line between fiction and fact, audience and actors. We’ve seldom been this close to the action and it’s a helluva feeling.

The other benefit to the single-take approach is that it puts a premium on the entire cast’s performances: despite being the “subject” of the film, Keaton’s Riggan is absolutely not the only element that “matters.” Since Iñárritu and Lubezki can’t fall back on the traditional back-and-forth cutting element of most cinematic conversations, we get whole scenes where the camera focuses exclusively on one character, allowing us to see the full range of their emotions. The aforementioned scene with Sam reading her dad the riot act is an obvious highlight but the film is chockfull of scenes just like that. Each and every performer in Birdman needs to be “on” in every scene, making this one of the most masterfully acted films in some time.

While Norton is pretty great as the unrepentant shithead know-it-all and Stone is superb as the broken-down but defiant Sam, the film is full of wonderful performances. I’ve never been the biggest fan of Galifianakis, finding him to be one of the most annoyingly one-note performers to come down the pike in some time but his performance as Jake is, easily, a career highlight: for the first time, Galifianakis actually comes across as a real person, rather than a blustery caricature, and it works marvelously. Naomi Watts brings a genuine sense of pain to her portrayal of Mike’s long-suffering girlfriend and the scene where she breaks down is truly difficult to watch. By contrast, Andrea Riseborough isn’t given nearly enough to do as Riggan’s girlfriend, which is a shame: the few moments where the film focuses on her are some of its most impactful scenes. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t throw a little praise at Lindsay Duncan, who manages to make Tabitha one of the most effortlessly loathsome characters in quite a while. The scene where she, matter-of-factly, tells Riggan how she plans to ruin him, without even giving him the benefit of the doubt, works on a number of levels and she proves integral to the film’s internal machinations.

While the cinematography and acting are out-of-this-world, the rest of Birdman’s filmcraft ably follows suit. The sound design is quite genius and impossibly immersive: the way in which the non-diegetic, percussive score (courtesy of Antonio Sanchez) seamlessly becomes diegetic is a brilliant way to illustrate Riggan’s growing mental divide and used to great effect. The film is also full of so many smart background details, immaculate production design and vibrant colors that the entire film seems to be a constantly breathing, shifting organism: my second viewing revealed so many details that I missed the first time around, it makes me wonder what the fifth viewing will reveal. One of my favorite, subtle bits is the “A thing is a thing, not what people say it is” placard that’s tucked into the corner of Riggan’s dressing room mirror.

The script, credited to four writers (including Iñárritu), constantly loops and wraps around itself: while the film is fairly linear, it’s anything but straight-forward. The parallels between the on-stage world of Riggan’s play and the “real world” of his life are subtle but they help to establish the kind of complex intertexuality that’s so key to filmmakers like Charlie Kaufman and Spike Jonze. Despite how “tricky” the film is, it never feels pretentious or overly showy: indeed, Iñárritu and crew have created an “art film” that manages to feel decidedly down-to-earth, despite its more fantastic flights of fancy.

And, of course, there’s that central performance by Keaton: a former superstar, himself, Keaton IS Birdman and wears the character like a second skin. I’ve heard some critics say that Keaton is a “character actor” and, therefore, not worthy of Academy consideration for his performance. This, of course, is the exact same insult that Tabitha tosses in Riggan’s face like acid: he’s a “celebrity,” not an actor. Just as in the film, the condemnation holds no water: the quality of a performance has nothing to do with the performer and everything to do with the performance, itself. Keaton displays a range and depth, here, that’s consistent with some of the best performances of the year: while I’m not sure that his was the “best,” it was certainly one of the strongest of the year and eminently worthy of award consideration.

All in all, Birdman is a hell of a film: eye-popping, deliciously dark and surprisingly funny, it’s the kind of film that usually gets ignored by the mainstream, which makes its nine Oscar nominations a bit of a head-scratcher. I’m not saying that it doesn’t deserve all of them (even without seeing all of the nominees, I know that Birdman belongs there) but I’m certainly surprised. For my money, Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler (2014) has a slight (ever so slight) edge over Iñárritu’s latest but that, ultimately, says more about my particular sensibilities than anything: in most ways, the two titans line up pretty evenly, at least in my book.

