Thanks to Seth Rogen and Kim Jong-un, I got to see a Robert Altman movie tonight

A funny thing happened on my way home to Houston from the CMA Music Festival in Nashville: My departure was delayed, so I got to see Robert Altman's That Cold Day in the Park -- a singularly idiosyncratic 1969 feature I had not seen since its original release -- at a major Altman retrospective organized by the Belcourt Theatre here in Music City.

But wait, there's more: At the end of the screening, I got so speak with two very special Belcourt guests: Kathryn Reed Altman, the filmmaker's widow, and frequent Altman collaborator Michael Murphy, who played a small but key role in the 1969 film. Cowabunga.

Actually, this was my second sampling of the Belcourt's Altman retrospective during this Nashville sojourn. Last Wednesday, I had the irresistible opportunity to see Nashville on the 40th anniversary of that 1975 classic's theatrical opening. And again, the Belcourt offered a special added attraction: Vintage TV news footage of the movie's local premiere, an extravaganza attended by several real-life country music stars (including Minnie Pearl, who seemed impressed by the acting but not by Nashville itself) and a few stars cast as country artists in Altman's epic. (Henry Gibson, evidently sensing that many locals were less than impressed by the film's depiction of Music City denizens, diplomatically told TV reporters how much he really, really enjoyed shooting Nashville in Nashville.) 

The Robert Altman retrospective continues through July 7 at the Belcourt Theatre, Nashville's premier art-house cinema. In a brochure prepared for the series, Belcourt programming director Toby Leonard credits Seth Rogen and Kim Jong-un for making it all possible. No, seriously.

Leonard writes:

The week between Christmas and New Year's has always been a tricky one in the art house world. Dominated by big-budget studio pictures with visions of gold statuettes dancing in their heads, what's an independent cinema to do? In 2013, we had a major success in that period with Inside Llewyn Davis on one screen and the opening of a three-week Hitchcock series on the other. In 2014, our plans were to have a solid run of Birdman going, with a series of Capra restorations tacked onto the end of our yearly holiday run of It's a Wonderful Life. By Thanksgiving, the Belcourt was already on track for a record year for ticket sales. But there were strange rumblings afoot. 

On Monday, Dec. 22, as friends and relatives were dialing down for the holidays, Sony Pictures -- at the behest of major multiplexes, fearful of North Korean retaliation -- had already put its planned Christmas Day release of The Interview on hold. By that point, many independent theaters had made offers to Sony to screen the film. I'd made my own inquiry, perhaps as some sort of joke. After all, what does a mainstream bro-comedy have to do with our mission anyhow? But by Monday evening, with the aid of the Alamo Drafthouse chain and the leadership committee of the Art House Convergence (upon which we sit), it seemed that a last-minute release of The Interview could actually happen. On Tuesday, it became a reality. Since Sony had restored the Capra films we'd planned for that week, we had no issue cutting showtimes from that to allow The Interview to open two days later. Local and national media descended. The rest is history and is totally on Google.

So, why rehash this story at all? It goes back to misgivings about the film itself and why, at the end of a banner year, would we alter plans to accommodate this movie (which was ultimately validated by an amazing outpouring of support). As programmer of the theatre and nonetheless still conflicted, I resolved to use our cut of the ticket sales for good. I decided on Robert Altman.

Many larger-scale repertory series have been underwritten by generous donors who have allowed us to really go out on a limb with some of our larger projects: Hitchcock, Bresson, the Coen Brothers, just to name a few. However, this one is different.

So, here it is, 19 features covered entirely by the proceeds from one truly remarkable folly. Thank you, Robert Altman. Thank you, Seth Rogen. And thank you, Nashville, for 90 years of support.

Under the influence

Woody Allen insists his work has not influenced other filmmakers. No, really. At the Venice Film Festival, he told reporters: "I don't mean that to sound like false modesty, but I could always feel the influence of my contemporaries — Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Altman, Steven Spielberg — but I have never seen my influence on anyone."

Two questions immediately come to mind. First: Which Woody Allen most obviously reflects a Spielbergian influence? Second: Has Woody Allen ever seen... well, gee, I almost don't know where to begin. David Frankel's Miami Rhapsody? Julie Delpy's 2 Days in Paris? Anand Tucker's (and Steve Martin's) Shopgirl? Noah Baumbach's Mr. Jealousy? Ed Burns' Sidewalks of New York? Any freakin' movie ever made by Whit Stillman?

