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.

1/13/14: Two (or Three) Sides to Every Story

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abusive relationships, Amanda Seyfried, autobiography, bio-pic, blind, Blindsided, Chris Noth, Chuck Traynor, cinema, Deep Throat, direct-to-video, Film, home invasion, Lifetime Network, Linda Lovelace, Lovelace, Michael Keaton, New Year's Eve, Penthouse North, Peter Sarsgaard, porn industry, porn stars, Sharon Stone, stolen diamonds, suspense, tell-all books, thriller

Truth, as we increasingly find in this day and age, can be a very relative concept. We’re told that history is written by the winners (sad but true) and that one person’s concept of truth can dissolve in the searing heat of another person’s certainty (however misplaced). This can be especially true when one examines the traditional cinematic biopic. Any biography (or autobiography, if we’re being completely honest) comes with its own bias: that’s just par for the course. What happens, however, when a biopic attempts to show all truths simultaneously? Which truth, then, does the audience hold firm to? How do we know what to believe? Does it technically even matter if we don’t know who or what to believe? What if the unreliable narrator is the actual subject of the biopic?

Lovelace, the recent biopic about former porn star Linda Lovelace’s relationship with her husband/manager Chuck Traynor and her experiences filming the porn blockbuster Deep Throat, is a tale of two cities (almost literally). The film splits its running time evenly, beginning with the idealized, air-brushed version of he story (local girl makes good, has a blast, has lots of sex and gets into interesting adventures) before restarting the whole narrative from Lovelace’s amended account of the proceedings (physical abuse, drug use, gang rape, gun violence, familial distress and, essentially, prostitution). Ultimately, despite some very good performances (and some very bad ones), Lovelace will probably be remembered more for its Rashomonish narrative gimmicks than for the actual film, itself.

The inspiration for the first half, at least from a filmmaking perspective, definitely seems to be PT Anderson’s classic porn epic, Boogie Nights. The first 45 minutes of the film fly by in a candy-coated, neon rush of big hair, funky clothes, crazy parties and sex, sex, sex. Even the titles and font choices at the beginning had me mentally comparing this to Boogie Nights (subject notwithstanding). Around the 45 minute mark, however, the film recasts everything in a decidedly grimmer, darker light. For this portion, the inspiration definitely seems to be Star 80, Bob Fosse’s grim look at the life and untimely death of porn star Dorothy Stratten. As Chuck Traynor becomes more and more abusive, Linda’s life becomes more and more hellish. We also get to see the older, wiser Linda (in the story’s timeline, at least), which provides an interesting contrast to the wide-eyed, naive ingenue from the beginning.

There’s a lot to like about Lovelace, particularly the strong performances by Amanda Seyfried and Peter Sarsgaard as Linda and Chuck. Seyfried brings a wholesome, winsome quality to her performance that feels 100% genuine: I’ve never been a big fan of hers but this is definitely some next-level work she’s doing here. Sarsgaard, likewise, is exceptional, managing to make Chuck equal parts pathetic puppy and abusive psycho. Kudos must certainly go to Sharon Stone, as Linda’s mother: she disappeared so far into the role that I didn’t even realize who she was until my wife recognized her in the final moments of the movie. Chris Noth and Hank Azaria bring some real humanity to their roles as a porn producer and director, respectively. The scene where Noth beats Sarsgaard with a belt, as retribution for his treatment of Linda, is a thing of absolute beauty.

The film has a very strong sense of time, helped by some really nice, subtle set design. The movie also found ways to connect both disparate halves in some truly sneaky machinations. My favorite example of this comes during the “happy” portion of the film, where party goers comment on the thumping and bumping “sex sounds” coming from behind the closed-door to Linda and Chucks room. The second half of the film actually takes us into the room, where we witness Chuck beating Linda. This upending of expectations was very nicely handled. To be honest, I wish they had done more of this.

Ultimately, Lovelace is a good film undone slightly by its unnerving similarities to the films mentioned previously. There’s not much that it gets wrong, although I will say that James Franco was the most ridiculous Hugh Hefner that they could possibly get. Absolutely nothing about Franco’s generic performance reminded me in any way, shape or form of the actual Hefner, which is pretty surprising considering how easy it would seem to be to mimic the iconic pornographer. Everything about the performance (mercifully short) reminded me of nothing more than another Franco performance.

