Douglas Messerli
The Sweet Bye and Bye [on A Prairie Home Companion]
The Sweet Bye and Bye
A Prairie Home Companion Garrison Keillor (writer), Garrison Keillor and Ken
LaZenik (story), Robert Altman (director) / 2006
Directed by one
of America’s most noted filmmakers, Robert Altman, and with a screenplay by the
beloved humorist and radio-host Garrison Keillor, A Prairie Home Companion was perhaps one of the most anticipated
films of the lackluster 2006 film season. Despite some critical appreciation,
however, the film mostly garnered mediocre reviews, in particular in the
widely-read New Yorker, the Los Angeles Times, and New York Times. A. O. Scott of the
latter paper perhaps summarized the comments best in his characterization of
Keillor and Altman’s collaboration: “Together they have confected a breezy
backstage comedy that is also a sly elegy: a poignant contemplation of last
things that goes down as smoothing and sweetly as a lemon drop.” In summary,
the New York paper noted that Keillor’s “weekly cavalcade of wry Midwestern
humor and musical Americana has never set out to make anyone’s hair stand on
end. Notwithstanding the occasional crackle of satire or sparkle of
instrumental virtuosity, it most offers reliable doses of amusement embedded in
easygoing nostalgia. It looks back on—or, rather, reinvents—a time when popular
culture was spooned out in grange halls and Main street movie palaces….” The
movie, Scott concluded, was “more likely to inspire fondness than awe.”
Similarly, David Denby, writing in The New Yorker, noted that Altman and
Keillor are very similar in the smooth flow of their work—Altman in the
movement of his camera and Keillor through the tales of his tongue. “…A bit of
tension might have helped the movie. A
Prairie Home Companion has many lovely and funny moments, but there’s not a
lot going on. Dramatically, it’s mellow to the point of inertia.” Evidently
preferring the radio show to the movie, critic Carina Chocano observed “The Prairie Home Campanion of the movie is
hardly the middlebrow juggernaut known to listeners. Instead it’s been
converted to kitsch museum, which might as well house a giant ball of string.
The improvised patter is funny and sharp, the music kicky and the nods to fake
sponsors familiar, but without Keillor’s monologue and the show’s collective
inclusion on the joke, the movie falls into a strange nostalgia for something
that hardly anyone remembers.”
The Los
Angeles Times evaluation is
particularly interesting given the fact that I saw this film as an apologia of sorts for just the “strange
nostalgia” so apparent in Keillor’s radio show. In this sense, the movie I
witnessed—which clearly is not the same movie seen by these critics—is a
requiem of sorts, a musical celebration for the dead, a kind of secular mass in
celebration and confession of the tongue-and-cheek, slyly winking art that
Keillor has brilliantly performed over these many years. It is almost as if
Keillor were telling his American audiences—as Star Trek star William Shatner once told an avid fan—“Get a life!”
Keillor and Altman do work
brilliantly together, but their artifact, far from being a smooth-running
linguistic machine, is actually a gathering of disparate and dissociative
individuals and events that merely pretends to represent a larger whole. As Chicago Tribune reviewer Michael
Phillips perceptively commented, Altman “captures a sense of ensemble and, at
the same time, an ensemble dissolving into individual puzzle pieces—outsiders
all, everybody doing their own thing.”
Pretense, indeed, is the major subject
of this film. The performers crowding St. Paul’s Fitzgerald Theater stage are
as romantic as F. Scott’s Daisy and Gatsby, larger than life figures creating
their own realities as they go along. The hilarious cowboys, Dusty and Lefty
(typological names for American cowpokes) may harmoniously sing and joke their
way through their performances, but offstage bicker perpetually over each
other’s behavior, weight, and physique, Dusty (Woody Harrelson) being
particularly concerned by the obvious outline of Lefty’s (John C. Reilly) butt
crack—hardly the usual subjects of discussion by such images of American
mythology. If the two might imagine themselves onstage as joke-spinning
lotharios, their offstage relationships with women consist of child-like humor
such as pretending ignorance of the assistant director’s pregnancy, which former
detective Guy Noir jokingly reveals by lifting up her blouse.
The two remaining sisters of the former
Johnson family act (“The Carter family. Like us only famous”), Yolanda and
Rhonda (brilliantly performed by Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin) recount in
offstage conversations an absurd series of events centered on their
hard-working mother’s attempts to keep the financially strapped family
together. Their sister, suffering a hypoglycemic attack, is arrested and jailed
for eating a doughnut without paying; upon hearing of her arrest, their shamed
father suffers a stroke and dies.
