Doubles, doppelgängers, alter egos, and shadows are the most easily recognizable archetypes best illustrating the man versus himself conflict or a consciousness in crisis. Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman epitomizes this internal conflict in which the protagonist, Riggan Thompson, a now aged and washed up superhero actor, attempts to breathe new meaning to his life as a theater director, playwright, and actor in a Raymond Carver’s short story “What We Talk about When We Talk about Love” stage adaptation. Through this, he hopes to immortalize himself as a legendary celebrity in an unfamiliar entertainment medium, the live theater, which contrasts with his intellectually lowbrow Hollywood past. He was once a box office iconic celebrity superhero, Birdman, which functions as his alter ego or shadow amid his transition to a theater actor and director. However, the transition is not easy for Riggan Thompson. His old self continues to taunt him amid his new artistic quest. Therefore, his inability to reconcile his two selves—movie superhero and theater artist—epitomizes Riggan’s tumultuous existential journey that epitomizes three mythological archetypes: Icarus, Narcissus, and Dionysos. According to Swiss psychologist Carl Jung, mythological prototypes are representations of primordial and systematic human behaviors in which he refers to as archetypes (152). And such mythological archetypes provide psychological insight into Riggan’s fragmented psyche. It also reveals that he is far from being the idealized hero he hopes to be, resulting in an unresolved and failed apotheosis.
Riggan Thompson embarks on an existential quest to redeem himself as an artist, which also exemplifies the Icarus archetype because of his unreachable dream that eventually foreshadows his ultimate demise. Icarus is the mythological figure whose father was able to create wings made of wax to escape from the Cretan labyrinth. His imprisonment was a punishment inflicted by King Minos. Prior to his escape, his father forewarned him not to fly too close to the sun. However, due to hubris and overconfidence, he does so anyway and drowns. Thus, he fails to save himself. Similarly, Riggan, prompted by a personal crisis that consists of a faded celebrity (a forgotten franchise film superhero that once existed during his youthful heyday), becomes much like Icarus who is motivated by vanity and naiveté in his hope to escape his downtrodden, aged self. He embarks on an artistic feat in spite of the fact that the odds to be successful are against him. Like Icarus, he is ill equipped to aim high. This is clearly recognized by a theater critic who considers Riggan’s theater project a “big leap” from what Riggan is used to doing. For instance, he asks him “why does somebody go from playing the lead in a comic book franchise to adapting Raymond Carver for the stage?” Riggan dismisses his true self and proceeds with this production; he lusts for meaning, reinvention of the self and most of all, the coveted Birdman notoriety but this time, in the theater. He wants to become his own hero—saving himself from an aged nothingness.
The Icarus complex makes him disconnected with himself as he is consumed with overconfidence due to the taunting of his shadow. Joseph Campbell, author of The Power of Myth, asserts that the teachings of the Icarus myth consist of the need for a higher awareness of the self and its limitations. He states “when you are doing something that is a brand new adventure . . . there is always the danger of too much enthusiasm” and you must “keep your mind in control and don’t let it pull you compulsively into disaster” (132). The quick cuts of a meteor falling rapidly and a dead jellyfish on a seashore, particularly in the opening of the film, foreshadow Riggan’s demise that is emblematic of the Icarus archetype. Icarus’ wings caught fire causing him to fall into the ocean. Similarly, Riggan’s “great leap” or artistic quest is too much for him, making his great fall inevitable.
Icarus’ artificial wings do not make him a real bird who can naturally navigate wherever it pleases. This flawed sense of entitlement can also be applied to Riggan’s predicament. Riggan’s removal of his Birdman wings does not immediately make him an artist. It does not grant him the freedom to walk into whatever world he pleases expecting the same fame and glory he once had as a youth. In the theater, he is considered persona non grata—especially in the eyes of the formidable New York Times critic, Tabitha Dickenson (Lindsey Duncan). She sees through his desperate and superficial guise and describes him as a “clown in a suit” who attempts to bring Hollywood to the theater. Because of this, she threatens to “kill” his play by writing the worst review and making sure it will not be worthy of another opening night. She is surly and acerbic when it comes to safeguarding and preserving the art world—and is adamant in putting a stop to its possible descent into cheap commercialization—especially in the wake of Riggan’s production. She is not afraid to express her disdain for him even if she has not seen or read the previews. Tabitha pegs him as a lowly, faded superhero, and, therefore, she sees him as a quasi-stage actor, director, and playwright who is uninvited to the highbrow art world. She tells him “ I hate you and everyone you represent. Entitled, selfish, spoiled children. Blissfully untrained, unversed and unprepared to even attempt real art. Handing each other awards for cartoons and pornography. Measuring your worth in weekends?” She is disdainful of Riggan’s former world that stems from its mass-market source text such as the comic book or graphic novels and that are eventually commoditized through record-breaking box office numbers. Riggan’s fame originates from the lower echelon of the entertainment industry—in this case, the superhero film, the franchise, the predictable narrative with one-dimensional, cardboard characters—a genre for philistines. His attempt at Raymond Carver’s “What We Talk about When We Talk about Love”—a 1981 short story for the well-read and educated—is his promise to redemption.
