This Week Was Very Long

This morning I had to remind myself how to walk. Left, right, left, right; use the whole sole of your foot, not just the outside; one foot in front of the other, not wildly to the side; knees bent, but not too much lest you collapse onto the sidewalk--it was brutal. By the grace and strength of the Holy Spirit was I able to walk the twenty-five minute walk to my tutor's house this morning.

Before you ask, "No. No, I did not have a massive hangover." It sounds like I might've, yes, but I did not. No, this morning's trek was merely the icing on top of what was a very long week.

My plan was thus: Finish Shakespeare essay by Monday or mid-day Tuesday. Finish Tolkien essay by Thursday 1 PM. Go to my home college's mandatory weekly meet up on Wednesday. Apply for internships for summer. Edit two to three papers for publication in the Oxford Tolkien Society's 25th Anniversary Magazine that were due by the end of the week. See Imitation Game on Thursday at 2 PM. Go to Tolkien Society on Thursday at 7 PM and on Friday at 8 PM after a Tolkien talk at 5 PM.

It's a lot, but it should have been sort of doable. Maybe not the film or one of the talks, but I should have been able to do most of it.

Monday: So, my Monday's are usually pretty chill. This one was actually really great. I finished reading most my primary text for my Shakespeare tutorial, King Henry IV, Part 2, and then saw Nick Jonas - yes, that one - at the Oxford Union. It was...cool. Yeah. He's a nice guy, a bit vanilla in what he had to say about life, but nice. He does a mean Blue Steel in all his photos though. The lower lip could stand to be a bit poutier, but he's 22--he has time to perfect it.

Now, what I was planning on was having my essay mostly written so that I could devote the proper amount of time to my Tolkien tutorial's essay. For those who don't know, I have to write two essays each week. For my Shakespeare tutorial I read a play and write a 1,000-1,500 word essay (or so) on a topic. It needs to be well written, well edited, well thought out, and answer the ever elusive, "So why does this matter?" question. In addition, I have to write a 2,000-2,500 word essay on Tolkien's Lord of the Rings on various subjects that meet the same basic requirements. The Shakespeare essay is due Thursdays at noon, 24 hours before my tutorial; Tolkien at my tutorial , 9 AM Friday where I read it aloud. If it sounds stressful that's because it is. If it doesn't then keep reading and you'll understand.

Now, I really shouldn't have gone to see Nick Jonas. I mean, he's cute, but I had to stop at 5 PM rather than work till 10 PM in the library. I lost five hours. Five precious hours.

Tuesday: I return to the library at about 11 AM, grab a desk and work until about 9 PM. You read that right. (And yes, I've spent longer in the library.) I finished my text, got all my sources together and started to try to piece together an essay. While I should have had it finished, I did not. As the day wore on, the essay did not want to be written. I had what would be the worst writers block I've ever had.

By about 7 PM I had little to nothing written and felt the weight of what I needed, and wanted to get done begin to crush me. What's more, the lack of exercise due to the need to finish essays plus the 10-20 pounds of books and computers I carry a mile and a half each day had finally caught up with my back. I was in substantial pain and so had to leave early. I was, as friends to whom I whined and complained can attest, miserable.

Wednesday: I was not having the mandatory meet up so I skipped it. I stayed at home all day and wrote my essay for Shakespeare as well as took a much need day to chat with friends. A package from my Uncle Steve came in  - a much needed hand warmer for the bitter cold - and that was a wonderful gift. He could have sent me a pack of pens and I would have appreciated it. (I am SUPER happy about the hand warming though. It also doubles as a charger for my phone!) I didn't get it written until late that night, but my back and my brain were, at the moment, quite happy. It was a much needed day of merriment.

And then came Thursday.

I stayed home that day too. My back was not having the trek to and from the library, so I edited my Shakespeare essay, sent it, and began work on my Tolkien essay: a look at gender in Rings. I really started at about 12:30 PM for that. It should have been an easy essay. It's a well discussed topic, it's easy to pick on Tolkien for his lack of female characters, the elves are practically a-sexual, and then there's some people's ridiculous views on Frodo and Sam--the essay should have been easy. I should have been done by 8 PM. Maybe 9 PM.