At the end of the day, Birdman is a towering achievement, a film about the vagaries of backstage life that easily rivals predecessors like Noises Off (1992) and Living in Oblivion (1995). It’s a film about the eternal, pointless crusade for cultural immortality, the never-ending war between “art” and “commerce” that’s split the art community since at least the Middle Ages. It’s a film about accepting one’s place in the world, while refusing to stop reaching for the stars. It’s a film about a father and daughter taking the first, tentative, painful steps towards reconciliation. It’s about ego, self-sacrifice and the need to be loved by someone, anyone, before we shuffle off this mortal coil. Iñárritu’s Birdman is an ambitious, exquisitely made love letter to dreamers, dabblers and the people who love (and hate) them, set against the bustling crowds and marquees of Broadway.

It’s a one-of-a-kind film which, I suppose, makes it just another day at the office for Iñárritu.

1/31/14: Home is Where the Hearts Are (Oscar Bait, Part 3)

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Academy Award Nominee, Academy Awards, adventures, animated films, auteur theory, bad movies, Blackenstein, Blacula, blaxploitation films, box-office flops, Catherine Keener, cavemen, Chris Sanders, cinema, Cloris Leachman, couples, cute sloths, Dr. Stein, Dreamworks Animation, Emma Stone, fear of the unknown, Film auteurs, films, Francis Ford Coppola, Frederic Forrest, Harry Dean Stanton, Kirk Demicco, Lainie Kazan, Las Vegas, Movies, musical, Nastassja Kinski, Nicholas Cage, One From the Heart, pets, Raul Julia, relationships on the rocks, romance, Ryan Reynolds, searching for a new home, strange families, tar pits, Teri Garr, terrible films, The Croods, Tom Waits, William A. Levey

Our cinematic journey continues with last Friday’s viewings: we screened an abysmal Z-grade horror flick, an odd musical and another of this year’s contenders for Oscar gold.

Ugh…Blackenstein is proof positive that not all blaxploitation films were equally worthy of consideration. My original intention was to watch this as a double-feature with Blacula but that didn’t quite work as planned. As such, it ended up on a crammed Friday-bill where it really didn’t stand a chance. To be honest, this film wouldn’t have stood a chance no matter where I programmed it: Blackenstein is one colossal flop from the first frame to the last.

Plot (not that it matters) is fairly minimal: Dr. Winifred Walker (Ivory Stone) has come to see Dr. Stein (John Hart, in a friendly, jovial turn that is completely out of place in the story) in order to have him help her fiancee, Eddie (Joe de Sue, who has obviously never acted). You see, Eddie lost both arms and legs in Vietnam and Dr. Stein has been “working in the field of replacing limbs.” Sounds like a match made in heaven! Until, of course, Dr. Stein’s creepy assistant Malcomb (Roosevelt Jackson, who’s actually not bad) takes a shine to Winifred and sabotages Eddie’s treatments in order to get him out of the picture. Eddie head swells up, he gets angry and proceeds to rampage about the city, pulling the guts out of various women along the way. Winifred finally figures out what’s going on and Eddie saves her from Malcomb’s slimy clutches before getting devoured by police dogs.

There’s an awful lot wrong with Blackenstein, issues that pretty much cripple the film and prevent it from even rising to “so-bad-it’s-good-levels.” On a purely technical level, the transfer is absolutely awful: it looks like it was dubbed from TV to VHS. The sound keeps cutting out which, to be honest, isn’t a huge issue since the dialogue is so bad. Filmmaking basics are pretty non-existent: the cinematography is ugly, cuts are jarring, coverage is weird (lots of odd zooms on legs, feet, sidewalks, empty spaces and car doors), the music never fits with any given scene (chief offender being the scene where Winifred waits calmly for Dr. Stein as the soundtrack proceeds to out-Psycho Herrmann’s famous score) and the camera angles are often off-putting. Most of the sets appear to be made of cardboard, although that’s probably being generous, and the gore is about five solid steps back from Herschell Gordon Lewis’ heyday, featuring some of the most ludicrous gut-tossin’ you’ll (probably) ever see.

It goes without saying that the acting is completely wooden and terrible, as if everyone were trying to remember their lines. At one point during the middle of a big “speech,” Winifred proceeds to look down, off-camera: it’s pretty damn obvious that she reads the rest off a hidden script. Eddie is so unemotional that he delivers every last line with a sort of “Eh…what’re you gonna do?” shrug that drove me crazy after a few minutes. The piece de resistance, however, definitely comes from the hospital attendant (John Dennis). He begins by bullying the bed-ridden Eddie before launching into a jaw-droppingly over-the-top “monologue” about how he was kept from serving in Vietnam due to his physical condition. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to garner from this scene but it keeps going and going and going, an Energizer Bunny on crack.