Their lives, we discover, are also intertwined with Keillor’s:
he later recounts how he saved a naked man attached to a runaway kite. In
search of employment he and his new-found “friend” head to Chicago, but, tiring
of his company, Keillor purposely leaves him behind in Oshkosh, where his
former companion meets Yolanda and marries her. Years later, Yolanda and
Keillor also have an affair. In short, these sisters represent their whole
world as a kind of extended dysfunctional family. In response to these and
other changes in her fate—including the final performance of the ongoing show
the night of the film’s action—Yolanda speciously argues that when-ever one
door closes, another opens up. No matter that behind the new door there might
be even further disasters in store, in her cul-de-sac of logic, she floats
through a life—with her more cynical and savvy sister beside her—that is no
more believable than the stories she relates. When in the final scenes of the
movie her daughter Lola gets her “big break”—performing a disastrously
improvised rendition of “Frankie and Johnnie”—Yolanda perceives it as the new
opportunity she has been seeking; never mind that the young, suicidally-inclined
girl has little stage talent. The film later reveals she has a head for
business.
Keillor does not spare himself in his
revelation of individual pretense. On stage the brilliantly glib commentator
comes alive, but offstage he is presented as an unemotional and seemingly
unfeeling human who refuses even to announce the death during the show of
fellow singer L. Q. Jones, who has died while waiting in his dressing room to
consummate his love with the set’s “lunch lady.” When asked “What if you die
some day?” he coolly responds, “I will die.” “Don’t you want people to remember
you?” “I don’t want them to be told to remember me.” Unable to accept the fact
that Keillor has obviously “closed the door” on their relationship, Yolanda
continues to chastise him even during a moment of onstage improvisation.
Hovering over these self-pretending
beings is “the dangerous woman,” seen by some but not by all. To Keillor she
recounts her own death which occurred when she lost control of her car while
laughing at his “A Prairie Home Companion” penguin joke (a joke—featured on the
actual radio show—that Keillor delivered in such a badly mangled way that it
became a recurrent skit):
Two penguins are standing
on an ice floe. The first penguin
says, you look like
you’re wearing a tuxedo. The second
penguin says, what makes
you think I’m not.
She asks
Keillor, “Why is that funny?” “I guess because people laugh at it.” “I’m not
laughing,” she replies.
Indeed, it is not “funny” in a standard
sense. As Henri Bergson tells us, most humor is based upon incongruity, upon
something that would not be normally funny if it actually happened to us. The
penguin joke—a perfect example of what Bergson describes as “inversion”—works
because it so openly reveals our desire to accept the simulacrum instead the
real. Since the penguin vaguely looks like
he’s dressed in a tuxedo he may be
actually dressed in a tuxedo. The joke points up our desires to believe in a reality
that we know is untrue, our willingness to be gullibly deceived.
This joke, in fact, is at the heart of
Altman and Keillor’s film. For the “strange nostalgia” that A Prairie Home Companion evokes is, like
the penguin, a simulacrum of the American past, a past so wittily and craftily
presented that Americans want to
believe it even while recognizing its falsity. So too does this film present
onstage a musical world so engaging—the songs, whose lyrics mostly were created
by Keillor himself, seem close enough to the real thing, that we enjoy them as
if they were classics—that despite what the film has revealed about the
offstage lives of these figures, audiences (the false audience of the film, the
“real” film going audience, and, evidently, most critics) cannot help but feel
the immense pleasure of swallowing the sweet lemon drop.
The “dangerous lady,” however, is more
than dangerous and more than a lady, for she is the angel of death, Asphodel.
In nature, the asphodel is a narcissus-like flower. Accordingly, this “angel”
suggests that we often love our selves and our past, perhaps, more than a
present filled with other living beings. Death is, so to speak, “in the house,”
and she mercilessly slays not only a singer and the visiting Axeman (Tommy Lee
Jones) out to destroy this artifice of nostalgia, but ultimately everything and
everyone upon who she casts her cold eyes. As Keillor has warned us, he too
will die—and so too will we. But the question remains, will we live our lives
in acceptance of the truth of being or will we remain, like Yolanda and the
other performers of homespun travesty, trapped in a mythologized invention of
our experiences.
Keillor and Altman reveal that such a
view of reality can only end up with Americans facing the same philosophical
endgame that Yolanda claims to joyfully embrace. Americans, Keillor and Altman
suggest, are so desperate for the simulacrum, so much in love with the
sentimentalized past epitomized in dramas such as Our Town—a scene from which Yolanda quotes early in this film—that
we are readily willing to abandon the truth of our daily lives. What will it
take to awaken us? Keillor warns, “We are not a beach people. We are a dark
people who believe it could be worse, and are waiting for it,” a people afraid
of the light.
Within the movie, the characters do not
awaken but, while dreaming of reviving their show, die, playing out their
imaginary lives even in the sweet bye and bye:
Long-haired preachers come out every night
Try to tell us what’s wrong and
what’s right;
But when asked about something to
eat,
They just answer in accents so sweet:
“You will eat, Bye and bye,
In that glorious land in the sky!
Chop some wood, ‘twill do you good,
There’ll be pie in the sky when you
die.
Los Angeles, June 27, 2006
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Copyright ©2006 by Douglas Messerli
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