Ah, if only.

By the time 7:30 PM rolled around I had a grand total of 0 words written. I had no thesis and scarcely an idea of what to write on. Gender criticism is something I have a massive time getting my head around. I grew up playing with both Barbies and action figures. With dolls and Legos. I did tea parties for birthdays and played flag football with the boys. I went on adventures in my head as both the sacrificing hero and the damsel in distress.

With the exception of a few areas that I won't get into - but you're more than welcome to inquire about - I feel that if you can do the job, I don't care if you're a man or woman. So long as you can do the job you're required to do, gender shouldn't matter.

What's more, while I do believe that there are certain traits that are more masculine or more feminine, both genders need some of all the traits to be a well rounded human being. I'm not for gender neutrality, but I certainly don't think that men can't cry or women can't be strong leaders.

What's more, I have to discuss this in Rings and, frankly, I don't care about it in a story context for the most part. I mean, I do. I'm not a fan of stories that make either gender second class. The ending of Taming of the Shrew pisses me off frankly. But, for me, gender in Rings isn't something I see as being totally relevant. It's a story written by a man in the 1940s and 50s about war set in a medieval sort of time. Of course there won't be a lot of women. It's just not what Tolkien was going to write. He was writing for himself--he says so in a letter.* I figure we give him a pass, accept him as a product of his time, and focus on fixing gender issues in the real world.

But that's just me. It's not a popular view I hold, I suppose, not caring all that much - not enough to write 2,000 words about it anyway -  about gender Rings, but it's how I feel. I just couldn't wrap my brain around it.

That's why yesterday I nearly had a mental break down. I cried quite a bit, had trouble breathing, and generally freaked out for about an hour (after hours of frustration and writer's/thinker's block) as the possibility of failing to produce an essay became very real.

Luckily, I have some of the greatest friends anyone could ask for. My dearests Gregg and Sarah and Meredith were kind enough to talk me through it and help me as I nearly lost it. Gregg even helped me with the thesis so that by 9 PM I had a thesis and so the writing began. Finally.

About six hours - 3 AM - later, I have just over 2,000 words written. Yay. But it was rough. Really rough. And needed lots of editing. Sarah and Gregg, being the angels from God that they are, were kind enough to edit it for me.

By 4:30 I had an essay that I could print out for my tutorial in--

Four and a half hours.

I've cut it closer...Once. And frankly, it wasn't quite as bad as this.

And so I napped for three and a half hours before stumbling out of bed, into clothes, and 1.4 miles to my first tutorial. It went as well as can be expected all things considered. It wasn't a terrible essay, but a bit repetitive and not quite as well thought out as it should have been. (I wonder why.) I then popped over to G&D's (an ice cream shop of great renown that also serves coffee and glorious bagel creations) for breakfast and coffee. After doing some quick editing for Sarah (in whose debt I am deeply in [same for Gregg]), I walked across the street (or so) to my next tutorial.

It also went alright. In G&D's, I gave that essay a once over and it really wasn't as good as I'd hoped. It was passable, an improvement upon my first three essays according to my tutor, but not as good as the last one. I thought my tutor was being generous, but I'll take it. We chatted about 2 Henry IV for an hour and a half or so and then ended.

I stopped by the Oxford Union for some Shakespeare DVDs and then popped into Poundland (the UK version of the 99 Cent Store) for some supplies before heading home. Somehow I didn't pass out before I got back home today. I meant to go to the lectures, but instead decided that my bed was more comfortable and that the Shakespeare DVDs would be more fun. (They are. The BBC's Hollow Crown series is really good. The Jesus imagery that makes The Chronicles of Narnia looks subtle aside, it is a lot of fun.)

Suffice to say, it has been a hell of a week. I am glad for the weekend where I shall be going to Bath. But, with the exception of the sleep I'll get tonight, there is no rest for the weary. Next week I have another two essays due and to be able to do justice to my Shakespeare essay, I need to have my Tolkien essay mostly done by Sunday.

Joy of freaking joys.

But what am I complaining about? I live in Oxford.

I walk across this bridge each day.

I study here.                  

                            



                                                                              I have coffee and bagels here each week.

