Watching this film, it’s difficult to accept it’s purely a coincidence that Michael Keaton, an ageing, off-the-radar actor best known for playing a comic book superhero, plays an ageing, off-the-radar actor best known for playing a comic book superhero.

Keaton’s character, Riggan Thomson, is lumbered with the burden of only being known for that one singular role and is literally haunted by Birdman. That big-beaked, be-winged bastard emerges intermittently to continually undermine and belittle Thomson’s attempt at making a comeback on Broadway, directing and starring in his own adaptation of a Raymond Carver short story.

Downcast at being typecast, Thomson is determined to conclusively cast off his cape and create something culturally credible but, like all superheroes, he also has a nemesis; a New York Times theatre critic who “looks like she just licked a homeless guy’s ass” and is hellbent on crushing his theatrical dreams.

Here’s the film’s trailer:

The film is set over three days leading up to the play’s opening night and grants us access into the grotty, unseen world of dilapidated theatre back areas; all rusty pipes, peeling paint and nicotine-stained dressing rooms and you get a genuine feel of ‘being there’, witnessing all the fucked-up thespian thunder for real.

It’s a movie about actors, their contrasting onstage/offstage personae and the screwed-up, dysfunctional lives they lead.

It’s supremely well shot and directed by Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel, 21 Grams).  The whole film flows beautifully, almost like a fast-paced theatre production and the demonstrative camera work is breathless and fascinating, much like Times Square itself.

There are several scenes where the actors’ frenetic movements, their arguments and fiery dialogue are all captured up close by Steadicam and, thanks to the nimble editing skills of Emmanuel Lubezki, the cinematographer responsible for Gravity, most of the film plays out like it’s one long continuous take. In other scenes, some clever camera placement and/or the impressive special FX trickery allow us to view the characters as they sit in front of their bulb-lit backstage mirrors.

In one act, the camera follows Keaton, dutifully strutting his way along a corridor and scurrying down a staircase to push open a fire exit door opening out onto a bustling, brightly-lit Broadway, when you suddenly realise you’ve just been on a quick backstage tour of the St. James’ Theatre itself and those masses of people in the street can’t all be extras.

The film is boosted by a brilliantly original score featuring nothing but some groovy jazz drumming which, disappointingly and despite already winning ‘Best Soundtrack’ at the Venice Film Festival (and being nominated for similar Golden Globe and Critics’ Choice prizes), has been inexplicably disqualified from the ‘Best Original Score’ Oscar nominations, due to there also being 17 minutes of pre-recorded classical music… Something which I never really noticed, whereas the drum score I most definitely did, seeing as it accompanies the most climactic moments and helps to fuse certain scenes together, aiding the continuous-take effect.

The jazzy drum soundtrack makes an impact as soon as the film starts, partly due to the striking opening titles that (along with the closing credits) reminded me of the graphic visual work of the peerless Saul Bass but actually owe a greater debt to Jean-Luc Godard’s Pierrot Le Fou…

Great moments of subtle comedy abound, such as a fight that’s pathetically realistic; one unexpected punch, some clumsy retaliatory wrestling, concluding in a flip-flop being hurled in a pitiful coup de grâce. See it here in this excellent scene:

There are dozens of memorable lines but one that randomly stood out was uttered by Emma Stone’s character, Sam, unimpressed at Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) explaining why he thinks she’s beautiful and responding with; ‘I’m glad you’re not a writer because that was… Oprah, Hallmark, R. Kelly bad’. 

The sense of realism is enhanced by the various references to actual people: Sam was in rehab with ‘that guy from american Pie’, Robert Downey Jr’s acting skills are dissed, Michael Fassbender, Jeremy Renner and Ryan Gosling are all touted as possible replacement actors (but, ironically, are all committed to making comic-book superhero movies) and Thomson tells a tale of being on the same plane as George Clooney (and his massive chin).

The film serves as a pertinent statement on the tiresome vacuity of CGI’d Hollywood blockbuster bullcrap and the jobbing actor’s desire to be respected for creating something worthwhile and culturally significant.

The kind of films it pillories have almost led to my falling out with modern-day cinema, feeling that, evermore rarely, a trip to the flicks to be good value and resulting in me scouring around instead for forgotten gems from a prior age.

More films like this, one of a growing number with an likably offbeat indie charm, might help to further convince me that ‘orrible ‘ollywood is a place where artisans capable of producing truly great, original works of cinema are still able to flourish.