But Tabitha makes it clear to Riggan that she is the gatekeeper of the art world. Therefore, Tabitha, like King Minos, wants to keep him imprisoned in his labyrinth, his world of confusion, insecurity, and impending failure. She will not allow him to redeem himself because she will not let him escape his former self. She scornfully tells Riggan “Well this is the theater and you don’t get to come in here and pretend you can write, direct and act in your own propaganda piece without coming through me first.”
Thus, the labyrinth is the perfect metaphor for Riggan’s existential meandering as an artist. This is clearly punctuated by Iñárritu’s use of the continuous pan shot throughout the narrative. He strolls into unfamiliar territory to gain self-worth. Because of this, he is uncertain about his skills as a theater director, writer, and actor but proceeds with the production in spite of warnings and doubts from critics and other actors such as Mike (Ed Norton) who calls Riggan’s creative project ambitious. As a result, his previews continue to be both directionless and chaotic, which exacerbates his feelings of inadequacy as a director. While on stage, Mike’s performance goes off character as he engages in a drunken rant. He also attempts to have unsimulated sex with his co-actor/girlfriend Leslie (Naomi Watts) in front of an audience, and the scene becomes unintentionally comedic when they notice his erection. On another occasion, the set design literally falls apart. When Riggan breaks for a smoke, he is shut out of the theater wearing only a bathrobe and underwear. His bathrobe gets caught in the door. In order to free himself, he removes his bathrobe and returns to his scene wearing only his underwear. He tells Sam “the previews have been a train wreck. We haven’t been able to get through a performance without a raging fire . . . or a raging hard-on.” Such directorial gaffes are also symptoms of his spiritual and professional displacement.
Birdman, his alter ego or shadow, is quick to forewarn him about his displacement, which is mentioned in the beginning of the film where Riggan Thompson is inside his theater dressing room meditating while being suspended in midair. Birdman’s voiceover asks him “What are we doing here? It smells horrible.” He calls the place a “shithole.” This other “self” is his shadow surfacing into consciousness and reminding him he does not belong. Riggan is lost in trying to make sense of an identity he hopes to achieve. This contributes to his inescapable “labyrinthian” psyche.
Riggan’s obsession to feel relevant in the current milieu in spite of his glaring disconnect with his current self (also known as consciousness) coincides with the Narcissus myth. Narcissus is a beautiful mortal whose mother asks the blind prophet Tiresias how long her son was going to live—and his response was “old age, provided he never came to know himself” (Hughes 14). In the myth Narcissus falls in love with himself when he sees his reflection in the pond while quenching his thirst. Unbeknownst that the reflection belongs to him, he perishes beside the pond, as he remains enamored by his own beautiful reflection. Similarly, Riggan is still enamored by his Birdman fame in spite of the fact he vehemently wants to dissociate himself from it. He hopes to have the same success similar to the Birdman character he has played during his youth. Consequently, he mixes fantasy and reality. He is a retired superhero actor who, on occasions, envisions himself as still having superpowers. He imagines himself spinning and moving an object with a point of a finger, jumping off buildings, and flying above the busy streets of New York. Because of this, Riggan is not willing to acknowledge the reality of his aged existence—nor is he willing to abandon the bygone Birdman days. His oscillation between past and present overwhelms him with a creative restlessness. For Riggan, there is comfort in the familiar world of the past—since the threat of a new world can be intimidating. Franchise films are the regurgitation of past narrative conventions—even fans cannot break away from the nostalgia—because the narrative satiates the expectations of the philistines who continue to watch it. The genre itself is a box office parasite—consuming more money to finance the next sequel. But there is no art in imitation and recycled stories that feed the box office—as pointed out by Tabitha who is disdainful of the “clowns” who “measure their worth in the weekends.”
