A Prairie Home Companion

Robert Altman’s A Prairie Home Companion consumes you like a warm summer breeze, the kind that, upon inhaling, gives you a momentary sensation of pure bliss. Your body relaxes, your mind becomes silent and peaceful, and suddenly you feel as if life itself finally makes some sort of sense, and eternal happiness can finally be achieved at last. Of course, these moments are special because of their temporary nature, and should be enjoyed to their fullest, instead of bitterly regarded, with the knowledge they will eventually come to an end. Altman’s film captures the melancholy exhilaration of life itself with gentle humor, glorious music, brilliant performances, and quietly powerful observation.

The Prairie radio show itself, created by host Garrison Keillor, has been both renowned and criticized for its wall-to-wall folk music and tongue-in-cheek nostalgia. From the anti-establishment irreverence of MASH (1970) to the exquisite abstractness of 3 Women (1977), Altman has succeeded in enthralling and detracting viewers with his unconventional staging, overlapping dialogue, and sporadic dismantling of plot in favor of unstructured spontaneity. Put Keillor and Altman together, and you’re obviously going to run the risk of rubbing contemporary viewers the wrong way. And yet the two aged artists compliment each other beautifully, and the result is a film that works as both pure entertainment and a heartfelt meditation on death.

Written by Keillor, the film tells the fictional tale of the radio show’s reluctantly final live broadcast, taking place on a stage that will soon be destroyed to make room for a parking lot, built by Texas conglomerates. Working in a style reminiscent of Nashville (1975), Altman shot practically the entire film within the show’s own Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, giving the entire production a built-in authenticity. In a technique that can only be referred to as “quintessential Altman”, the film refuses to formally introduce its ensemble, while instead placing the audience in the middle of the action. This allows the film’s action to feel transcendent instead of forced, and gives the viewer a chance to experience the cinematic events without being told what to think about them.

For what may or may not be his final film, Altman has assembled one of the finest casts I’ve ever seen in one movie. Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin are nothing short of sublime in both their melodic and verbal duets as the last remaining members of a sister act. Kevin Kline is a witty private eye blending classic noir brooding with the slapstick neurosis of Clouseau. Virginia Madsen combines the radiant flavor of a heavenly apparition from 30’s era Hollywood with a surprising dose of humanity as (yes) the angel of death. Tommy Lee Jones embodies a conglomerate representative, harboring the tragedy of lost dreams within an impenetrable shield of cold indifference. Lindsay Lohan delivers her best work to date as Streep’s angst-ridden daughter, paying off on the potential she exuded in numerous early films (most notably The Parent Trap).

John C. Reilly and Woody Harrelson make a hilarious comic duo, exchanging unbelievably corny barbs along the lines of, “Did you know diarrhea is genetic? Yeah, it runs in your jeans.” Sue Scott is the makeup lady, who is as emotional as the performers are about the show’s sudden demise. L.Q. Jones touchingly portrays an aged country singer, while Marylouise Burke exudes an almost youthful purity of devotion as his wife. Prairie regulars Linda and Robin Williams (not the Robin you’re thinking of) perform some rousing duets, while The Guys All-Star-Shoe Band supply the marvelously evocative score. Tom Keith, also from the actual show, adds madcap spontaneity to a hysterical improvised ad for duct tape.

Sporting the face of a time-worn bulldog, Garrison Keillor plays himself like he has been for three decades, presiding over his show with an unshakable air of deadpan befuddlement. Jearlyn Steele, Tim Russell, and Prudence Johnson share a few amusing interludes with Keillor, while the truly pregnant Maya Rudolph (known for her exceptional impersonations on Saturday Night Live) is his long-suffering stage manager. Under the luminous lens of cinematographer Ed Lachman, this astonishing ensemble creates the kind of mesmerizing, whimsical magic that makes the 105-minute running time slip past in the blink of an eye. The passion for nostalgia and performance is so palpable both onstage and off, that various characters can’t help but get caught up in singing during ordinary conversations.

Even though I am not at all a fan of country music, each of the film’s songs captivated me, from Harrelson and Reilly’s side-splitting duet “Bad Jokes” and Lohan’s rollickingly improvised rendition of “Frankie and Johnny”, to Streep and Tomlin’s show-stopping “My Minnesota Home” and the moving finale of “Red River Valley” and “In the Sweet By And By”.

This film comes a year after another of cinema’s greatest directors, Ingmar Bergman, also reflected on his twilight years and preoccupation with death in Saraband. After years of providing brilliant insight into the nature of the human condition, both filmmakers seem to have had a simple yet profound revelation in their old age: in the end, life is ultimately what you make of it. Yet while the characters in Saraband linger over their past sins and regrets, Altman’s Prairie-folk choose to find life as a cause for celebration all the way until death finally walks through their own door.

In closing, I must direct your attention to an improvised scene, still remaining in the film, which Kline mused over during his guest spot on Late Night with Conan O’Brien. While uncorking a bottle of wine during an extended exchange with Rudolph, Kline accidentally sent the bottle cap soaring, culminating in the cap slamming 81-year-old director Altman in the face. This prompted Kline to look off-screen and exclaim, “Sorry!” Having recently had a heart transplant, Altman’s health had deteriorated to the point that he directed some scenes from a wheel chair, and hired filmmaker and longtime admirer Paul Thomas Anderson (Magnolia) to guest direct on a few chosen days. And yet, at that moment, Altman didn’t yell cut, and kept the camera rolling. He simply didn’t want to spoil the fun.

Ending note: I had the rare honor to briefly meet Robert Altman a couple years ago when he received a lifetime achievement award from the Chicago Film Critics. As I gushed about how inspiring he was to my younger generation of film lovers, his eyes were entirely focused on my gaze, as his seemingly frail, bony hand held mine in a vice-grip. With a soft, gravely voice conveying the utmost sincerity, Altman replied, “Thank you son. That truly is good to hear.” While A Prairie Home Companion may or may not be the final film of Altman’s career, it will undeniably serve as fitting end-note for the extraordinary life of a man who never ceased to put humanity before celebrity, conviction before convention, truth before artifice.

Rating: ***** (out of *****)