Benicio Del Toro as Jack in “21 Grams” (2003)
If it wasn’t clear from our Naomi Watts entry, let’s make it so: we’re not particularly smitten with “21 Grams.” With a convoluted omelette of a plot that puts all its eggs into one mopey basket, this is Iñárritu at his most mercilessly dense and uninviting. But once separated from the bigger picture, the performances are just as fierce and resonant as the ones from Iñárritu’s grander works. Benicio Del Toro is the film’s secret weapon: Oscar-nominated for the performance, it’s a turn that sits alongside the actor’s best work elsewhere, like his Javier Rodriguez in “Traffic” or Che Guevara in “Che.” Pitted against Watts’ wrung-out widow and Sean Penn’s heartlessly dejected Paul is Del Toro’s ex-con Jack, a recovering drug addict who drags his soul like a ball-and-chain and bottles a sea of guilt like a man who’s danced with the Devil at least half a dozen times. Take the scene in the jail cell, when he tells Eddie Marsan’s reverend what hell truly is, and you’ll see a man who is fully embracing the cliché of “born to play this part.” It’s a testament to Del Toro’s subtle and charismatic abilities that he makes the religiously reformed and conflicted Jack such an interesting and affecting personality; he causes the death of two innocent children, and we still root for him until the bitter end. Even if the film behaves like a self-aggrandizing vampire at times, sucking you dry then talking about it way too much, Del Toro is one of the reasons why it can still keep its heavy head above water.
Michael Keaton as Riggan Thomson in “Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)” (2014)
There’s a lot of talk already that the Best Actor Oscar prize is Michael Keaton‘s to lose. And beyond the fact that Keaton is overdue for such recognition, this is with good reason. Keaton is phenomenal in Iñárritu’s spectacular seriocomic look at ego, insecurity, self-worth, fraudulence and personal redemption. And forget the fun and colorful meta-textual layers: “Birdman” and Keaton are terrific with or without the existence of Tim Burton‘s “Batman.” Keaton stars as Riggan Thomson, a washed-up actor known for his decades-old “Birdman” super hero franchise and now trying to mount a credibility comeback by staging a Raymond Carver adaptation on Broadway. It’s an act of hubris and desperation, which are Riggan’s two modes —the former depicted by his cocky Birdman alter ego whispering in his ear with taunts, reminders of his greatness and ridicule regarding being a phony, his worst fear. “You confuse love for admiration,” his ex tells him in one of the many psychological digs at the actor’s fragile psyche. And of course what makes it worse is that Thomson’s motivations for being in the play in the first place are suspect from minute one. Innaritu’s picture is an unflinching look at what we hate about ourselves—or at least those who agonize over personal and creative integrity— and mines painful territory of shame, embarrassment and self-loathing. And Keaton goes for broke. “Birdman” has been described a high-wire act because of its audacious filmmaking, its brazen and caustic (and very funny) screenplay and its overall cojones, but that term applies to Keaton’s performance too. Playing a sad, pathetic narcissist clinging to what’s left of his self-worth, he’s the classic Hollywood actor who has forsaken his wife, daughter and friends for the empty shell of keeping up his fragile self-image. But he’s also a man in deep spiritual crisis: about who he is, who he was and who he could possibly become. Without sweetening up the character, Keaton makes us understand Riggan. We don’t always relate and we certainly don’t always empathize, but his struggle is so raw, and he is risking so much humiliation that it is rendered absolutely, breathtakingly human.