Riggan’s yearn to return to his origins is reminiscent of the Narcissus myth. In the myth, the pool in which Narcissus stares into symbolizes the womb—according to Richard Hughes’ The Lively Images: Four Myths in Literature[1]. Narcissus’ maternal genealogy can be traced back to the water nymph, Liriope. Narcissus is pulled towards it—not only in hopes to return to childhood but also to the past. The pool is located in a place of quietude—away from hunters. Therefore, its womb symbolism is also referred to as a secure haven from danger. Hughes also asserts that the womb can be referred to as a protective “vehicle of [Narcissus’] travel and his search” for himself; and “like other mythical figures, he keeps reappearing and redefining his own meaning” when he returns to the womb (17). Riggan’s return to his familiar and youthful Birdman existence is also considered a “safe” gateway to self-worth and fame. However, it is not truly in accord with his current reality. Birdman is his shadow who taunts him to regression. He tells him “Let’s go back one more time and show them what we’re capable of. You can do it. You’re Birdman. . . . Flames. Icarus. Sacrifice.” Riggan is not acutely aware of the limitations of his aged existence and the present world around him. Most importantly, his daughter, Sam, a recovering drug addict, is the only person in his production circle who is willing to confront the absurdity and futility of his Narcissus complex, especially in his vain attempt to reinvent himself. She tells him he is out of touch with reality of his situation and chastises him for his theater aspirations: “It’s not for the sake of art. It’s because you want to feel relevant again. Well, there’s a whole world out there where people fight to be relevant every day. And you act like it doesn’t even exist! Things are happening in a place you willfully ignore, a place that has already forgotten you. I mean, who the fuck are you?”
The alternative title to the film, “The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance,” reiterates his disconnection with himself in order to proceed with a new identity. Driven by vanity, he is out of touch with his own reality. Thus, he suffers from a dissociative personality disorder. This failed self-actualization eventually becomes a consciousness in crisis—where the outward self (the aged aspiring artist) is not in agreement with his internal self (the shadow). According to Jung, “conscious and unconscious do not make a whole when one of them is suppressed and injured by the other” (288). In this case, it is Birdman, his shadow, that Riggan is suppressing.
Personality or character incongruities because of the inability to reconcile the two opposing selves typify the Dionysos archetype. Riggan’s psyche is operating on two levels that cannot coexist in order to make him whole. And such duality coincides with the myth. Dionysos consists of his being the twice-born god with dual and polarizing origins—mortal and divine. His second birth was the result of his father, Zeus, removing the womb from Semele and implanting it in his thigh. Therefore, the myth, also reasserts Riggan’s sense of duality—his outward self (the conscious) and his shadow Birdman (the unconscious) in which Riggan has trouble suppressing. According to Hughes, “Dionysos is what we meet if we accept Narcissus’ beckoning” since the Narcissus myth is considered “the inviter to the unconscious” (53). Furthermore, Carl Jung in The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche proclaims that there are three parts to the psyche’s anatomy: the consciousness (outward self), personal unconscious (forgotten contents due to repression), and the collective unconscious (patterned behaviors that often represents mythological archetypes) (2-3). With Riggan’s unconscious awakening, his psychical conflict becomes ultimately Dionysion.
Therefore, young Birdman is the shadow in personified form—which finally makes an appearance later in the narrative. Riggan undergoes a crisis since he cannot reconcile his conflicting identities (i.e., shadow and artist). And, therefore, he becomes a crazed god himself. Dionysos is notorious for morphing into different forms or taking on different identities such as a raging animal when he is repressed or antagonized. Similarly, Riggan is seen throwing tantrums in his dressing room when his artistic attempts do not go as planned. He oscillates between young Birdman and aged theater director and actor. He imagines himself flying around the city in moments of despair. When he was married, he was known for being a loving husband and a psychopath, especially when he confuses admiration for love. For instance, his former wife reminds him of a time when he threw a knife at her when she expresses unfavorable opinion about Riggan’s career decision. An hour after the violent incident, he tells her that he loves her. Like Dionysos, he is a man of contradictions, making him untrustworthy and unreliable in his self-deprecating sentiments. He is a box office super hero and an aspiring theater artist—two polarizing personas. He chastises his daughter for smoking pot and then he takes a puff from a small joint she leaves behind. He wants to reject Birdman, his shadow, but he is still drawn to his taunts and imagines carrying out his superpowers. He is caught between past and present, young and old.
With these contradictions, he gravitates to the fruit of the vine to contend with his angst and confusion. Similarly, Dionysos is associated with his volatile drunken stupor. Riggan is also seen in the wee hours of the night making trips to the liquor store and buying more alcohol even after he has just finished having drinks from a local bar. He engages in an aggressive drunken confrontation with Tabitha, insulting her wordsmith skills by calling them “labels.” His dressing room refrigerator is stocked with beer—and between breaks he reaches for his supply. On the eve of opening night, he is passed out in front of the theater steps. Temporary escapism from a hard day’s work in the theater is achieved through the consumption of alcohol—which does more harm than good. It impairs his judgments, his self-control, his sleeping patterns, and his physical energy.
