| Nashville |
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| Saturday, 29 January 2005 | |
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10/10 USA 1975 : Robert ALTMAN : 159 mins Nashville may not be Altman's best film - with apologies to the many passionate advocates of Thieves Like Us that's probably The Long Goodbye. But it's certainly his most ambitious: made and released to coincide with (and provide an ironic counterpoint to) the height of the USA's bicentennial celebrations, the film offers (in critic Danny Peary's phrase) a 159-minute "crazy-quilt vision of America" following no fewer than 24 principal characters around Tennessee's country-music capital over the course of one hectic weekend.1976 was also of course an election year, and the (non-stop) action is punctuated with campaign propaganda from (fictional) right-wing candidate Hal Philip Walker, blaring out of loudspeakers atop a roaming van. While Walker is often heard but (amusingly) never seen, his campaign-manager (Michael Murphy) is very visible - he's in town to organise a rally for his candidate and among the talent he hopes will appear on stage are feuding country stars Barbara Jean (Ronee Blakley) and Connie White (Karen Black), plus ultra-patriotic old-school veteran Haven Hamilton (Henry Gibson). Attempting any kind of detailed synopsis would be a thankless task, suffice it to say that complications ensue. Like its director, Nashville is big, brilliant, idiosyncratic, unpredictable, sour and scabrous. Altman is clearly not especially interested in country music per se - and Peary's comment that Altman and his scriptwriter Joan Tewkesbury "are condescending" towards performers and public alike is undeniably true. But it's nowhere written that geniuses have to be nice people, and Altman's scathing misanthropism - present pretty much throughout his prodigiously long career - is partly what gives his films their unique energy. And there's something about the free-flowing, improvisational atmosphere of his films that brings out remarkable stuff from his cast: as the volatile, Loretta Lynn-like Barbara Jean, Blakley turns in one of the most remarkable performances in all American film. But there isn't a weak link in the whole bulging ensemble, from Shelley Duvall's magnificently vacuous rollerskater to Jeff Goldblum's mute 'tricycle man' to Lily Tomlin's radiant gospel-singer. There's something here to delight, infuriate, offend and dazzle everybody, and the re-release of this new 35mm print of a genuine American masterpiece sets a very high standard for everything else you'll see on the big screen in 2005. 20th December, 2004 (written for Tribune magazine on occasion of Nashville's reissue) |
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