This is my college.                                                                                                                   

                 

          I visit places like this.                                                                          

I have to walk through woods to get to my tutorial each Friday.

Look at the friend I made.                                                                               This is a complete normal, nothing special street.

 

Who am I kidding.

This is stressful. It's painful. It's mentally, emotionally, and physically taxing. But I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world. Because at then end of the day, I live here:

Oh. Did I mention that it snowed a few weeks back? No? My bad. 

--

*Letter 163 from The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, complied and edited by Humphry Carpenter

This Week Sort of Sucked

I would be lying if I said this week didn't sort of suck. It's not the worst week I've had in school by a long shot, but it was really difficult. After a great weekend of seeing a protest at the Union, doing well on my essays, finding the Tolkien Society, going to see C.S. Lewis's home, and having a wonderfully relaxed Sunday of Fellowship of the Rings commentaries I woke up on Monday morning having to do two things this week:

1. Write an essay on Tolkien's use of poetry and song in The Lord of the Rings.
2. Do a close reading of a passage in Richard II.

So I got going. I'd started identifying verse in Rings on Sunday so I figured I could come back to that later. I've never actually done a true close reading of Shakespeare, but I was familiar with the concept. For those of you who aren't, I'll explain:

Essentially, you go through, line by line, word by word, and pick it apart. What does the word mean? Does it have other meanings? Does it relate to past of future stuff within the play? What are the other layers? What's the subtext? Does this reference cultural things? Religious things? Historical things? Is this word or phrase found elsewhere? What about themes? What about--what about--what about--and on and on. I didn't have to have cohesion, I just had to pick it apart.

I'll tell you now, it's as daunting as it sounds.

But I underestimated it. I read through the Shakespeare without difficulty, picked a scene with my tutor and then decided on a speech. I picked the speech, if you're familiar with the play, in Act IV, Scene I where Richard unkings himself and crowns Henry. It's twenty-two lines. Not terribly long, not unduly short, should be manageable, right?

Ha.

Now, while I readily admit that I am not some intellectual titan, I have a fair amount of intellectual stamina and endurance. But this close reading nearly killed me. It took about four hours of close reading to exhaust me to the point where my brain felt like it was going to ooze out of my ears. And I has only done five or so lines. This was Monday. It was due Thursday at noon. I had another essay to do.

Tuesday rolled around and by the end of it, I was ten lines in and at 3,800 words. My essays for my tutor, Peter, are only supposed to be 1,000-1,500 words. I'd been given some leeway to do 'much more' than normal, but this--this was madness. So I emailed him and asked if he wanted me to keep going and for a little more clarification on what he wanted.

He didn't get back to me at once, so I carried on. When he did get back to me, he said finish it and have a max of 2,500.

Now, part of me was relieved. I could stop going way down the rabbit hole like I had been, but part of me was not relieved. I had to finish it - seven or so more lines - and get it 2,300 words under where I was already at having not done those other seven lines. (So by the time I'd gotten the email, I was at 4,800.)

So, I did the only think I could do: get chocolate, Indian food, some wine, and finish the bloody thing that night. Before I started to edit, I was at about 5,500 words. By the time I finished editing, Thursday morning at about 1:30, it was at 2,700.

Attach in email. Send email. Pray brain still functions next day. Sleep.

I got less than six hours of sleep and I woke up.

I still had an entire 2,000-2,500 word essay to write on the use of poetry and song in Rings. So, embracing the British culture I kept calm and carried on. I got a large mocha with an add. shot from the coffee shop near the library, found a desk on the main floor, and began to work. I started at about 10 AM.

So. Many. Post-its.

Twelve hours, two meal breaks, another mocha, and only God know how many post-it notes later, the library hours ended and I had to leave with my essay almost finished. So I went home, cleared my head a bit, and started again. At about 12:45 AM I finished. I asked my friend, Gregg and edit it for me and by 2:30 in the morning on Friday was it done. 2,00 words exactly.

Print. Brush teeth. Sleep.

Get up in morning and go to my tutorial. My one tutorial. See, Peter, my Shakespeare tutor, had come down with the flue, rescheduled my tutorial for Monday, and assigned me a small essay on 'nothingness.' Well. Worse things could happen.

