March 4, 2006
A Robert Altman Weekend, pt. 2
When I was in high school, I'd only seen two or three of Altman's pictures; of those, my favorite was Short Cuts, primarily because it had introduced me to the work Raymond Carver. Hearsay indicated to me that he was an important filmmaker, but it would be another few years before I realized why (when I finally caught up with Nashville at home).
I have, though, a very strong impression of Robert Altman himself, formed during that period and thanks to these ads for the Sundance Channel at the time (or perhaps it was IFC) that ran before the features at Landmark Theaters. They consisted of various directors relating amusing anecdotes; among others, there was Altman, talking about some fan who'd come up to him and asked him about some extenuating parallel between the color of the money in one of his films and the shade of grass in other. It was a ridiculous comparison, and Altman laughed as he recalled it, but he didn't dismiss it; instead, he introduced to me what is now a permanent piece of my vocabulary when he explained that, "in fact, everything is legitimately readable-into-ish."
3. California Split (1974)
Here's a picture that immediately qualifies as 'vintage' Altman. It's a loose, rambling tale of two gamblers casually looking for the next a big score; it stars Elliot Gould; it actually marked Altman's first use of 8-track dialogue recording to capture those overlapping conversations; and, like all of Altman's masterpieces, it arrives at its thematic conclusions by defiantly refusing to make any. When, at the climax of the film, Bill (George Segal) and Charlie (Gould) take their winnings and good luck and compulsively feed them back into the crap tables, we expect them to lose everything; that's just what happens in stories like these, when the characters become victims of their own addictions. But no, the luck keeps running, and the stack of cash keeps growing, and when they finally throw in the towel, they're significantly richer. There's no need for a dramatic reversal of fortune here, because Altman's spent the whole film demonstrating that they're already losers.
The roving cameras, the ensemble casts, the multiple tracks of dialogue and the seemingly haphazard narratives are all factors in Altman's specific form of découpage. In fact, he generally ignores narrative altogether, assembling his films out of overlapping interactions, building them up layer by random layer until a deep understanding of context and character is created. In the case of California Split, this sense of character is a substitute for plot; in other films, such as The Long Goodbye, it both substantiates and takes precedence to the plot (and in the case of O.C. And Stiggs, it underscores the inanity of the film itself and Altman's contempt for its genre).
I mentioned that one of the 'classic Altman' earmarks is the presence of Elliot Gould; indeed, I equate his loveably irrascible presence so strongly with Altman's early work - almost as much as Shelly Duvall - that I was somewhat shocked to realize they only made four pictures together (and in the last, Nashville, Gould merely cameoed as himself). I suppose, at this point, it's a bit of a pipe dream to hope that they might collaborate one more time; it would certainly be the bee's knees if they did.
They did collaborate, in a manner of speaking, on the California Split DVD. "I'm having such a good time watching this," says Gould on the commentary track, which I'm having a good time listening to as I write. The track also features Altman, Segal and screenwriter Joe Walsh, and much of it consists of the four men just watching the film, pointing out all their friends, reminiscing. Altman lets the other men do the talking, which is a rarity for him; unlike other directors of his generation, he's recorded commentary tracks for the majority of his films, and he generally has quite a bit to say about them.
I could go on and on about how wonderful these recordings are, how invaluable Altman's perspective is, how well he explains exactly why the films work, how sincerely and moderately he seems to appreciate and even love every picture he's made, every person who's helped him do it; but instead, I'll just sum them all up with a quote from the Three Women commentary, in which he says that "Sissy Spacek is the greatest thing since...since hash."
Vincent & Theo (1990)
This film preceeded The Players and thus marked the advent of Altman's so-called-return (fans know, of course, that he never actually went away). It's a fairly strong, stridently somber work, admirable for almost entirely escaping the shoehorn of the biopic. This isn't a life study but a psychological portrait, much in the same way that Bennet Miller's Capote is.
On Friday, Peter Nellhaus wrote a fine critique of the picture, but I think he missed a vital point when he wrote that
"an assumption is made that the film viewer is familiar with at least the outlines of van Gogh's life, and that the viewer understands already what makes van Gogh significant as an artist...Vincent and Theo reinforces the idea that the film was made simply because the artist was famous, leaving why he is famous unanswered."
It's true that a familiarity with van Gogh is helpful, but it's certainly not necessary; the film doesn't explain his fame because that's not what it's about. Indeed, his specific paintings are scarcely remarked upon (the rather extraordinary scene in the sunflower field, which manages to visually depict the mental process of impressionism, notwithstanding). For Altman's purposes, it's enough that he is, simply, a painter.
And, I suppose, that he's a talented and unsuccessful one, because those traits are important in defining van Gogh's relationship with his brother Theo; as the title infers, this is the true subject of the film. The world of difference established between them in the first scene is, through that fragmented découpage, torn down over the course of the picture. The last fifteen minutes, which find Theo succumbing to the same fate as his brother with shocking rapidity, are unexpectedly devastating.
Peter points out that, in dealing with van Gogh's financial failings, Altman may have been accentuating his own struggles over the past fifteen years. I too noticed these similarities, especially when van Gogh tells a naysayer that "I do work. I'm a painter." One of the things I love about Altman's aforementioned director's commentaries is he understands that filmmaking is work (albeit with the possibility for transcendent results). He would never attempt to dispell the magic of cinema, but he has no room for that magic when discussing the logic and methodology of the craft itself.
Posted by David Lowery at March 4, 2006 12:57 PM
Comments
"He would never attempt to dispell the magic of cinema, but he has no room for that magic when discussing the logic and methodology of the craft itself."
Interesting point, David.
For some reason, I think we prefer it when artists don't talk about the magic of their own work.
We don't always want them to even be aware of it.
(It is perfectly fine for them to talk about the magic of other artists' work though!)
Worse: when an artist demystifies and prosaically unpacks one's own work. Which is why I have real problems with Kiarostami's "Ten On Ten" (and he's a filmmaker I adore). But this film sets my teeth on edge. It is filled with reductive platitudes and simplistic prescriptions that frankly insult the complexity (and the magic) of his films.
Posted by: girish at March 6, 2006 7:15 AM
I love reading interviews with filmmakers--I have almost every single one in the Faber & Faber series. The best ones in that series (e.g. Kieslowski, Lynch, Cronenberg, von Trier) illuminate their films (and their own personalities and sensibilities) without really demystifying or laying the films bare. The "mysteries" of their films never seem diminished or "explained away" after I read what they have to say about them.
Posted by: girish at March 6, 2006 7:23 AM
Well said, Girish. I don't like it at all when artists get self-analytical (unpacking, as you put it, is an excellent term for it); I especially hate it when I catch myself doing it (always in private thus far, luckily). There are things that my work might say about me that I'd rather just not think about.
Altman, along with the directors you mention (Kieslowski perhaps being the prime example, and Lynch being the exception, since he almost never gets into concrete specifics of any sort when talking about filmmaking), can at length talk about how a scene is constructed, and why it was constructed that way; but while he elucidates the means, he leaves the ends entirely up to the viewer.
Posted by: Ghostboy at March 6, 2006 12:29 PM