Movie Reviews: 'Whiplash' and 'Birdman'

The artist’s journey is fraught with an almost unending thread of perils, traps and threats, both physical and psychological. It doesn’t matter whether a character is a visual artist, dancer, musician, actor, poet or novelist — the road to artistic self-fulfillment and respect from their peers, critics, public, friends and family is one of damning introspection, alienation and isolation. Because to become a professional, let alone establish a remembered legacy, requires a sacrifice that is a graceful virus — an inspiration that feeds on the time and emotions of the artist and those closest to them in order to please the muses, to create something resonant with humanity from a complete vacuum.

Two recent films depict the tumultuous odyssey of the artist on two different ends of that spectrum: the beginning and the end. In shape and form, the films couldn’t be farther apart. However, they capture the never-ending quest for artistic acceptance and the most elusive and addicting goal: artistic immortality.

“Whiplash” depicts the angst and blistering battle of Andrew (played by Miles Teller), a young jazz drummer enrolled in the prestigious Shaffer Conservatory of Music of Manhattan, knocking on the door for critical acceptance and to be hopefully accepted and lionized by the small, elite and often unforgiving world of jazz. Andrew’s first obstacle is earning the respect and confirmation of head jazz band conductor, Fletcher (played by J.K. Simmons). The young drummer is misunderstood by his father and immediate family, so Fletcher’s acceptance and ascension into the company of current and legendary jazzmen is Andrew’s prime obsession, religion and love.

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Fletcher, though, is the devil watching the door. Easily one of the best drill sergeant/teachers in film, Fletcher inflicts brutal psychological mind games, challenges and physical punishment on Andrew to unleash the inner jazz demons laid dormant within him. Fletcher, though earning the much-deserved ire and hatred of Andrew, exorcises Andrew’s greatness with each interaction being a constant test of the young musician’s ability. And during the climactic performance, when Andrew, after years of practice and monkish dedication, surpasses Fletcher’s authority and expectations, it's as cathartic and satisfying as hearing one of the numerous dead jazz legends Andrew idolizes for the first time.

Though Andrew has typical and predictable interactions with a misunderstanding but supportive failed-writer-turned-English-teacher for a father and a brief and narratively unnecessary attempt at a relationship, “Whiplash” is a fierce duet between Andrew and Fletcher. Both characters are depicted with an explosive resolve by veteran and newcomer alike. Teller, who first caught critical attention with an infectious performance in the atypical 2013 rom-com “Spectacular Now,” has mostly lined his career with popular, yet vapid, teenage-movie material, such as the “Footloose” remake, “Project X,” “21 & Over,” “That Awkward Moment” and “Divergent.” Teller, himself a self-taught drummer, has offered the defining statement of his young and promising career. Bleeding, cramping, sweating and thrashing his way on his drum kit, Teller pushes himself into a fiery frenzy, seized by the holy ghost of drummers past.

Simmons, best known for his snarky and irascible portrayal of newspaper mogul J. Jonah Jameson in the original “Spider-Man” films, produces an equally deft and invigorating performance as the master/teacher/tormentor in Fletcher. After years of bland and often underwritten supporting characters, one only hopes Simmons will receive future roles that match his skill. He's like a tough piece of taut rawhide, capable of equal amounts of fierce punishment as well as tender touch and resolve.

Writer/director Damien Chazelle’s film is a prime charge on the verge of explosion, juggling between the tension of a wound snare drum and the effervescent echoes of a cymbal crash. Chazelle, an artist himself, striving for acceptance for the mainstream, is characteristically endowed with extreme empathy for his young protagonist. Andrew’s dedication is on the verge of slight psychosis and displays that inherent isolation on a path of a constant visual crescendo, stripping away all visual eccentricities and giving way to the cyclone of sound exchange between Andrew and Fletcher. The most deft quality of “Whiplash” is perhaps that between the notes, before the performance of a single note, live the hopes, fears and aspirations of musicians long gone, suffering for their music in the all-too-present now, and those budding musicians still to come.