So I got up this morning and went to my tutorial. The sun wasn't shining, but it might as well have been. I liked my essay (still do, despite the issues). It was all primary sources. This was completely original. There was nothing I could find in my twelve hours in the library so I took a chance and went with all original though. And I really liked it.

That sounds vain and arrogant--it's not meant to be. I really, really just enjoyed this essay. It was about how the verse of the Elves, Hobbits, and of Rohan all speak to and inform the reader about their specific cultures. I loved it. If I could write a book on it, I would. I haven't had this much fun writing a proper essay since my film class where I wrote on Monsters, Inc. and that was two years ago.

But it was an essay that I had written in about fourteen, fifteen hours. I'm one of those people that needs more time than that to write an essay. I need day. I need time to think about it. Mull over points. Immerse myself. Really live with it for a bit before I get going. And so I missed some things. Some fairly crucial things.

I was frustrated. I could literally spend the next month looking at verse in Rings and be perfectly content about it, but I was given one day. One measly day because my Shakespeare tutorial had wreaked havoc on my brain and rendered it useless within hours.

And it wasn't worth it. What I sent to Peter was not great work. It was literally half of what I'd wanted to send to him. And even then, I'm not sure all of that was any good. So it was frustrating. My secondary tutorial almost killed me and robbed me of the time I needed to write a good essay for my primary.

As I realized all of this over the course of the next few hours, I naturally teared up, ate some chocolate, watched part of the Return of the King appendices (for the record, I only have three DVDs here with me. You get one guess what they are), and fell asleep until about 6:00 PM.

There was a Tolkien Society meeting tonight at 8:00 at Christ Church College so I showered, got dressed, and went to that. It takes twenty minutes to get there so as I walked I had a chat with myself about the day.

And as I walked all of doubts and insecurities I thought I'd moved past two weeks ago came back: realizations that I'm not that intelligent; that I have knowledge, but not intellect; that I wasn't bright enough to matriculate into this university so I came in the back way as an associate; that all the other students are studying highly intelligent things and I'm here doing Rings; that I've frankly never been all that bright or good at essays or having my own thoughts; that I'm good at reciting information, but not coming up with original thoughts; that I'd been lied to with the best intentions about my abilities; that I don't deserve to be here; that I won't ever achieve greatness; that I'll be average, ordinary; that I'm not special; that I'm not smart enough; that I'm not good enough.

Now - for the love of God - I am not fishing for compliments. While I know I'm being hard on myself about all of this, I also think that there is a bit of truth in some of it:

There are people much, much brighter than I. I've never been good at essays. I'm not really built as an academic. I can only think of one or two essays that was good and had original arguments where I wasn't parroting things back. I don't know if I'll achieve greatness. I might be ordinary.

And--it's hard. It's really hard. I want to fish for compliments, but I know that's wrong. I know that it's petty and co-dependent of me, to find my worth in what others think of me and to base my worth on people's opinions, but that does't make any of this easier.

But you know what does?

God. Because I know - even if don't always choose to believe it or if I don't always feel it - I know that my worth is not found in my essays. Or my intellect. Or my achievements. Or what I study. Or what I think. Or what other's think.

My worth is found in God. I am a child of God. I am a daughter of the King. I am loved. I have been given worth by Him. I am important. I am worth what He says I am worth. I have been gifted a wonderful brain, the best friends anyone could ask for, a family that loves my more than I can bear some days, a fantastic life full of wonder and adventure, and I am loved deeply and intimately by the Creator of the universe. The Guy who invented physics, poetry, trees, jellyfish, weather patters, plate tectonics, language, light, imagination, cells, diamonds, birds, quantum mechanics, fire, coffee--

This Guy--this Guy has given me my worth.

And so I cling to this. Because if I don't, if I don't cling to Him and His joy and love and mercy and goodness, if I don't I will be left with the certainty of those thoughts which plague me. And I know that I'm being hard on myself, that I allowed myself to sink into despair and wallow in my misery, that some of those thoughts are lies or only half of the story, that some of it, a lot of it, is pride and that I need to deal with it. So I'll deal with it.

