It’s been over a decade since Riggan Thomson took that fateful leap out of a hospital window—or didn't, depending on how cynical you’re feeling—and we are still trying to figure out if Birdman or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance was a masterpiece or just a very expensive, very clever magic trick. Most people remember the drums. Or the fact that it looked like one continuous shot. But honestly, if you sit down and watch it today, the technical stuff kinda fades into the background. What sticks is the desperation.
Alejandro G. Iñárritu took a massive gamble. He hired Michael Keaton, a man who actually was Batman, to play a man who used to be a superhero. It’s meta. It’s messy. It’s essentially a two-hour panic attack set in the bowels of the St. James Theatre. But there's a reason it cleaned up at the 87th Academy Awards, taking home Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Original Screenplay. It captured a very specific transition in our culture: the moment when "prestige" art realized it was being eaten alive by the blockbuster industrial complex.
The "Single Shot" Gimmick That Actually Wasn't
Let’s be real for a second. The "one-take" thing is a lie. A beautiful, seamless, digitally stitched lie. Emmanuel Lubezki, the cinematographer everyone calls "Chivo," didn't actually lug a camera around for two hours straight without stopping. They used invisible cuts—passing behind a dark doorway, a quick pan across a wall, or a digital blend in a crowded street.
Why bother? Because it creates a sense of claustrophobia. You can't escape Riggan’s head. Most movies give you "coverage"—a wide shot, a medium, a close-up. If a scene is boring, the editor cuts away. In Birdman or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance, there is no cutting away. You’re stuck with Edward Norton being a pretentious jerk in a tanning bed whether you like it or not.
The actors hated it. Well, maybe "hated" is a strong word, but they were terrified. In a normal film, if you flub a line, you go again. Here, if you mess up on minute seven of an eight-minute take, the whole thing is trash. You’ve wasted everyone’s time. Emma Stone once mentioned in an interview that the pressure was immense because every movement had to be timed to the second. If a door didn't open at the exact right beat, the choreography was ruined. This tension translates to the screen. It makes the "ignorance" of the characters feel visceral. They don’t know what’s coming next, and neither do we.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Ending
If you search for "Birdman ending explained," you’ll find a million theories. Did he die on stage? Did he fly? Is he a ghost? Honestly, the "Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance" part of the title is the biggest clue we have.
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Riggan Thomson is a man obsessed with being "relevant." He wants the New York Times critic, Tabitha Dickinson, to love him. He wants the respect of the "serious" theater crowd. But the movie argues that his obsession with being "known" is exactly what’s killing him. When he finally stops caring—when he embraces a sort of blissful ignorance of his own reputation—he achieves something real.
The ending isn't a puzzle to be solved with logic. It's a thematic punctuation mark. When Sam (Emma Stone) looks up at the sky and smiles, it doesn't matter if he's literally hovering over 44th Street or if he’s splattered on the pavement. What matters is that, for the first time, someone looked at him and saw something other than a washed-up actor in a bird suit. It’s about the shift from being "famous" to being "seen."
Michael Keaton and the Ghost of Bruce Wayne
You can't talk about this movie without talking about the casting. It’s perfect. It’s almost cruel. Keaton hadn't headlined a massive film in years before this. He was the guy who walked away from Batman Forever because he didn't like the script. Sound familiar?
Riggan is haunted by a gravelly-voiced alter ego that tells him he’s a god. That’s not just a plot point; it’s a commentary on how the industry treats actors. Once you put on the cape, you never really take it off. Iñárritu reportedly told Keaton that he was the only person who could play this role because of that specific history.
Keaton’s performance isn't just "good." It’s vulnerable in a way that feels borderline illegal. Watching him run through Times Square in his underwear isn't just a funny visual; it's a public execution of his ego. He’s stripping away the "Birdman" persona to see if there’s a human being left underneath.
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The Sound of Stress: Antonio Sánchez’s Drum Score
If you close your eyes and think of this movie, you hear the drums. Antonio Sánchez, a world-class jazz drummer, basically improvised the heartbeat of the film. Most scores tell you how to feel—sad violins for a death, fast horns for a chase. Sánchez’s drums just tell you to be anxious.
