©2009 Ryan C. Tittle
Robert Altman was one of the great American filmmakers and his death was a great shock to me because, even at 81, he was at the top of his game. When he received the Honorary Oscar at the Academy Awards, I was completely surprised—first of all, because they'd never given Altman an Oscar for anything—secondly because his movies are so kinetic, so improvisational, and so different that I just assumed he was still a young kid. He was in some ways. Politically outspoken, with a new heart, and producing some of his best work. But, life (as it is so hard to learn) rarely impresses us and he has been taken from this world.
His film career began with his involvement in the Air Force, making instructional documentary films. This led to extensive work in television, directing episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Maverick, Bonanza, and Combat! This work (which he hated, feeling constantly under scrutiny) led to a few considerably non-canonical feature films such as That Cold Day in the Park. But, the spirit and the auteur-pointed creativity of this genius would burst through with his next film, which would be one of the higher points of the creative force that was Hollywood in the 1970's. Adapted from Richard Hooker's book about the mobile hospitals during the Korean War, M*A*S*H was Altman's opportunity to attack those in charge. Released in 1970, the movie was daring for its layered soundtrack with constantly over-lapping dialogue, its irreverence for the catastrophe of war, its use of profanity, and for its social commentary on Vietnam. (In fact, there is only one reference to Korea in the entire picture and that was added as a title by the producers.)
From this, Altman emerged as a major filmmaker—breaking every studio rule, casting the greatest of American actors for large, ensemble casts (getting rid of all ego), and doing things his way. M*A*S*H begat other American masterpieces such as McCabe and Mrs. Miller, The Long Goodbye (loosely adapted from the Raymond Chandler novel), and Nashville. In one decade, Altman had his breakthrough and his downfall. As his films became more singular and more anti/un-Hollywood, the critics lost interest. And audiences diminished from the hoards of people who embraced M*A*S*H to small, cult groups who hung onto films such as Images and Quintet.
The straw that broke the camel's back and the film that released Altman from the studio system entirely was a big-screen musical adaptation of the Popeye cartoons. The first film vehicle for Robin Williams, the big-budget disaster could alternatively be seen as the perfect Altman formula or the biggest mistake he ever made. As an adaptation of the cartoons, it is sound, but as a film, it was a muddied mess. In the process, it virtually ruined the career of songwriter Harry Nilsson, who should've been whipped repeatedly for those awful songs. Regardless, at a time when Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate made Hollywood scared of directors with vision and Star Wars was making it impossible to do anything but make money, Popeye was apparently part of the destruction of the artistic center of Hollywood and the filmmaking greats of the '70's would have to find something else to do.
And many of them fell away. Peter Bogdanovich, George Roy Hill, Terrence Malick—all remained silent and/or jaded for years. But, Altman kept plugging away. He turned his attention to the theatre, where he directed the original production of Ed Graczyk's Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, which got him back into making movies—albeit very small-budgeted ones. The film version of that play launched the movie career of Cher and he continued making film adaptations of plays, including versions of Streamers, Secret Honor, and Beyond Therapy. He also slowly got back into directing for television and the pinnacle of his T. V. work was the satirical mini-series Tanner '88, written by legendary Doonesbury cartoonist Garry Trudeau.
So few American dramatic artists live to see their work come back into prominence if they've already been torn down, but Altman was one of the lucky few whose work began to flourish in his older age. He came back strong in Hollywood with The Player, a master-comedy about the Hollywood industry which had been so cruel to him. This was followed by his greatest achievement—Short Cuts—an adaptation of nine Raymond Carver short stories which interweave. The mosaic of American life and the stellar ensemble make for one of the most revered artistic on-screen visionary works of all time. Back in the Hollywood limelight, Altman could again pursue his own interests with more financial backing. Nearing his eighties, he completed another perfect Altmanesque picture with Gosford Park, which was even more honored by critics and audiences than Short Cuts. His final film—A Prairie Home Companion—adapted from Garrison Keillor's seminal radio show was a filmic elegy which lamented the death of radio, the death of loved ones, the death of small-town America, but which no one thought would be Altman's final statement. He seemed so alive, so productive. The fact that Magnolia director Paul Thomas Anderson had been brought on to step in should Altman die making Companion was laughable because it seemed like he never would die. But, we didn't know he had a new heart put in ten years ago when he announced it at the Oscars. And we didn't know he had leukemia either.
It seems odd that a writer would respect a director so much considering he had almost no connection/respect for scripts. Most famously, he barely used Ring Lardner, Jr.'s Academy Award-winning screenplay for M*A*S*H. He looked at screenplays as blueprints. Sometimes, they weren't even blueprints, but simply an excuse to make movies. He made one of his greatest art-house flicks—3 Women—based on a dream he'd had and using a script compiled at the last minute as more of a shooting schedule than a screenplay.