I will wake up tomorrow and praise the Lord for the day He has made. I will find my worth and joy in Him. I will not wallow in my misery, rather I will continue on in my essays, take the criticism that is given, and get better because honestly, I'm not supposed to be writing perfect essays. Or be the smartest. Or the most intelligent. Or necessarily have all these ground-breaking, fully formed original thoughts about some of the most critically assessed works in existence--I'm here to get better and learn from some actual intellectual titans.

My worth is not found in my essays. My worth in found in the Lord God Almighty.

Disgustingly Magical

Most of my posts this far have been me trying to wax eloquent about the beauty and magic of this city and of England in general. I could go on ad nauseam about the my walks next to the Thames, the way the light hits the spires, the cobblestone streets, the ceilings and their intricate designs, the English feel of the place--it would get disgusting, how much I could talk about how magical this place is. But instead, I want to talk about the difficulties, the issues you didn't think you'd run into in England. Let us begin:

The cold. Oh, is it ever cold here. That should be obvious, and they tell you it's gonna be cold, but I'm from Southern California. If it gets above 85° there it's scorching hot and not worth living the house unless it's to go to the beach, and if it's below 65° we break out the puffy parkas and fear the imminent apocalypse that's sure to follow. What I'm saying is that I'm a weather wimp and so far it has yet to get above 48° here. There are days my fingers have difficulty moving, that my legs get red with cold, that I fear my face will never be warm again because the wind drives relentlessly against me. It's a bit miserable some days and my flatmates and I consider not leaving the house because of the 20 minute walk we'd have to endure. But we do. Every day. And every day we fear that we'll never be warm again.

The washing machines. Did you know that there is a philosophy behind washing machines? In America, we wash our clothes more often, and therefore our washing cycles are shorter, no more than an hour. In Europe, they wash their clothes less often, and therefore they're washing cycles are longer. If I want to wash and dry a single load of laundry, it'll take AT LEAST 3 hours. If jeans are involved, forget about it--5 hours. (Granted, I do a lower heat setting, but even in America this nonsense doesn't happen!) It's absolutely mad.

Food. I'm not even going to discuss the cuisine--it's a multifaceted discussion that warrants its own post. I'll say only this for now: some of it's as bad as you've heard and some of it is glorious. But food here. Their burgers are very odd. They have a totally different type of beef they use. Their ketchup is different. They don't have ranch. Mac and cheese comes in a can. The supermarkets don't have spicy peppers. They call "cilantro" "corriander." Their beer...oh, man. Their beer. I don't even want to talk about it. Their IPAs are weak. I really enjoyed their IPA. I hate IPAs; they're too bitter and awful, but this one was good. It's very odd. The beer sort of sucks. (Sorry, England.) Yeah. Food is a whole separate topic.

People on the street. Now, I'm from SoCal and I rag on LA for being a rude city, but at least we all smile at each other as we walk past one another. Here no one smiles. I've run into a handful of cashiers who smile, but most of the time I have to awkwardly scurry away as they stare past me and into my American soul, judging me with their unsmiling eyes filled with perpetual clouds and rain. Shopping can be a bit stressful to say the least. Seriously though. As I walk past people on the street there are no smiles. It's very odd.  

Driving in the town. Now, I don't have a car, right? So I don't have to worry about driving on the other side of the road. As a pedestrian who's had to retrain the directions to look when jay-walking, I've gotten used to it. That's not what I'm annoyed about. I'm annoyed that this city, Oxford, makes NO SENSE. Driving in it is insane. There are streets you can't go down, streets that only go one way. Streets that are for buses only, for pedestrians only, streets that are closed at such and such time of day--and then there's road work, and THEN there's traffic. Suffice to say I hate using taxis in this town and I only use them in the utmost need. 

The cold. "Wait, Sammy, you already talked about--" Yeah, yeah, I know. What I DIDN'T mention was the indoor factor. This country still uses radiators. Now, I like them. They're picturesque and toasty to lean up against, but sometimes...sometimes they don't heat the room like they should. Or at all. Like the dining room where I need to eat in the morning. Or the kitchen where I can see my breath some mornings. Yeah. It's cold here. 

