Whiplash v Birdman

I watched Whiplash and Birdman back to back because they represent the two faces of independent cinema, that new American affair that Miramax and Sundance worked hard for since the late 70ies.

Whiplash is a fluid example of the American direct, raw and clear approach to the matters of our dreams. Birdman on the other hand takes another route, the surreal and deconstructed approach that is so ingrained in European cinema. And this is exactly where the penny drops, or the cookie crumbles if you prefer.

Birdman has an advantage over Whiplash, it’s new and mind-blowing to the American public that seems to bow down to anything remotely European. But if you are familiar with giants like Bergman, Antonioni and Fellini you might find Birdman messy and frustrating, like a baby. Because American independent cinema is still a baby and might look different to Europeans. We invested in our intimate cinema since the 1920 French Impressionism.

I really wanted to love Birdman but I could only save the middle section. The beginning was confused and noisy, to the point that I didn’t care about the characters, all lost in the method. Once style was established the story emerged and surrealism took over. Great, I am a big fan, but there is always method in the madness. And Iñárritu start to collect some plot holes that culminate in an ending that is not supported by what we have seen.

My mind went straight to Stranger than Fiction, Brazil and many amazing movies with water-tight suspension of belief plots. And Birdman doesn’t add up. To avoid spoilers I will just mention the curious case of the taxi driver and Emma stare at the sky. It’s not the same movie, sorry.

Whiplash is the real independent triumph of the year. Two actors just kill it on all level with a simple story that throws at you all you need to know about art. Plain and painful.