Early Oscar reaction

I must admit: I was hoping against hope for something totally unexpected -- say, a Best Actress nod for Gretchen Mol of The Notorious Bettie Page, or a sentimental nomination for Robert Altman. But never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted such shockers as the Best Picture snub of Dreamgirls -- somebody better put uber-fan David Poland on a suicide watch -- and the Best Actor honor for Ryan Gosling of the widely praised but little seen Half Nelson. This may turn out to be an interesting Oscar race after all.

And for the record: No, I'm not disappointed that Sacha Baron Cohen didn't get a Best Actor nomination for Borat. Truth to tell, I never could understand why some folks were so convinced that an extended sketch-comedy turn was some kind of brilliant acting.

Also for the record: I still think it's entirely possible that The Queen could pull off a Best Picture win for Best Picture.

Keillor on Altman

Garrison Keillor in the Los Angeles Times: Robert Altman "was a very young bomber pilot in World War II, and perhaps that's one reason he didn't fit into the Hollywood system. When you've flown through clouds of shrapnel and survived, you have less respect for the corporate point of view. And he was a smartass, and that didn't help. But what really made Mr. Altman an independent was the fact that he wasn't about long-term planning or risk management, he was about doing the work. He believed in taking big chances and doing it with a whole heart. He didn't mind being talked back to. He said, 'If you and I agreed about everything, then one of us is unnecessary.' But he was the captain of the ship. He didn't care for meetings in which people discuss the arc of the story and whether we need a conflict at this point or not."

Altman obit addendum

Apparently, not everyone in Nashville liked Nashville.

R.I.P.: Betty Comden (1915-2006)

Alas, these things really do happen in threes. First Robert Altman, then Philippe Noiret -- and now the co-lyricist of the greatest movie musical ever made.

R.I. P.: Robert Altman (1925-2006)

Throughout the decades that Robert Altman sustained his prodigious and prolific career, I often found myself swimming against the critical tide that kept him afloat between his sporadic commercial hits. Truth to tell, I found Kansas City and Cookie’s Fortune to be as mystifyingly under-rated as Gosford Park and Short Cuts were egregiously over-rated. And while I remain adamantly ambivalent about McCabe and Mrs. Miller – though I haven’t seen it in decades; perhaps another viewing is in order -- I count myself in the very small minority of Altman admirers who genuinely enjoyed The Gingerbread Man, one of the maverick moviemaker’s few attempts to work within – and at the same time transcend -- genre conventions. (Author John Grisham, writer of the original screenplay, wasn’t quite so impressed; he had his name removed from the credits when he saw what the free-wheeling Altman had wrought.)

And there’s even a warm place in my heart for That Cold Day in the Park (1969), one of Altman’s very first features, an undeservedly obscure drama that percolates with a eroticized sense of danger while a repressed wealthy woman (Sandy Dennis, arguably her last great performance) offers dubious sanctuary to a seemingly homeless young man (Michael Burns). 

But, hey, let’s cut to the chase: It would be foolish to pretend that any of the aforementioned titles hold a candle to the three movies that ensure Robert Altman’s immortality. First and foremost, of course, there is M*A*S*H (1970) – which, by sheer coincidence, I screened for my University of Houston film students last weekend. And I’m happy to report it continues to amuse and amaze as a ballsy, bracing black comedy about blood-splattered high-jinks at a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital that only nominally is set during the Korean War. 

(Contemporary audiences weren’t fooled, of course: They instantly recognized the film as the anti-Vietnam War satire that Old Hollywood then was too timid to attempt.) 

Donald Sutherland, Elliott Gould and Tom Skerritt have rarely been better than they are here, and the shamelessly non-P.C. humor that bothered some revisionist critics during the 1990s now seems positively benign in our post-Borat era. (Late bloomers, take heart: Altman already was in his mid-40s when he made this breakthrough masterwork.) Then there’s Nashville (1975), maybe Altman’s greatest film. Even more than American Graffiti, this intricately constructed and densely populated comedy-drama is repeatedly evoked by critics and showbiz journalists in discussions of any film with an ensemble cast, a tangle of interlocking subplots, and a pop-tune soundtrack that propels and underscores the action. It’s difficult for any filmmaker – indeed, it was difficult for Altman himself – to avoid unflattering comparisons to this teeming whirligig of a movie while working in a similar vein on a comparatively large scale. (Paul Thomas Anderson mischievously acknowledged the Altman influence with his wink-wink, nudge-nudge casting of Nashville co-star Henry Gibson in Magnolia.) And it’s next to impossible for anyone – though Anderson comes pretty damn close – to keep as many elements juggled as gracefully as Altman does here.

