You’re probably here to find out what happens at the end of Alejandro Innaritu’s 2014 Best Picture winner, Birdman or: (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance). If so, you’re in luck.
First, however, I’ll need to address a lot of other, subtler mysteries in the film, because the ending scene is too vague to interpret without context. Thus, this piece will be a thorough examination of the themes and symbolism of Birdman, capped by a convincing deduction of what, exactly, happens after a washed up actor draws a loaded handgun onstage.
ACT I: Riggan’s Quest
Birdman is the story of Riggan Thompson (Michael Keaton), an aging actor attempting a comeback. He’s best known as the titular hero of a pioneering superhero franchise. With his youth long behind him, however, he’s endeavoring on a “serious” comeback as writer, director, and star of an upcoming Broadway adaptation of a Raymond Carver novel.
The most noticeable thing about this comeback idea is that it has pleased exactly no one. The blockbuster audiences that adore Riggan for the Birdman films are averse to the play’s heady, arcane source material. Theater aficionados like cast newcomer Mike Shiner (Edward Norton) and critic Tabatha Dickinson (Lindsay Duncan) resent Riggan for coopting their beloved medium and think him a mere “celebrity.” Riggan’s daughter Sam (Emma Stone), ex-wife Sylvia (Amy Ryan), and some time lover Laura (Andrea Riseborough) lament the destructive behavior he exhibits in his desperation for the play to succeed.
So the first puzzle to solve is: Why is Riggan doing this? Why is he attempting a Broadway comeback that nobody wants, to the detriment of his most cherished relationships?
The characters offer various answers, but none ring true. Riggan himself claims to Sam that his goals are artistic: he wants to create something “important” that “actually means something.” But he clearly betrays this notion in conversations with Shiner, defending popularity at the expense of artistic merit. Sam, for her part, cynically opines that Riggan is merely trying to “stay relevant,” but that doesn’t quite hold water either: if this were the case, why wouldn’t Riggan just return for another Birdman film, as many people (such as the Asian man at his press interview) seem to want?
Another answer is supplied by Riggan’s agent Jake (Zach Galifinakis), who reminds Riggan that the project was conceived for garnering “respect.” But if that’s true, whose respect is Riggan chasing? After all, his family and friends are, if anything, losing respect for him, and he demonstrates on multiple occasions that he doesn’t care much for mindless Twitter masses or snobbish theater gurus.
Again, then: why is Riggan doing this?
The correct answer and key to the film, which I will go on to support, is that Riggan is attempting to preserve his long-held notion (now threatened in his advancing age) that he is exceptional—that he is better than everyone else.
As a former megastar, it’s reasonable—expected, even—that Riggan would have come to harbor such an idea. But as he’s aged, all the evidence has piled up against him. His family life, for instance, is a mess. He has wasted all of his money. His looks have faded (“I look like a turkey with leukemia!”). And maybe worst of all, the superhero genre that he helped launch has proved an easy avenue to success for any number of questionably talented actors.
Riggan’s ego, then, has been under heavy fire, which, we can infer, is why he’s embarked on this foolish project. He needs to re-separate himself, to prove his specialness to himself, not to others. And he has envisioned that this play will do just that: maybe anyone can play a superhero, but only a true great could do that and a successful Broadway show!
Unfortunately, by the time the movie starts, this fantasy has all but crumbled. Riggan doesn’t really know anything about theater, so he has written a mediocre script and hired a shaky cast. With opening night fast approaching, the wheels are coming off the production, and Riggan knows the play isn’t any good: to Jake’s disbelief, he tries to cancel the first preview. The arrival of the talented Shiner seems to offer hope, but ultimately, the arrogant new costar only gives Riggan’s ego more of a beating, criticizing Riggan onstage and stealing the spotlight in the newspapers.
How will Riggan deal with failure? After all, if the play flops, the only publicly visible avenue left to Riggan would be to return for another silly Birdman film. And that wouldn’t help demonstrate his greatness, right?
Wrong, says a voice in his head.
ACT II: Birdman
The crucial point to understanding the voice (and later appearance) of the Birdman character is that it comes to Riggan out of a necessity: the necessity of making a case for his own greatness.
As we’ve seen, the play was devised to reestablish the validity of Riggan’s oversized ego, but with this plan now seeming likely to fail, the bankrupt and attention-starved Riggan may be forced to return to the superhero franchise that made him famous. Consequently, he begins to fall under the persuasion of a rather convenient new idea: that, actually, such a return to the Birdman movies would be far more evidentiary of his excellence than the play’s success would have been. This idea, in a piece of inspired movie fun, is personified by the actual character of Birdman.