The big question regarding the film, however, is more difficult to answer: is it entertaining? Yes and no. As mentioned, the first half glides along on an extremely likable cloud of rampant carnality with Lovelace as the wide-eyed country mouse newly arrived in town. It’s fun, in a fish-out-of-water, Boogie Nights kind of way. The second half, however, is the very definition of endurance match, with repeated rapes, beatings, humiliations and endless suffering bestowed upon Linda. We see how these events have beaten her into the person she becomes at the end, as invisible in her mousiness as she used to be in her naivety. Since we’re (essentially) watching the same story twice, the effect seems to be more of “do you believe A or B?” than an attempt to enlighten.

For the record, I don’t think there’s ever any doubt as to which version is the “truth”: the entertainment industry (in general) and the porn industry (in particular) are well-known for grinding up and spitting out tortured souls. I wonder, however, how much more impactful the film could have been if its creators would have had the temerity to give us the full bleak, dark story without easing us into it. It doesn’t seem that Lovelace’s autobiography pulled any punches and it’s kind of a shame that the film did.

First things first: this is one of those films that feature multiple titles. In a completely bizarre twist, however, the title that I saw appears to be the least available of the two. I streamed this modest little thriller under the name Blindsided but any and all related promotional material, including the image above, come from the other title: Penthouse North. In truth, both titles are absolutely awful but at least the original title wasn’t a groan-inducing pun. From what I can understand, Penthouse North was the original title, although it became Blindsided when sold to cable TV.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the other shoe: apparently, this film was premiered on the Lifetime Network. That’s correct: the Lifetime Network. Despite this little caveat, the film manages to slip in a couple graphic stabbings, several bloody bodies and lots of menace. It also manages to be quite silly.

Our protagonist is Sara, a photo-journalist who loses her eyesight due to a suicide bomb attack in Afghanistan. The attack is vicious enough to cost her sight, yet not vicious enough to give her so much as a scratch anywhere else on her face. She’s also not big on the whole “dark shades” thing: she starts off a pair at the beginning but loses them early on so that we can focus on her eyes. Or so I’m assuming, since there seems to be no other rational explanation for her just ditching the sunglasses.

On New Year’s Eve, Sara has the misfortune of being trapped in her luxury, penthouse apartment by a pair of complete psychopaths. The psychos have killed her shiftless boyfriend (the scene where she continually and unknowingly steps over his bloody corpse in the kitchen is actually pretty brilliant, much more Hitchcockian than the rest of the film deserved) and are after a fortune in diamonds that he’s hidden somewhere in the apartment. They assume that Sara knows where the stolen diamonds are hidden: she doesn’t. Thus begins a long game of cat-and-mouse as Sara tries to maneuver around the killers, playing them off each other and attempting to prevent her untimely death. Alliances are formed, betrayals are had and much scenery is gnawed.

Blindsided (or Penthouse North) is the kind of film that flooded the DTV market in the ’90s. It features a recognizable box-office star (in this case, Michael Keaton, which was reason enough for me to watch), small-scale and scope (one location, two if you count the roof) and plenty of action. In fact, I was immediately reminded of these type of films when I saw that Dimension Films produced the movie: they’re still around? Wow…that takes me back!

As far as story goes, the film is definitely a ripoff (or homage, if you’re feeling kind) of the far better Wait Until Dark. Wait Until Dark featured Audrey Hepburn as a house-bound, recently blind woman who is menaced by three armed thugs, one played by Alan Arkin. Using the same basic formula but dropping one of the thugs definitely makes for a more economical film but it’s certainly not reinventing the wheel.

There’s certainly nothing inherently wrong with Blindsided and it does have one very big pull: Michael Keaton’s completely villainous turn as Hollander. He may look awful in the movie (I sure hope he just had a rough weekend during shooting) but he brings everything he has to the role, stopping just short of the over-the-top quality he brought to Beetlejuice. He’s genuinely scary, particularly in a nasty scene involving a cat (animal lovers, don’t fret: this has a very happy resolution), and I never doubted the lengths he would go to retrieve the diamonds. His partner, however, was a bit of a mixed bag. Barry Sloane, the actor who portrayed Chad, is a TV actor and there was quite a bit of mugging in his performance. At times, he seems lovelorn. Other times, he’s unnaturally angry. And then there’s his outburst over Hollander’s treatment of Sara’s cat. For a character that always seemed crazier and less in control than Hollander, his sudden swerve into animal lover seems completely unwarranted and more of a deux ex machine than anything.

Will Blindsided (or whatever it’s called) change your life? Absolutely not. Is it an entertaining way to kill 90 minutes? Absolutely. Let me say, however, that the final shot of the film, off the rooftop, may just be one of my favorite moments from a film in years. It’s the very definition of poetic justice and it ended the film on an extremely positive note for me. User results may vary.