Last but certainly not least: The Player (1992), Altman’s career-reviving “comeback” after a string of b.o. under-achievers, which enabled the filmmaker to vigorously gnaw on the hands that fed him during the glory days of M*A*S*H and Nashville, then backhanded for more than 15 years afterward. It’s a thoroughly nasty masterpiece, a smart and savvy satire about making movies, destroying lives and getting away with murder. But you don't have to hate Hollywood to love this bleakly, viciously funny story (adapted by scripter Michael Tolkin from his own novel) about an amoral studio mogul (Tim Robbins) who is stalked by a disgruntled screenwriter. Even if you don't catch all the inside jokes or informed references, you can still enjoy The Player for its sheer entertainment value as a modern-day film noir thriller with an abundance of cynical wit and a galaxy of bit-playing superstars. It’s worth noting, by the way, that The Player was considered an odds-on favorite for a Best Picture of '92 nomination until the very day that Oscar nominations were announced. Perhaps the Academy members wanted to send a message: You can gnaw on the hands that feed you, but don't try to chew them off. 

No doubt about it: Robert Altman wasn’t the warmest-hearted auteur in the grand pantheon of great filmmakers. (He's wasn't the easiest to interview, either -- just ask Jeffrey Wells.) Indeed, I once wrote that he often came across “as an acerbic cynic who views his characters -- and, to a large degree, his audience -- with equal measures of condescending bemusement and sardonic skepticism.” He struck me as even more irascible, if not downright bellicose, during my occasional interviews with him over the years. (He never tired of taking potshots at Texas, evidently assuming -- wrongly -- it's my native state.) This never affected my reaction to his work – well, OK, hardly ever – but I learned the hard way that there was some truth to cautionary stories (many of them fueled by his legendary break with critic and one-time champion Pauline Kael) that warned of a Robert Altman who never forgot, and rarely forgave. 

A few years back, when Altman was filming The Gingerbread Man on location in Georgia, I was assigned by the L.A. Times to do a Sunday Calendar cover story on the shoot. Two days before I was scheduled to arrive, however, I received a phone call from an abashed publicist – the same person who had pitched the piece to the L.A. Times in the first place – who told me that Altman had just decided that he didn’t want me on the set. So I had to ask: “Why?” (What I really wanted to ask: “Altman knows who I am? Me? How?”) The publicist explained: “Mr. Altman didn’t like your review of Ready-to-Wear, and he doesn’t want to talk to you.” My first reaction: “You mean Robert Altman actually reads my reviews?” My second reaction: “Well, if he won’t talk to anyone who panned Ready-to-Wear, he won’t be talking to many people…” (Footnote: I suggested that the L.A. Times send another reporter. The L.A. Times decided to cover another movie instead.) 

I was reminded of this misadventure -- even as I felt shamelessly sentimental tears welling in my eyes – while listening to Altman’s gracious acceptance speech a few months back at the Academy Awards, when he was honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award (a.k.a., The Alfred Hitchcock Memorial Consolation Prize for Never Receiving the Oscar for Best Director). “I've always said that making a film is like making a sandcastle at the beach,” Altman told his rapt audience. “You invite your friends and you get them down there, and you say you build this beautiful structure, several of you. Then you sit back and watch the tide come in. Have a drink, watch the tide come in, and the ocean just takes it away. And that sandcastle remains in your mind. Now I've built about 40 of them, and I never tire of it. No other filmmaker has gotten a better shake than I have. I'm very fortunate in my career. I've never had to direct a film I didn't choose or develop. I love filmmaking.” 

And, obviously, he loved all of his films – yes, even Ready-to-Wear, and probably O.C. and Stiggs as well – with the same passion. In fact, he accepted the Lifetime Achievement prize as “a nod to all of my films, because to me, I've just made one long film. And I know some of you have liked some of the sections, and others, you – well, anyway, it’s alright.” Point taken. But I will add this: Even if you don’t think each one was a great film, you must agree that each was made by a great filmmaker. Robert Altman will be missed, to be sure, but he also will be celebrated -- today, tomorrow, for as long as people care about cinema. A director may die, but his movies remain forever in the present tense.