by Derek Smith 6/16/06
With A Prairie Home
Companion, Robert Altman has once again showcased his talent for
creating complex, insular worlds for his characters to inhabit.
There is, perhaps, no director as generous and giving, yet the freedom
he gives his actors is always for the benefit of the final product,
adding
additional layers to his filmic reality that are to be peeled back like
an onion and enjoyed by the audience. His latest film may not be
a triumph, but the topic matter makes it an intensely personal film
and, like The Company, a
meditation on how the director views the world and the way he makes
films. Although Garrison Keillor is not the direct stand-in for
Altman that Malcolm McDowell was in his previous film, one can at least
see the similarities as his existence and identity is wrapped up in the
organizing and directing a large performance. And while the joy
and laughs one gets from the film comes mostly from the performances,
what makes them so heartfelt and immediate is not simply the
realization that this is their final show but the contemplation of life
and death that surrounds them. I'll be the first to admit that
Virginia Madsen's "angel" character was probably a mistake - although
her moments with Keillor and Kline are almost enough to excuse the
obviousness of her purpose - but is quite necessary to act as the
counterpoint to Tommy Lee Jones' "death". He acts not just as
death to Keillor's show, but to Altman's cinema as well. As he
watches the performers giving it their all, he remarks that he feels as
if he's in a zoo watching some long-lost primitive civilization which
somehow survived. Soon after, there is a shot composed so that
Jones sees the
stage through a rectangular glass frame (probably of 2.35:1 proportions
for the perfect in-joke), making his biting remarks about the
irrelevancy of the show reflect onto Altman himself.
Of course, harping on the film's self-reflexivity about
the conclusion of the career of one of our greatest director's ignores
the fact that this is still an Altman film and that it's effectiveness
lies in the same backstage/on-stage duality that pervades many of his
films. The interplay between Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly
or Meryl Streep (an actress who normally bothers me to no end, but
gives a remarkably naturalistic performance here) and Lily Tomlin
creates the feeling of true friendship, but also something that goes
beyond that. The many years these people have spent with one
another has created an unbreakable bond which Altman manages to make
the audience feel. This strong sense of the backstage "world"
allows him to piece together scenes in a way that remains
completely seamless as every room and each character contain
traces of the other. Their actions and emotions are so palpable
that it feels as if we are being presented everything at once and while
it doesn't reach the heights of a Nashville
or McCabe & Mrs. Miller,
it is certainly another example of Altman's genius. The frenetic
energy of the performers is infectious, driving the show
along smoothly with this inexplicable communal power which transforms
potential tragedies (a near breakdown, the forced extension of a duct
tape commercial, and a potential 6-minutes of dead air at the show's
end) into the show's, and the film's, greatest moments. Altman
has always said that the best scenes and most memorable moments in his
films came about through mistakes and the live improvisation of
Keillor & Company is reminiscent of this credo.
Cinematic
Reflections