Compared to Blacula, Blackenstein’s faults become even more glaring. Whereas Blacula featured an almost entirely black cast and possessed quite a bit of dignity, Blackenstein only features a couple of black actors and puts them in some pretty humiliating situations. We don’t even get the awesome funky music that powered Blacula: instead, we get two tepid soul songs sprinkled throughout the film, while the rest of the soundtrack consists of weak “Hammer-lite” instrumentals. There’s a niteclub scene, as in Blacula, but it mostly features a comedian telling jokes and lasts for way too long. It’s obvious that the filmmakers envisioned this as more of a Hammer/Euro-trash film than a blaxploitation film but the whole thing has such a confused sense of identity that none of it works.

Like any film made to jump on a hot trend, Blackenstein is pretty bankrupt of anything resembling imagination, innovation or intelligence. Avoid this like the plague.

If you think about it, anticipation for One From the Heart must’ve been through the roof when it first came out in 1982. For one thing, it was Francis Ford Coppola’s first film since his iconic Apocalypse Now (1979) and the latest in an unbeatable string that included The Godfather (1972), The Conversation (1974) and The Godfather Two (1974). Audiences had no reason to expect anything less sensational than his previous four films, after all, particularly with that lethal Godfather Two/Apocalypse Now combo. For another thing, musicals were extremely popular box office fare at that time. After all, Annie had come out a scant three months before and would become the 10th highest grossest film of 1982. This was the era of The Blues Brothers (1980), The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982), Victor/Victoria (1982, nominated for seven Oscars) and Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life (1983): a big-screen musical from Francis Ford Coppola must have seemed like a surefire hit.

What actually happened, unfortunately, was a bit more akin to the sinking of the Titanic (the actual event, not the James Cameron money-maker): One From the Heart tanked at the box office, taking in just over a half-million in profits, although the film cost upwards of $20 million to make. Coppola declared bankruptcy and would (according to his own accounts) spend the next two decades making films in order to pay back the loss. Although this would result in The Outsiders and Rumblefish (both 1983), Peggy Sue Got Married (1986) and Dracula (1992), it would also result in Gardens of Stone (1987), The Godfather Part III (1990), Jack (1996) and The Rainmaker (1997). So, technically, a complete wash.

So, after all the dust has cleared, how does One From the Heart hold up thirty years later? While nowhere near a classic and a decidedly odd follow-up to Apocalypse Now, One From the Heart certainly has its merits. The film involves the adventures of Hank (Frederic Forrest) and Frannie (Teri Garr), a couple living in Las Vegas and about to celebrate their fifth year together. As will often happen, things are less than ideal: Frannie wants excitement, Hank just wants to chill and Sin City is calling them both to its neon embrace. Before long, Frannie has left and found excitement with a singing waiter (Raul Julia), Hank is tripping the light fantastic with a comely young dancer (Nastassja Kinski) and their poor, put-upon best friends (Harry Dean Stanton and Lainie Kazan, in supporting roles that easily steal the film from every other actor) are trying to help pick up the pieces. Before long, Frannie and Hank will come to realize one important thing: being in love may not be easy but it sure as hell beats the alternative.

First of all, One From the Heart has a pretty unbeatable soundtrack, courtesy of the inimitable Tom Waits. This marked the tail-end of Waits’ drunken troubadour phase, as 1983’s Swordfishtrombones would mark his first full foray into the experimental blues stomps that would characterize the rest of his career. Here, Waits and duet-partner Crystal Gayle are at their loveliest, wrapping the action in the kid of melancholy drinkers’ ballads that could be found on classics like Blue Valentine and Small Change. The score is a perfect accompaniment to the bruised-heart story and is responsible for quite a bit of my goodwill towards the film.

The film also a pretty cool artificial look to it, which makes sense considering Coppola built his version of Las Vegas entirely on soundstages at his new American Zoetrope Studios. While other might disagree (and the extensive sets were certainly one of the reasons why the film went so far over budget), I really liked the look, especially in any of the scenes involving the sign/mascot “graveyard.” As mentioned earlier, Stanton (two years before Repo Man) and Kazan (a few years away from Lust in the Dust) are pretty great in the film: I wish they had at least twice the screen-time, if not more.

What didn’t work for me? Lots of the acting, to be honest, especially from Forrest, Garr, Julia and Kinski. Julia isn’t bad but Kinski is super-obnoxious, reminding me of nothing so much as the “manic-pixie-girls” that currently glut indie-romantic cinema. Forrest and Garr are fairly generic: we don’t necessarily buy them as being in  love, which makes everything else in the film seem sort of silly. As befits the style, much of the film tends to be very theatrical and at least one of the big song-and-dance sequences (a routine that manages to mix Saturday Night Fever with the Vegas Strip) is head-smackingly dumb.