It was actually disqualified from the Academy Award for Best Original Score because it contained too much pre-existing classical music (Mahler, Tchaikovsky, etc.). That was a huge controversy at the time. People felt the drums were the movie. They provided the internal rhythm for Riggan’s breakdown. It’s erratic. It’s loud. It’s often out of sync with what’s happening on screen, which makes it feel like it’s happening inside Riggan’s skull.
Is It Actually Anti-Superhero?
A lot of people think Birdman or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance is a middle finger to Marvel and DC. Riggan literally rants about how "they’re putting billions into these movies" while real art dies.
But it’s more complicated than that.
Iñárritu isn't necessarily saying superhero movies are bad. He’s saying the dependency on them is a sickness. Riggan doesn't hate Birdman; he misses the power Birdman gave him. He’s addicted to the scale of it. The "unexpected virtue of ignorance" is the ability to walk away from that scale and do something small, something that might fail.
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The irony, of course, is that Michael Keaton went right back to superhero movies after this, playing the Vulture in Spider-Man: Homecoming and returning as Batman in The Flash. Life imitates art, then art eats its own tail.
Key Takeaways for Your Next Rewatch
If you’re going back to watch it again, don't focus on the "one-shot" trick. Everyone does that now. 1917 did it. The Bear did it in a TV episode. It’s a tool, not the whole shed. Instead, look at these specific elements:
- The Mirrors: Almost every scene involves a mirror. The characters are constantly looking at themselves, trying to verify they actually exist.
- The Critic: Look at the scene where Riggan confronts Tabitha in the bar. It’s a brutal takedown of the relationship between artists and those who judge them. She hates him because he "didn't pay his dues," and he hates her because she "doesn't risk anything." Both are right.
- The Magical Realism: The movie never explicitly says if Riggan has telekinetic powers. We see him throw things with his mind, but then a shot reveals he’s just throwing them with his hands. It’s a brilliant way to show mental illness without diagnosing it.
How to Apply the "Virtue of Ignorance" to Your Own Life
The film suggests that we are all, in some way, performing for an audience that isn't really there. We’re all trying to curate a version of ourselves that looks "successful" or "meaningful."
- Stop seeking external validation for internal work. Riggan’s play was actually pretty good, but he couldn't enjoy it until he thought the critics liked it. That’s a trap.
- Embrace the "Ignorance" of the outcome. When you’re too focused on how something will be received, you can't actually do the thing. Sometimes you have to ignore the "Birdman" in your head telling you it’s going to be a disaster.
- Recognize the "Continuous Shot" of your life. We don't get cuts. We don't get to edit out the boring parts. Sometimes the "virtue" is just staying in the room when things get uncomfortable.
Birdman or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance isn't just a movie about a play. It's a movie about the terror of being forgotten. It reminds us that fame is a "little bright bird" that eventually flies away, leaving you alone with yourself. The goal isn't to keep the bird; it's to be okay when it leaves.
Practical Steps for Deeper Insight
- Watch the "Making Of" featurettes: Focus specifically on the lighting. Since they couldn't hide lights behind the camera (because the camera was always moving), they had to build the lighting into the set. It’s a masterclass in production design.
- Compare it to "The Wrestler": Both films deal with aging icons trying to reclaim past glory, but their approaches to "reality" are polar opposites.
- Read Raymond Carver: The play within the movie is based on What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Reading the source material helps you see why Riggan chose such a bleak, honest story for his "comeback."
The film remains a jarring, essential piece of cinema because it refuses to give easy answers. It forces you to sit in the mess. It forces you to be ignorant of the truth. And in that ignorance, it finds something remarkably like grace.
Next Steps:
If you want to understand the technical side better, look up "blocking for 360-degree shots." It will change how you view the "simple" conversations in the dressing rooms. You can also research the history of the St. James Theatre to see how the cramped architecture of the actual building dictated the movement of the actors.