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 (061606) Robert
Altman's "A Prairie Home Companion" is at least as much
about the director as it is Garrison Keillor's long-running
weekly radio show. Altman's long career has seen him
subverting to his own purposes such unlikely candidates as
the hard-boiled detective film ("The Long Goodbye"), the
drawing room mystery ("Gosford Park"), the teenage gross-out
comedy ("O.C. and Stiggs") and the comic strip movie
("Popeye"). So making a movie about a faux-nostalgic radio
revue is in keeping with Altman's agenda: Aim for the
unlikely.
The film is a rich, funny and warm examination of mortality
told in sublimely subtle ways. Most of the great movies
addressing death and dying, be they dramatic ("Wings of
Desire"), comic ("Defending Your Life") or in-between ("The
Life and Death of Colonel Blimp") are viewed from beyond the
grave. But "A Prairie Home Companion," employing drama,
comedy and music, looks at it straight on from this side,
which is not to say it is without sentiment.
Saying good-bye to someone or something one loves is never
less than bittersweet, and Altman and Keillor, playing
himself in the screenplay he wrote, acknowledge this while
carefully stepping around any mush. Their film is set on the
night of the final broadcast of the show -- it's been axed
by its new corporate owners, and some cast members are
concerned that its host has elected not to acknowledge the
fact on-air: "I've tried to do every show as if it were my
last show," says Keillor, as offhandedly as he can without
sounding smug.
While that may be just a poetic twist of the cliche about
living every day as if it were your last, it is still a
homily to embrace, and "A Prairie Home Companion" lives up
to it. Altman is 81, and when he graciously accepted the
lifetime achievement award given to him by the Academy of
Motion Picture Arts and Sciences earlier this year, he
revealed he had heart transplant surgery more than a decade
previous. For "A Prairie Home Companion" to meet the
insurance requirements of the studio financing it, Altman
had to have an understudy ("Magnolia" director Paul Thomas
Anderson), just in case.
Thank goodness that wasn't necessary, because should this be
Altman's last feature film, it accomplishes what few "final"
films have: It is both a sweet summation and a casually,
almost nonchalantly, great movie. Like the best Altman
films, the plot is secondary to the characters, who, of
course, are all performers -- even the iron-jawed
businessman who arrives like the grim reaper to close down
the show.
And like Keillor, who tells the tall tales, reads the old-timey,
clever commercials, introduces the songs and even sings a
few, they are all true Characters, with a capital C. The
narrator is Guy Noir (Kevin Kline), a security guard who
dresses and speaks like a detective in a pulp novel and who
gives us the lowdown on the cast members.
Yolanda Johnson (Meryl Streep, doing her own singing like
everyone else in the cast) and her older sister Rhonda (Lily
Tomlin) are the surviving members of a family singing group
who, when not onstage, reminisce in their dressing room
about the old days and the songs they sang for decades.
Listening with outward disdain and boredom that camouflages
actual interest is Yolanda's daughter, Lola (Lindsay Lohan),
whose journal is full of poems about suicide.
Dusty (Woody Harrelson) and Lefty (John C. Reilly) are a
longtime duo who perform cowboy songs and tell exceedingly
bad, often off-color, jokes, much to the dismay of the
show's harried stage manager (Tim Russell). Chuck Akers (L.Q.
Jones) is the real deal, an elderly Western balladeer who
really could shoe a horse or rope a doggie if anyone were to
need that done.
Chuck also has a thing for the show's "sandwich lady" (Marylouise
Burke), who tries to make sure all the performers are fed,
while the very pregnant Molly (Maya Rudolph) does what she
can to make sure Keillor makes all his cues and has his
script in order, even if it means interrupting his backstage
yarns.
As in Altman's more obviously ambitious panoramas like
"Nashville," every player, onstage and off, has a story to
tell and a desire they want fulfilled, whether they know it
or not. And the ethereally beautiful, mysterious woman
(Virginia Madsen) who has been given the run of backstage
courtesy of an instantly smitten Guy Noir, just may fulfill
some of these desires; she may even be heaven-sent.
In a movie season containing more soulless bombast and
recycled cynicism than usual, this film feels heaven-sent.
For fans of Keillor’s radio show, not to worry. The movie
version is as comforting in its satiric nostalgia as is the
weekly broadcast, though I do think that it was somewhat of
a mistake not including the weekly “News From Lake Wobegon”
segment in the cinematic version. This would have been a
real opportunity for the film to have expanded beyond its
setting, at least for one scene, and given the viewer an
even greater sense of both Keillor’s and Altman’s
storytelling abilities.
The movie is not just enormously entertaining, it is deeply
moving, both in the way it celebrates storytelling and
storytellers -- and in the unembarrassed way its creators
and performers remind us how much we need them. The
storytellers are not immortal, but the stories are a
different matter, especially if they are told, or sung, with
generosity, dignity and respect for an audience the
performers may never see.
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