Cash. This whole city runs off cash. Well, more or less. If I want good coffee from a good coffee shop, I need cash. If I want amazing food truck food, cash. G&D's magical ice cream? Cash. The market where I get great prices on veggies, fruits, and cheese? Cash. I need cash for all the cool stuff. I mean, I can go to pub and use a card, but I can't get good coffee without cash and I just never carry it. It's annoying and a total culture shift. They could use Square, but they don't. It's very odd. 

Also, everything closes down incredibly early. Unless you're a pub, club, or bar you're closed by, like, 6PM. Very strange. 

All those things being said, I love this town. I love this country. I love that I get to study Tolkien where he lived, that I get to hear world famous speakers at the Union, that my college is older than my country, that I get to walk on cobblestone paths to the library, that the English countryside is practically in my backyard, that my walk to my tutors necessitates me walking along the Thames at sun up. While there are a number of cultural oddities that befuddle and (mildly) annoy, I will happily put up with them and jokingly complain about them (except for the cold--that one is serious business; I will never be warm again) because this place really is disgustingly magical. 

Like I said. Magical.

Magical...and cold. Freaking cold.

Birdman

Before we get into this, you need to know where my head is at: I'm studying Tolkien at Oxford and this week I'm comparing Tolkien (who I love) and modernism (which I don't). I've been reading a lot of criticism and more than one person has been less than complimentary of the sort of modern way of not allowing a story to exist for the sake of being a story but making sure that it has some deeper meaning that makes the story almost secondary. It should be noted that I was writing and doing critical literary analysis right before I came and that my brain is, rather annoyingly, in the mode. So, suffice between the lit crit and this film I need an aspirin or a strong drink or something because my brain is just done.

Where my head is at is critical to how I came at this movie and my response to it.

First off: WOW. I mean--just--WOW. I scarcely know where to begin with this film and I apologize for the scatter shot review that is to follow. But that film was something else. Something both wonderful and frustrating. And something that should win Michael Keaton best actor without question. That is one of the best performances I've ever seen by anyone. And I  understand why it's up for best picture. I mean, aside from the sheer technical brilliance of it, you have the writing, the acting, the messages it's getting at, the play not within a play sort of thing, and then there's the drums and the music--let's just dig in.

So there is something I hate about this movie. I hate that it's trying to tell me something more than the story. I hate it partially because I'm currently in the "story for story's sake" camp (a place I'll always have a summer home in, but I don't plan on residing forever) and partially because I didn't quite get the ending or the music at some points or some of the writing, so that's frustrating. That being said, that it is trying to tell me something more is partially why I love it.

It's like a puzzle, this film. Parts of it make sense very quickly and other parts don't. (While I might not want to see this again in theaters, or to some extent ever because it's an emotionally draining film, I want the director's commentary, all the behind the scenes, everything where the director and writers explain what in the heck is up with this movie.) So, I think I understand the music. I think. I noticed - and this comes from having only seen it once and not having read up on it at all - that when there is music in the film there is acting. Now, obviously, they're acting the whole time. This isn't a story about Michael Keaton and Edward Norton. That isn't what I mean. What I mean is that there are only a few times when the characters are honest.

When there is no score, there is honesty. When they are on stage, there is honesty. When anyone talks to Emma Stone, the non-actor and non-producer, there is honesty.

I'd have to watch it again, but it is interesting that Riggan, Keaton's character, "controls" the score. Is there only music when he's on screen? Maybe--I don't know. I'll have to check. The music is very tricky. Very tricky indeed.

Mike, Norton's character says that he's only honest on stage and that is, by and larger true. The only other time he is even remotely honest is with Sam, Stone's character. But she is, with the exception of her mother, the only non-showbiz character. She doesn't take people's nonsense, but people, except for Mike, take hers. She is a bit dishonest like the rest of the characters. But when she's not...I don't know. It's good. She stops trying to be the tough girl with the problems.