Birdman’s arguments are, of course, pure sour grapes. He chiefly relies on baseless mockery of theater and Riggan’s new theater persona: they are simply “lame,” unworthy of Riggan’s inherent excellence. Birdman especially hates, not coincidentally, plays just like the one Riggan is about to screw up, declaring, “People, they love blood. They love action. Not this talky, depressing, philosophical bullshit.”
Translation: Riggan isn’t any good at theater, so theater must be stupid. The logic of a narcissist.
And Birdman doesn’t stop at mocking Broadway, either. In fact, he demeans, Trump-like, just about everything that threatens Riggan’s supposed greatness. When Dickinson tells Riggan, “You’re no actor, you’re a celebrity,” Birdman later hits back: “Forget the Times, everyone else has.” Regarding Riggan’s insecurity about the growing list of lucrative superhero successors, Birdman sneers: “You’re the original, man. You paved the way for all these other little clowns.”
These wishful, masturbatory takedowns show us just how tenacious Riggan’s ego is. But we should take a step back to note that Riggan isn’t all narcissist. Remember that for most of the movie Riggan resists Birdman. And in various moments he displays a genuinely good heart, for example comforting his supporting actress Lesley (Naomi Watts) after Shiner’s crazed behavior onstage leaves her distraught. Riggan also wants the best for Sam and regrets his lackluster parenting.
The problem is that despite this generally good disposition, Riggan can’t give in to mediocrity. He needs proof that he is exceptional, and the only proof that exists, currently, is Birdman, who notes as much in a particularly biting taunt:
Without me, all that’s left is you: a sad, selfish, mediocre actor grasping at the last vestiges of his career.
Thus, when Dickinson promises that she will indeed “kill” Riggan’s play, definitively ending his dream of theater success, the voice of Birdman wins out. In perhaps the movie’s most memorable sequence, Birdman sells Riggan on a new path forward, in which he triumphantly returns to the Birdman role, inspiring awe and transcending common folk. “You are a god,” Birdman summarizes. “You save people from their boring, miserable lives!” Faced with mundane failure, Riggan goes full egoist (and full crazy), convincing himself that his last remaining career option is godlike and awesome.
ACT III: Superpowers
Importantly, this sequence also features the most dramatic manifestation of Riggan’s “powers,” a mysterious motif throughout the film. In multiple scenes, Riggan defies gravity and moves objects with his mind. What is the significance of these abilities?
I’ll first point out that when other characters observe Riggan using his powers, it becomes clear that Riggan is only imagining them. In a typical moment, we see Riggan using telekinesis to destroy his dressing room, but when Jake walks in, we see from his vantage point that Riggan is merely heaving his TV to the ground. When Riggan “flies” to work, a cab driver demands payment.
Since Riggan’s imagined powers appear to be the superpowers of the Birdman character, and since, as previously mentioned, the Manhattan flight scene is the most prominent manifestation of both Birdman’s influence and Riggan’s powers, it might seem that the two motifs represent the same concept.
But multiple scenes contradict this. In fact, every time we see Riggan use the powers except for the flight scene, he seems to be using them in opposition to Birdman’s rhetoric. When Riggan demolishes his dressing room, for example, he argues against reclaiming the Birdman mantle (“I was miserable!”). When he levitates in the film’s opening shot, he seems to be clearing away negative thoughts such as Birdman’s complaints about the premises.
And besides, one “powers” moment in particular proves that the abilities are independent of Birdman’s influence. It comes immediately after Sam scathingly accuses Riggan of hopeless attention grabbing:
You’re worried, just like the rest of us, that you don’t matter. And you know what? You’re right! You don’t.
Based on what we’ve already said about Riggan’s ego, we can infer that these remarks will cut deep. Indeed, Riggan is clearly shell-shocked after Sam’s tirade. But then he does something strange: he looks down at the object on the table and begins rotating it with his mind.
This moment has nothing to do with Birdman. We don’t hear Birdman’s voice or get any indication that Riggan is contemplating returning to the Birdman franchise (in fact, he adamantly dismisses that option to Sam). Rather, in this moment Riggan is focused on his own self-worth, showing us that Riggan’s powers symbolize his own belief in himself, independent of whether he returns as Birdman. By moving the flask, Riggan is stubbornly resisting Sam’s criticism: “I am important,” he means to insist with this gesture. “I do matter.”
It makes sense, given this framework, that Riggan’s powers sometimes oppose Birdman and sometimes align with Birdman. In the flight scene, when Riggan believes that returning to the Birdman franchise will reestablish his excellence, the two work together. In other moments, when Riggan still believes that a Birdman return would be a lowbrow, disappointing move, the two are at odds.
This distinction is critical, and you may have already deduced why. I’m referring, of course, to the necessity of interpreting the sequence in which Riggan sees Birdman, tells him, “Fuck off,” and then flies out of the window.
To continue to the second half of this analysis, click here.
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