Robert Altman: An Appreciation

Director Robert Altman: 1925-2006.



BROTHER BOB: AN APPRECIATION
By
Alex Simon

Editor's Note: This article orginally appeared in the December 2006/January 2007 issue of Venice Magazine.

If there was a consistent theme throughout Robert Altman’s life, and those of his films, it would be conformity: Study of, contemplation of, and finally rejection of, often with fatal results for the story’s protagonist. When Altman succumbed to a lengthy battle with cancer on November 20, his final act was different from that of many of his characters: it was the very non-conformity that Brother Bob lived by that defined him, and made him a winner.

Born to a prominent Kansas City family in 1925, Altman served honorably in WW II, then made industrial, documentary and finally a couple independent features in his hometown, the last of which, The Delinquents, impressed none other than Alfred Hitchcock, who brought Altman out to Hollywood. Altman never stopped from there, first cutting his teeth in television, where he ruffled many a feather of the uptight network execs of the day (all of whom have vanished into obscurity, might we add). He was 45 by the time he made M*A*S*H in 1970, well into middle age, yes. But it was exactly that breadth of experience and wisdom that gave Altman’s work the maturity and confidence that made it so unique.

Venice Magazine was fortunate enough to profile Robert Altman four times: Michael Haile sat down with him in December 1994, myself in April 1999 and October 2000, and Lisa Sweetingham in December 2001. Sitting down with Altman was, for me, something akin to boys of a certain generation getting an audience with Mickey Mantle or Joe Namath. Most of my peers growing up had posters of sports figures on their wall. I had Robert Altman one-sheets, having been praying at the temple of Altman ever since seeing a truncated-for-TV version of M*A*S*H at age ten. No other filmmaker at that point in my life (this was prior to my discovery of John Cassavetes, FYI) had made me feel like I was eavesdropping on real life and real people like Robert Altman did. I was hooked.

In addition to the two times I interviewed Altman, I ran into him several times over the years at some of the parties we at Venice threw, and in the odd restaurant around town. Each time he was the same: Blunt, irascible, warm, funny, fascinating, insightful, interested, dismissive, honest, and purely, totally himself.

Toward the end of our first interview together, I concluded with the question I asked of all directors up to that point, my signature if you will: “What is your advice for first-time directors?” Altman, who was in the middle of inscribing my original one-sheet of M*A*S*H which had hung in my childhood room, looked up and fixed me with that wonderful, steely gaze: “My advice is this: never take advice from anybody.” I never asked that question again.
What follows are some highlights from the aforementioned interviews with Mr. Altman that, we hope, will give the reader a small taste of who Brother Bob was. I’ll wrap it up by saying what I wish I’d had the guts to say to him during those far-too-short encounters we shared: Thank you. For it all.

December, 1994
VENICE: In terms of the style of your films, there’s a sense of creating an event and then documenting the proceedings, almost like a documentary filmmaker.
Robert Altman: Well, it’s not quite that simple. But it’s true that I’ looking for a new way to use film. You’ve seen every story that can be told. Nobody’s trying to push the envelope to create something different, to give the audience the thrill of having some kind of discovery.

How do you work to push your own conventions further?
I just try to keep myself scared all the time.

Scared of what?
Well, fear of failure.

Why do you think actors are so eager to work with you, including movie stars like Julia Roberts who are used to huge salaries and being the focus of big-budget films?
Well, they get big salaries, but they also get bored to death. They show up at work and the director says, “Okay, run down the street like this. Now run there. Now do this.” And it settles into them that they’re treated like meat, and they get bored with it. What I give them is a chance to do what they got into the art of acting for in the first place, which is to create something. What it really comes down to is that we set up the areana and then I let the actors behave in it. They create their own behavior. They don’t do what I want them to do, or tell them to do. They’re much more responsible for their characters, and they have fun doing it.

That must make it more fun for you, too. You can be surprised by things that happen during shooting.
All I’m looking for is to see something I’ve never seen before.

Did you ever think what you might have done had you not become a filmmaker? Is this what you always wanted to do?
No. Well, from a certain time this is what I wanted to do. You know, I failed at everything. I never had any ambition. I always thought I’d be some kind of an artist. But, I don’t think I’d be alive today if I hadn’t gotten into theatre and film. It’s just a great way of life because you work with such great people. You meet people who want to open up themselves and say “This is who I am.” They’re noble. They fight hard. They’re generous. People who desire more than just commercial success. You know, I want my films to be seen by as many people as possible. If I have to show it to people for free, I’ll do it. I’m not in this to see how much money I can make.