In order to reach wholeness or reconciliation with the self, Riggan must undergo a spiritual death. Undergoing death in order to be born again is the most promising culmination of the Dionysian crisis. The Dionysian cycle of death and rebirth is also associated with Dionysos’ seasonal fruit of the vine in which it “dies” during the winter and “resurrects” during the spring. The resurrection can be considered a positive rebirth, an apotheosis, and a reconciliation of the opposing selves where consciousness becomes whole. However, this is not the case for Riggan. Riggan’s “death” is figuratively illustrated in his opening show where Riggan intertwines fantasy and reality—and such contradictory elements do not bode well for Riggan’s newfound existence. In his opening night of the play, Riggan shoots his nose while performing ons stage. He gives in to the franchise narrative, that is, the visual exploitation (“flames”), death (“sacrifice”) and hyper-sensory images. He also succumbs to the deep-rooted artsy seriousness in its philosophical theme of suffering, both literally and figuratively. From this impulsive creative decision, Riggan eventually becomes an absurd fusion of contemptuous art and cheap franchise eye candy. His existence consists of two fragments forcefully fused together. They are still at odds with one another. Thus, his new existence is disturbing. He is not the hero. He is not the artist. Instead, he is morphed into a poorly constructed existence that defames both the theatrical world (a place he hopes to belong) and the franchise world (a place his consciousness hopes to abandon).
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In essence, Riggan is the profanation of art theater and franchise cinema, making his displacement more unbearable and absurd. Symbolically, this is reiterated in the montage of imagery following Riggan’s gunshot wound to his nose—the dead jellyfish on the seashore, the falling meteor, the presence of Spiderman on stage, the New York street band playing on stage. Surprisingly, Tabitha, the reviewer, gives him a positive review and headlines it with “super-realism”—which is a play on the term surrealism. Perhaps this surrealism/super-realism becomes a bold movement in the theater. And such surrealism is a befitting description of Riggan’s failed apotheosis. It is certainly a valorization of nightmarish images, illogicality, and irrationality—the notable characteristics of surrealism. The climactic moment on stage becomes a Kafkaesque experience, since he fuses fantasy and reality. And through this, he remains stuck in perpetual contradiction and eventually becomes a paradoxical farce.
The farce becomes more pronounced when he is in the hospital, and he is transformed into a wounded bird and a broken man—figuratively and almost literally. The upper portion of his face is bandaged. The protruding bandage around his damaged nose is shaped like a bird’s beak. His bruised eyes appear beady under the haphazard wrappings. Riggan creates a new myth—but not in the idealization he has anticipated. This is emphasized when Riggan walks into the restroom and finds his shadow using the toilet—a humiliating image that ridicules and subverts his shadow’s mythological greatness and omnipotence. His once taunting and overbearing shadow is now a far cry from the heroic and coveted icon. The nostalgia is ruined—and there is no refuge to return to while in the present world. In essence, he has no place to go to. As a result, Riggan is trapped in two worlds he has desecrated, resulting in a grotesque embodiment of his shadow and his conscious self. This existential malformation is foreshadowed in his lament about his theatrical aspirations to Sam. He states “this play feels like a miniature, deformed version of myself that keeps following me around, hitting me in the balls with a tiny hammer.” In actuality, it becomes the culmination of a failed quest and apotheosis—an incurable travesty where he fails to be his own hero who never makes it to redemption.
[1] Although Hughes’ work applies archetypal theory narrative text, it can also be applied to cinematic narratives as well, especially in identifying character prototypes and plot patterns.
Written for the Film Criticism and Theory course in our study of archetypal criticism.
Works Cited and Consultant Page
Campbell, Joseph. The Power of Myth with Bill Moyers. Ed. Betty Sue Flowers. New York: Doubleday, 1988.
Hughes, Richard E. The Lively Image: Four Myths in Literature. Cambridge: Winthrop Publishers, Inc., 1975.
Jung, Carl. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Second edition. Eds. Michael Fordham, Sir Herbert Read, and Gerald Adler. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990.
—. The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Vol. 8. Eds. Michael Fordham, Sir Herbert Read, and Gerald Adler. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981.
Iñárritu, Alejandro González. Birdman: The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance. Performed by Michael Keaton, 20thCentury Fox. 2015.
Ovid. Metamorphosis. Translated by A.D. Melville. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986.
[1] Although Hughes’ work applies archetypal theory narrative text, it can also be applied to cinematic narratives as well, especially in identifying character prototypes and plot patterns.
August 15, 2018