3) Birdman
Any film that threatens to bring on a Michael Keaton resurgence is alright with me. And any film that puts Ed Norton in the tiniest Speedos known to man is even more alright with me. If you couldn’t already tell, I fucking love Birdman.
There’s just so much right with it – the universally brilliant performances, Emmanuel Lubezki’s ingenious cinematography, the snarky yet loving treatment of Broadway theater and – of course – the fact that Inarritu had the cajones to call an awards-hungry, high concept indie flick Birdman. And then there’s the ambition of it, the sheer ballsy abandon with which this madcap, hilarious and deeply meta piece of cinematic wonder is cobbled together. It’s films like Birdman that remind me why I love movies so much.
Lubezki’s loose camera movement and the well-publicized wizardry behind making the majority of the film look like it was done in one continuous shot lend Birdman a sense of freedom and improvisation like few films of its caliber – a tribute to the anything-can-happen nature of the stage theater that it holds lovingly yet sneeringly to its bosom. Every actor on the roster gets their time to shine, but everyone involved in this production, from the tea lady upwards, deserves their own curtain call for this one. Birdman is special, and I mean really special.
It’s a movie that feels like it can go anywhere, and usually does – and who am I to question where it goes?