Posted: 06/14/2006

A Prairie Home Companion

(2006)

by Doc Pedrolie

In the old gospel hymn “In the Sweet By and By,” the chorus comes as a release. It’s meant to raise you up. It rises over all, strong with everyone’s voice: “In the sweet by and by/We shall meet on that beautiful shore/In the sweet by and by…”

Robert Altman closes out his latest picture, a loose adaptation of Garrison Keillor’s long-running radio variety show, “A Prairie Home Companion”, with a full cast rave-up of “In The Sweet By and By”. It’s a fabulous final moment to a brilliant film. It’s an affirmation of life’s, and music’s, power to heal—even in the face of all things ending.

“A Prairie Home Companion” is the first truly great film of the year, and, easily, one of Altman’s best pictures ever. It’s better than “Gosford Park”. In fact, I don’t think Altman’s made a film this magical since “The Player” or “Short Cuts”.

You’ve probably heard of the variety show “A Prairie Home Companion”. It’s based out of Minnesota. It’s on Public Radio. It’s the kind of program your Grandparents might’ve listened to, once upon a time, in the living room with the family on a Saturday evening.

It features old-timey music, skits, fake commercials, corny jokes and stories—all bound together by the warm baritone and folksy charm of Garrison Keillor. It’s much beloved by its fans and much derided by its critics. One thing everyone agrees on is that there’s nothing like it on radio today. It’s a throwback to a long gone era when radio was king.

So, when Robert Altman approached Garrison Keillor about adapting “A Prairie Home Companion” into a film, there was some skepticism—both in Hollywood and in Public Radio. Some of that skepticism resided with Keillor. The show doesn’t have a built in storyline and isn’t exactly visual—it’s radio after all. The two hit it off, though, and Keillor grew curious enough to give a script a shot.

In Keillor, Altman finds a kindred soul. Both are born Midwesterners, both are in the winter of their lives, both work with ensemble casts and, most importantly, both dislike the impersonal hand of meddling corporations in people’s lives. So they spun, with Ken LaZebnik, a simple story from these shared characteristics.

The movie “A Prairie Home Companion” opens as the fictional show is preparing for its last night at the Fitzgerald Theater. The Fitzgerald is the home of the show in St. Paul. It’s set for demolition by a soulless Texas corporation, its new owners. We learn this in the opening monologue from Guy Noir (Kevin Kline), a one-time private eye, who is now the backstage security for the show. From there it’s show time, essentially, and that’s where this picture comes wonderfully alive.

Robert Altman often says he does his work in casting. Then, when it’s time to shoot, he just sits back and watches. Please, don’t be fooled by his humility. What Altman does when he’s at his best is settle on a simple, but effective plot. He uses it as a loose guide, then unleashes his characters and lets them take over. When he’s really on his mark, he ruminates on a theme—using it as ballast to the proceedings.

In “A Prairie Home Companion” he does all of these things, and so much more—thanks in part to a pitch perfect ensemble cast, a great script by Garrison Keillor and some funny and rousing musical numbers. He turns this soft-hearted, charming backstage musical comedy into a deft, laid-back tone poem on death and the ever present “end” in life.

The proceedings breeze along at an almost uncharacteristic clip for an Altman film. The sweet nostalgia of the real life radio show doesn’t overwhelm the movie, but instead powers it along nicely. There’s a gentle chaos, like any good family, to the fictional company of performers’ interplay on stage and backstage. But not a performance is wasted.

In fact, it’s hard to single out one performance as a true highlight over the rest. That’s one of the many joys of this picture. Altman gets a rare, true complete ensemble performance out of his cast. Each role feeds off of, and builds on, the rest to an enchanting crescendo.

Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin are quietly brilliant as the Johnson Sisters, longtime regulars on the show. Their musical numbers together are a revelation. Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly nearly steal the show as the singing, joke slinging cowboys Dusty and Lefty. Kevin Kline’s bumbling Guy Noir adds a perfect note of slapstick through out and carries the audience with him. Even non-actor Garrison Keillor lends a sweet charm and show-must-go-on wisdom as himself, the show’s creator and ringleader.

One that I will make a case for as a standout role in this picture, is that of Virginia Madsen’s as the Angel Of Death. At the heart of a “Prairie Home Companion” is the idea of Death and that all things must come to an end.

Musings on death and endings permeate the film on all levels. From signs in a diner (“Checks cashed”), to certain musical numbers (Lohan, as Streep’s daughter, “murders” a famous murder ballad in her only musical number), to a t-shirt that says “Extinct is Forever”, to the actual imminent end of the show and a death backstage during the performance. It’s a major component to the film and provides a pristine weight to the laid back charm of the story.

These musings are embodied in Madsen’s Angel of Death. Thankfully, what could have been hokey, or heavy-handed, is played perfectly by Madsen. She stalks about the backstage area, interacts with various characters preparing them for the inevitable, haunts Guy Noir as the literal femme fatale. She’s luminous in her white coat, waiting for the right moment to take someone “home”. It’s a bravura performance by Madsen, one that should draw much deserved attention during award season.

“A Prairie Home Companion” is a must see. Check it out now. It’s an understated gem with heart and wisdom to spare. Its directed, in a virtuoso turn, by Robert Altman, from a sharp screenplay by Garrison Keillor, starring Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, Garrison Keillor, Lindsey Lohan, John C. Reily, Virgina Madsen and Woody Harrelson, among others, in masterful performances.

Doc Pedrolie is a filmmaker in Chicago.

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