Where “Whiplash”is a conventional, yet acidic, look into the young artist’s journey to greatness through a pupil/mentor relationship, “Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)” is a grand visual symphony depicting a fallen movie actor trying to regain credibility through writing, acting and directing his own play on Broadway.

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Academy-award nominated director and co-writer Alejandro González Iñárritu (director of gritty and unsparing films “Amores Perros,” “21 Grams,” “Babel”and “Biutiful”) presents the backstage workings of the theater as a cross between a terrifying insane asylum filled with an endless array of egomaniacal actors and insecure shells of personalities teetering on self-oblivion and a supernatural funhouse of theatrical creation. This paradox of crazy and creator, manic and master, can be found backstage in every theater from community to Broadway.

The cast of characters contributing to Iñárritu’s newest production include disgraced former superhero movie star of the franchise “Birdman” turned anguished artist Riggan Thomson (played by Michael Keaton, the original “Batman”); his unstable, recently rehabilitated daughter hired as his personal assistant Sam (played by Emma Stone); Thomson’s right-hand man, gravity and producer Jake (played by Zach Galifianakis); a pretentious and famous actor, Mike Shiner (played by Edward Norton), hired at the last minute, who competes with Riggan for artistic leadership and integrity; two talented and ambitious actresses, Lesley (played by Naomi Watts), and Laura (played by Andrea Riseborough), who yearn for their own respect between Thomson and Shiner’s competing egos; Tabitha (played by Lindsay Duncan), the chief theater critic for “The New York Times,” whose sole opinion will validate or eviscerate the entire company’s efforts; and the haunting and domineering presence of Thomson’s alter ego, Birdman himself (played by an uncredited Benjamin Kanes).

Although the entire ensemble is filled with blatant caricatures and stereotypes of the theater (film actor looking for integrity, a method-drunk, narcissistic lead actor, etc.), “Birdman's” directorial vision and energy is fueled by these clichés. Iñárritu navigates among these characters' perspectives by stitching the entire film to seem like one giant, extended tracking-shot long take. These recognizable totems of the theater combined with the camera as unceasing eye comes closest to capturing the indefinable energy that only live theater can produce. Incredible performances that live on the hair of the moment and then disappear into the lights.

Keaton gives a staggering turn as Riggan Thomson in a role that is unsettlingly close to his own career and a story that could have unfurled into his real life. Akin to a dethroned king spiraling into madness, Keaton drives and inspires his production while his life and sanity fringe and tatter. Keaton’s performance is indicative of the entire cast, adding surprising and impressive notes and color to Iñárritu’s nonstop and energetic carousel. Stone and Galifianakis provide much needed and surprising touches of rebellion and vulnerability as Thomson’s closest definition of a family. And Norton provides one of the best performances of his career as the overconfident and consummate actor’s actor, Mike Shiner. A realization of the disparity between an actor’s onstage and offstage identity, Norton’s performance reflects the simultaneous arrogance and depression being a respected actor can produce.

But the most remarkable aspect of “Birdman” is that it took a movie to best express the kinetic truth of the theater. The dark, intimate and vulnerable act of dramatic performance and its positive and negative impact on theater maker's psyche is perfectly encapsulated. And though I don’t agree with the brutal depiction of the arts journalists and theater critic in the film, the debate between actor Thomson and critic Tabitha exemplifies all but some of the major problems with theater of today. For generations to come, “Birdman” represents the artistic struggles and debates of the theater at the turn of the 21st century.

“Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)” is a standing ovation and represents the truest sense of the wild, insatiable, kinetic power of the theater. A film framed by the stereotypical pretension and characters of the theater world, “Birdman” transcends beings typecast, and Iñárritu and company tap into a the most coveted vein the theater can produce: honesty. And that's well worth any standing ovation.