What does it feel like to be feared? I don't know. No one that I know is afraid of me. I'm a woman for one thing and I'm not really big although I'd like to lose a little weight. I have a little dog, a five-pound toy poodle named Rikki, a rescue, and he's afraid of me. I'm working on him, conditioning him to my touch and to being around me. His fear has brought out something curious in my own nature, something I don't like. I get frustrated with him sometimes. I say to him, "I've spent lots of money on you. I've loved you. I've taken care of you. Why are you still afraid of me?" Actually I've raised my voice a couple times when I've said this but raising my voice or doing anything that would scare him is counterproductive. It's up to me to keep my anger in check. He can't help being afraid of me any more than I can help being afraid of a wild pack of wolves. That's just an example. There aren't any wolves around here.
I loved this movie. It had just the right combination of dark humor, zaniness and bookishness for my tastes. I laughed often and hard although it was the kind of laughter that explodes out of me when something bad has happened or almost happened. It's an embarrassed kind of laughter. Birdman was an honest and piercingly transparent look at the 55-year-old character of Riggan Thomson whose hope for a second chance at stardom propels the plot toward its resolution. Riggan's humanity is exposed and oozes out on the screen. How honest is this movie? When I prepared calf's liver in the past I used to surgically cut out the whitish bile ducts from the gelatinous mass of floppy burgundy flesh with a very small and very sharp knife. And this is what Director Alejandro González Iñárritu did. He took a small, sharp knife and carved into the psychic flesh of Michael Keaton to portray the character of Riggan, and Keaton, sensing that somewhere in this outpouring of emotion and intense acting there lay a renewal for him, acted his way into a portrayal of self conjoined with character that may well go down in cinematographic history. He sliced out the emotional bile ducts of his psyche and served him up to us on a platter. Salome has nothing on Iñárritu.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,