For all of these faults, however, One From the Heart is still a pretty amiable film. At times (although not often), the film is even quite beautiful, reminding me of some of Jeunet’s early work. As mentioned earlier, the music is pretty magical and it’s always great to see Harry Dean Stanton and Lainie Kazan in anything. Did this deserve to tank Coppola’s career and introduce the world to Jack? Absolutely not. Was this a worthy follow-up to Apocalypse Now? Magic 8-Ball says “Very doubtful.”

And then, of course, it was time for me to be really surprised. While I’m a huge animation fan, I must admit that modern big-budget animated features do very little for me. As a rule, I find them to be too crude, self-referential and filled with disposable pop culture minutiae, the cartoon equivalent of those loathsome “Scary/Disaster/Whatever” film “parodies” that continue to crop up like weeds. Nevertheless, it is Oscar season and I’m committed to seeing as many of the nominees as humanly possible. Since Dreamworks’ The Croods was nominated for Best Animated Feature, I figured I might as well sit through it. After all, it had to be more entertaining than Dirty Wars or American Hustle, right?

And how! Without hyperbole, I can honestly say that I fell in love with this pretty quickly and stayed in love for the entire running time. Similar to The Castle, this is a film about family, first and foremost, and their take on this is decidedly less snarky and screeching than most. With Nicholas “The Fury” Cage playing patriarch Grug, I was worried that this would end up being an over-the-top affair like Shrek. As luck would have it, however, this was Cage with a modicum of restraint and a maximum of charm: not only is his character perfectly lovable, he’s also perfectly realized as the overly protective father/husband/cave-man. The rest of the voice talent is equally great: Emma Stone projects the right blend of defiance and naiety as Eep; Catherine Keener is always great and she’s no less so as mother Ugga; Ryan Reynolds is actually very likeable as Guy; and Cloris Leachman, essentially, reprises her role from Raising Grace, to great effect.

There are plenty of good life lessons to be found here, none of which are delivered with a particularly heavy hand. At heart, The Croods is about the importance of family and the need to face your fears rather than giving in to them. When their cave is destroyed by an earthquake, The Croods must travel across uncharted territory in order to find a new place to live. Along the way, they meet Guy and his delightful sloth friend Belt (quite possibly one of the cutest critters in a long line of animated sidekicks), a ravenous sabre-toothed tiger (which becomes Grug’s pet in one of the sweetest, heartwarming scenes in the whole film) and discover lots of new creatures.

Their discovery of the new creatures is, in my opinion, one of the best aspects of The Croods. There were two ways that the filmmakers could have gone about the Croods discovering their new world. On the one hand, we could be shown creatures that are old to us (dinosaurs, big mammals, etc…) but new to the Croods. There’s nothing wrong with this tact, although it certainly makes it a little more difficult for an audience to feel the same sense of wonder. On the other hand, the filmmakers could attempt to find a way to make the discoveries new to us, as well, so that we can experience the Croods new world with the same sense of wonder and excitement that they do. To my great delight, they chose option number 2.

To this end, the filmmakers unleash their imaginations and go hog-wild with some incredibly clever animal-hybrids: we get flying turtle-parrots, land-walking whale-elephants, ferocious owl-cats and multi-colored bird-tigers. In fact, there doesn’t appear to be a “regular” animal anywhere in the film, unless one counts the versatile Belt. There’s so much stuff happening in the margins of the screen that I’m assuming multiple views are necessary to really see everything. Couple this with some truly gorgeous animation (the first time they see the night sky is nothing short of magical), some really suspenseful action scenes (the bit where Guy and Grug are trapped in tar is pretty great) and some truly funny dialogue (“He’s riding the sun!…But not very well.”), and the replay factor for The Croods is pretty high.

Ultimately, The Croods was a film that surprised me early and often. I went into it expecting to see some slick, well-produced but ultimately soulless piece of Hollywood animation. What I got, however, was a gorgeous film with tons of imagination, heart and spirit, a movie that hearkened back to the glory days of animation with none of the needless self-reference of today (if there were any allusions or nods to current pop culture trends/issues in the film, they must have gone largely over my head).

As I’ve done with every Oscar-nominated film, thus far, I’ve asked myself the same question: did this film deserve to get nominated and can it actually win the prize? In this instance? Yes and yes.