But, Altman was into one thing I'm very much into—humanity and human behavior. His films—with their meddling cameras, long-shots, zooms, and voyeuristic eye caught actors portraying human beings in a way that intense close-ups never could. Watching an Altman film on DVD is a frantic exercise because you so have little sense of how much of the actor's nuances he captures. This is because they're all squelched on the smaller screen. Having had the pleasure of seeing A Prairie Home Companion in the theatres, I was treated for the first time seeing an Altman film how they should be seen. The DVDs are fabulous records and if you've never seen one of his films, you are missing out, but the theatrical experience of it was phenomenal.
He was a great filmmaker, he loved actors, he fought systems, he created movies that I've loved more than any other movies and he created films I can't stand to touch in a video store. But, I've never disrespected one film he's ever made. Because he was a singular artist doing amazing things, deepening the cinematic art form and giving us always something new and fresh, on-the-fly and completely thought-out. It's a sadder world now that he's not in it because no American filmmaker can hold a candle to him.
Some of my favorite moments include the opening moments of M*A*S*H where the dour and beautiful and confusing song "Suicide is Painless" plays over an overhead shot of ravaged bodies being sent to the mobile army surgical hospital unit; the final moment of The Long Goodbye where the casual protagonist Elliot Gould makes his character's first stand—his first action-moment—and where we learn that truly nothing says goodbye like a gun; the beginning of the connection between Shelley Duvall and Sissy Spacek in 3 Women where the camera knows almost no more than we do as we discover the film and the characters with Altman; the complete and utter chaos of the opening musical number in Popeye, which I have to watch with the sound off but nevertheless evokes a cartoon world perfectly; the complete passion and utter disgust from the ill-fated lovers as they share their final kiss in Fool for Love; the perfect casting in a completely imperfect movie called Beyond Therapy which elicits the most frantic performances ever given from Julie Hagerty and Jeff Goldblum; the look of dread in Tim Robbins' eyes as he gets pulled deeper and deeper into the mystery of The Player; the scene in Short Cuts where Matthew Modine tries to pull from Julianne Moore her confession while she is completely naked from the waist down; the scenes where the servant girl learns of the class hierarchy in Gosford Park; the scene where the young dancer with an entire career ahead of her almost casually snaps a muscle in The Company, leaving her life over before it starts and the quiet catastrophe on her face; and the scene where the Angel of Death in A Prairie Home Companion takes L. Q. Jones to his final resting place—wherever that is.
It is a stunning career and it deeply saddens me that there is no more Altman to come, but unlike many other prolific artists who work so much that they make several okay films as opposed to a few great ones (Woody Allen) or artists who create so many works they almost parody themselves (Sam Shepard, David Mamet), Altman made so many more gems than he made rocks. I have loved and hated his films and he's given me more joy than ten other filmmakers I love. If he's missed by no one else, he'll be missed by me. Obviously I never knew him personally, but I feel like I knew what he was doing. I would hope to do a fraction of what he did.
Note: This review of the work of Robert Altman was written days after his death in 2006.
Robert Altman was a filmmaker from Kansas City, Missouri. He directed the films A Prairie Home Companion, The Company, Gosford Park, Dr. T. and the Women, Cookie's Fortune, The Gingerbread Man, Kansas City, Jazz '34, Pret-a-Porter, Short Cuts, The Player, Vincent &: Theo, O. C. and Stiggs, Beyond Therapy, Fool for Love, Secret Honor, Streamers, Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, Popeye, HealtH, A Perfect Couple, Quintet, A Wedding, 3 Women, Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull's History Lesson, Nashville, California Split, Thieves Like Us, The Long Goodbye, Images, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Brewster McCloud, M*A*S*H, That Cold Day in the Park, Countdown, The James Dean Story (with George W. George), and The Delinquents. For television, he directed Tanner on Tanner, The Real McTeague, Black and Blue, McTeague, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial, Tanner '88, Basements, The Laundromat, Rattlesnake in a Cooler, Precious Blood, Nightmare in Chicago, and episodes of Gun, Premiere, The Long, Hot Summer, Kraft Suspense Theatre, Combat!, The Gallant Men, Kraft Mystery Theatre, Bus Stop, Route 66, Bonanza, The Roaring '20's, Surfside 6, Lawman, Maverick, The Gale Storm Show, Sugarfoot, U. S. Marshal, Westinghouse Desilu Playhouse, The Millionaire, Hawaiian Eye, Whirlybirds, Troubleshooters, Bronco, Peter Gunn, and Alfred Hitchock Presents. As well as serving as producer for many of his own films, he also produced Trixie, Liv, Afterglow, Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, Remember My Name, The Late Show, Welcome to L. A. and served as executive producer for Roads and Bridges and Rich Kids. He died in Los Angeles, California.