In fact, that's one of the driving themes of the film: honesty. I think that might actually explain the ending. This is a difficult and tricky theory to explain so buckle up and try to follow (I'll try to lead well):

Okay, first off, this play takes post shots at all of Hollywood. Producers (Jake, Galiflanakis, calling the press leeches when he is the biggest one of all), critics (Riggan's speech about critics essentially calling them cowards), Hollywood (Batma--I mean Ironm--I mean Michael Ba--I mean Birdman. I totally mean Birdman, guys), celebrities ("You are not an actor, you are a celebrity."), elitists (Mike, the scene with the critic, the critic's review)--everyone...except perhaps actors. Actors are exempt from the mocking I think. Or if they aren't, they're certainly not roasted like everyone else is. So, the actor is someone who, as exemplified in Riggan, struggling with all these forces, all these others pounding against them.

Second, there is a theme of trying to be you, trying to be worth something, trying to have meaning as a human being. And while the film has some interesting things to say about that, it ends on what I think is a positive note. Sam seems to kind of get past her front to an extent and accept who she is and I think at the end so does Riggan. I think the ending goes like this:

He flies away at the end (literally???) with the music because he accepts that he is Birdman and that's not bad. He's trying so hard to be something he isn't: a member of the theater elite who see him as an invading Hollywood celebrity trying to make themselves feel like they are worth something by doing "real" acting. (That is a discussion and essay unto itself so, I'm not even going to go further down that rabbit hole.) But he isn't. He has worth (another topic from this film that is an essay unto itself) is being who he is, not who he's trying to be. He tries to hard to get love from people who don't love him and never will. He has a group of people who love him and he needs to embrace that rather than shove it away. I think it's saying that actors need to embrace their craft is whatever aspect it comes in.

That's my crazy theory on the ending. If you think I'm wrong, tell me because I probably am.

Now I'm just going to gush about the film:

Use of music: covered, but oh my gosh it was SO BRILLIANT.

Writing: curious. Very curious. ON stage the dialogue feels honest, but OF stage it can feel as if it's being written for a play and a bit dishonest, forced. Also, all the women, except for Sam, feel like that off stage. What does that mean? NO IDEA. But I love it. This is the "play not within a play" thing I was getting at. The play takes place off stage, but the play itself is where the honesty is. It's a very smart reversal.

Acting: GUYS. I hope I see Galiflanakis in more roles like this because he was awesome. Stone was sublime. Norton was just so perfect. Keaton deserves the Oscar. Period.

Cinematography and Editing: Oscar gold. And also just fun to watch. But really. If I could explain the feeling in my soul that the cleverness of this brings I would, but I can't. It was stupendous. There are maybe - MAYBE - four intentional cuts (and those "cuts" are not really cuts at all, but clever fades--I mean, they're totally cuts, but they're not meant to be). The rest was almost totally seamless and beautifully clever. Just give them the bloody Oscar and spare everyone else the non-tension and disappointment a few weeks form now. I have no doubt they are equally brilliant, but let me explain something about the Academy:

They not only love films about film (which is what this essentially is), but they love the clever stuff, the different, the films that have that "holy crap" "wow-factor" thing going on. That, if for no other reason, is why it should do very well. It should also do well because it's an, if I may be so bold, instant classic.

This will be shown in film classes, scholars will write essays about this film, books will be published--this film will be, and should be, critically picked at for a long, long while to come because it is so complex and deep and also rather straightforward.

So there you have it. My scatter shot review. Please comment below telling me why I'm wrong and what I missed because I know I am and did.

Final words: I loved and I hated. I both grasped it and watched as it slipped through my fingers. It enthralled, frustrated, delighted, annoyed, and made my head ache as I tried to wrap my brain around it. Suffice to say, it is an excellent film and an instant classic.

UPDATE:

I woke up this morning and realized that I'd missed it, the point of the film. Well, I'd missed what I think is its main point. The film is about love. Where do we get love, will anybody love us, is love the same thing as admiration, what about loving ourselves? THAT is what this film is about. Love and ultimately people finding it, people discovering that they have worth and accepting it.

Think about it. Think about how the film ends, when characters stop being used and the circumstances around it, think about the two women not being important after they kiss, about Mike not being important after he kisses Sam (who, again, I still think is the only exception to this--don't know why...), think about the mask in the hospital when Riggan accepts that he is Birdman and flies off into the sunset. When people get it, when they finish that arc, they're not on screen anymore as an important character. They figured it out and get to disappear from the chaos of people trying to find love.

This film is about love.