April, 1999

Your work seems to have a very specific, painterly influence, with your fluid camera, as well as a strong literary influence with your John Dos Passos-style ensemble of characters.
I’m sure I’ve been influenced in both areas (by different artists), but with the multi-character thing, mainly what I’m trying to do is make the story dense, fill the corners, rather than deal with just one or two characters. The problem is of course, to really get the most out of it, you’ve got to see these pictures a couple of times. With Cookie’s Fortune, for example, on the first viewing it’s a whodunit. You want to know who’s responsible for the mysteries that unfold. Then, the next time you see it, you know all those questions and you can then deal with all the details. But you can’t ask audiences to do that, especially nowadays…It’s a shame, but anything that’s complicated seems to turn audiences off. I don’t know how to do it any other way.

How did you fall in love with film?
I don’t know. I just did…I had a cousin who worked in Hollywood as a secretary to a big agent, and I was pretty impressed with all that. I was stationed here at March Field before I went overseas, and just ate all that up. I thought all those beautiful starlets were just delicious, you know? (laughs) That’s what really attracted me.

Is there any one film you saw as a kid that made you say “This is what I have to do with my life”?
Yeah, there were a couple. But the film that, I think, changed me attitude and showed me what film was, was David Lean’s Brief Encounter (1945)…I remember seeing here, somewhere in the Melrose/Fairfax area, and leaving the theater and just walking for blocks and blocks. Lean really opened up the medium, then later Kazan did it here: that naturalism in the acting. I was influenced by all those kinds of films and consequently I guess, my films reflect that. I’m the last person who really knows what it is my films do. Most of what I do is instinctual, and I don’t pay much attention to it….I find myself during the last 30 years of having a lot of accolades and so forth, and I’ll be on the set asking myself ‘Wait a minute, am I doing this because this is what the critics expect me to do? Am I trying to follow that, or am I dealing with this honestly?’ You tend to believe your own publicity. It’s hard not to, because it’s very pleasant. Suddenly you’re the expert and you begin to believe it. And that’s very destructive.

Not all of your films have been hits, though. Some have been overlooked, then recognized as masterpieces later, like McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971). How does your work age for you? Are you still happy with all your films?
Oh, of course, all of them. But that really doesn’t matter to me. I don’t think there’s one person who can look at my films and say, “I love them all.” But I have to like them all, or I wouldn’t have done them.

October, 2000

Do you think movies and TV can have an adverse effect on kids, like this whole “Columbine” argument that’s going around now?
Oh, I doubt that, but everything has an effect. It does desensitize and take fear away, no question. But so what? That’s life. If you live in the ‘hood, you see it when you’re seven years old anyway. If you live in North Dallas or Oak Park, it’s different. It’s political football, all this talk.

Do you think it’s easier for young filmmakers today to break in with the advent of digital technology, the Internet, and all these new venues that are popping up?
Yes and no. I think it’s easier to break in inan insignificant way. It’s easier to brek into bad films, which are always special effects films. And no one’s going to remember those films. I don’t care how effective they are at the time. It’s like the rollercoaster ride: it doesn’t mean anything and doesn’t have any life…it’s just harder to do anything significant today.

December, 2001

While watching Gosford Park, I realized how richly detailed your films are. You really have to pay attention.
Yeah. And in doing films like this, like all of my films, I try to find a spot very early when I tell the audience you better pay attention, or you’re gonna miss it.

You once said you wanted people to look at your films and be emotionally inhabited by them. As you get older, and there’s less emotional pain in your life, is that reflected in your films?
I’m sure it is. I’m sure that everything that’s in the mural reflects how I am, how I feel at the time. And your attitudes do change.

You once said that when you shoot a scene, you’re hoping there will be mistakes. What did you mean?
By mistakes, I mean spontaneity, so that something will happen that is not scripted. I think in every film I’ve done…the best highlights are invariably things that happen on the spur of the moment. They weren’t in my mind, they weren’t in the script, they just occur, and they are mistakes and accidents.

April, 1999

Any advice for first-time directors?
The same advice I give to my children and anybody else: never take advice from anybody. Anybody who gives you advice is giving you what they think is correct for them if they were in your position. But they’re not you! And you’re not them. You can listen to these things, but I advise that you don’t take advice from anybody.