BIRDMAN or (The Unexpected Virtue of Flatulence)

Damn, Hollywood sure loves to sniff its own butt. It comes as no surprise, and I shouldn’t care, but I do. Twenty thousand dollar gowns, hackneyed political statements, Doogie Howser, and Birdman takes home best picture. “Everything is awesome; everything is cool when you’re part of the team,” indeed.

I enjoyed Birdman when I saw it. It is a breathless, technical marvel. I loved the performances of Emma Stone, Zach Galifianakis, and, most of all, Michael Keaton. If I had a top ten movie list of 2014, Birdman might have come in at twelve or thirteen. Of the Oscar nominees, I would have chosen Boyhood or Whiplash as best picture, but my list of nominees would have also included Snowpiercer, Mr. Turner, Inherent Vice, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, and maybe some others. Meaning, I don’t want to quibble. Different strokes for different folks.

Well, maybe I do want to quibble. Watching Birdman, I felt unsure whether to laugh at or laugh with our pathetic fallen hero, unsure whether the movie was mocking or celebrating creativity, unsure whether I should feel scorn or sympathy. The movie is as miserably pompous and desperate for attention as the characters moving through it, as if the filmmakers and the characters are trapped in the same hall of mirrors. Most likely all these feedback loops and contradictions are purely intentional. And therein lies the problem.

Oscar loves a film made with intent; it loves to confuse intent with inspiration, and ego with vision. Look no further than past winners Crash, American Beauty, Dances With Wolves, or even Schindler’s List. Birdman is an especially incestuous case: a movie about egos running amok, created by egos running amok, and celebrated by egos running amok.  This might be easier to swallow if the movie and its director, Alejandro González Iñárritu were a little more sly and a little less heavy-handed, but they’re not. Despite its audibly grinding gears, Birdman feels downright effortless compared to Iñárritu’s previous films such as Babel, 21 Grams, and Amores Perros. The poor man wants so desperately to matter! As the grips tightened and the knuckles whitened around each statuette Birdman won, one could feel everyone on stage and in the audience clinging to their integrity and credibility. “Yes… (exhale) We matter.” Bless them. Whatever gets you through the night, Oprah.

Truth is, Hollywood’s embarrassed. Its most talented actors and directors are making movies that don’t matter, that have little intent but to knock your socks off. Look at J.J. Abrams, Joss Whedon, Brad Bird, Jon Favreau, James Gunn, Matthew Vaughn, Paul Greengrass, even Christopher Nolan and all his darkness and no parents. Even masters old and young alike, from Scorcese and Spielberg to Paul Thomas Anderson and David O. Russell, are never so alive as when they drop their pretensions and simply get drunk on the wacky pleasures of moving pictures on a great big screen in a big dark theater. And would you rather watch Michael Fassbender agonizing through empty, depressing orgasms in Shame, or dropping a fucking football stadium on the White House lawn in X-Men Days of Future Past? Would you rather watch Robert Downey Jr. engage in an embarrassing scenery chewing competition with Robert Duvall in The Judge, or build the original Iron Man suit from scratch in a cave in Afghanistan? Would you rather watch Scarlett Johansson lure naked men to some inky, impossibly bizarre doom in Under The Skin, or watch her kick fully clothed men’s asses in like every Avengers movie? Ten bucks says Damien Chazelle, the 30-year-old wunderkind director of Whiplash, makes a terrific big-budget action movie within the next five years. If we simply pretend Michael Bay does not exist, then big action blockbusters have a far superior track record of quality compared to so-called prestige dramas over the past decade. Even Iñárritu’s Mexican best buddies, Alfonso Cuarón and Guillermo del Toro, are all about that entertainment. I wish Iñárritu would just chill, smoke a bowl, and answer Marvel Studio’s phone calls. Relax, Alejandro. Loosen your grip and set down the Oscar. Listen to Birdman, and he will tell you this. If there is one thing Hollywood should be ashamed of, it is the public jerk-off circle called Awards Season. If there is one thing Hollywood should be proud of, it’s The Avengers.