Last night I caught up, courtesy of Netflix, to
Birdman, 2014’s Oscar winner for Best Picture. Directed by Mexico’s Alejandro Inarritu, it is the story of a once famous Hollywood action star trying to make a comeback on Broadway two decades after his last film success. Many believed Michael Keaton was a shoe-in for Best Actor, but the honor went to Eddie Redmayne, who portrayed Stephen Hawking in
The Theory of Everything. Keaton, whose talents I’ve never been keen about, was equally worthy. It is by far the best work I've ever seen from him. His character has thrown all his hopes and finances into an adaptation of a Raymond Carver short story:
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Throughout the film there are scenes from it, and even those that are repeated are unique. The main character has a drinking problem that contributes to flights of fancy, the magic realism in which Latin film-makers revel. I’ve never been crazy about it, but that may be a reflection of narrow-mindedness. One thing this flick is not is a flattering portrait of actors and the theater. It could never be used to recruit hopefuls. I found it hard to like any character except Emma Stone’s, recently out of rehab, working as an aide for the father who always neglected her. Her nomination for supporting actress was deserved, as was Edward Norton’s for supporting actor. The cast is top notch, and includes Naomi Watts, Zach Galifianakis, Amy Ryan and Lindsay Duncan, who I recognized from appearances in BBC productions, as a nasty critic. The score is noteworthy, most of it jazz drumming that captures the action and troubled psychology of the players. Although Emmanuel Lubezki’s cinematography is arty, it is appropriately so. I loved the tracking shots of the theater’s hallways. Overall, the film won four Oscars, Inarritu cited both for his direction and the screenplay, on which he collaborated with three others. It received five other nominations as well. 315,000+ users have rated it at IMDb, forging to a consensus of 7.8 of ten. I’m not sure what to rate it. It’s one of those works that seem geared to the smartest viewers, and one probably more of interest to actors or to those fascinated by the process. It also may be one of those films that gets better at each viewing. Those turned off by unpleasantness should pass. So should anyone who has a romantic vision of the theater. It runs two hours. The creators should be given credit for originality. It's not easy to come up with material that seems fresh, especially in modern Hollywood. On one viewing, I respect
Birdman much more than I liked it. It's subtitle is:
The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance, a phrase from the critic's review.
It was one of those days that once again prove that one must take a shot even if the odds seem long. As I was walking to my car at about 9:45, the floating book shop seemed an impossibility. By eleven the mist had stopped but the sky remained ominous. Since I'd been sidelined two of the past three days, I felt compelled to take a chance and waited 40 minutes for a parking space to open up. It paid off immediately, as two women snapped up a bunch of the children's books I had on display. A short time later a gentleman whose passion is linguistics bought an eclectic mix. Ralph bought three books on his way in to the bank. Maryann, thirtyish, confined to a wheelchair, noted the cover of
Killing and asked about it, as she lives near where the photo was taken. Being of Sicilian-Neapolitan extraction, she bit. My thanks to all and to anyone I may have forgotten.
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
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