Review: "A Prairie Home Companion"

by Jeff McGinnis, Lead Usher

**** stars (out of four)
104 minutes, Now Showing

When Robert Altman accepted his lifetime achievement Oscar at this past March’s Academy Awards telecast, he informed the audience that he always thought that receiving that kind of award meant “it was over. Then, it dawned on me I was in rehearsals for a play in London that opened last night, and I just finished my new film 'Prairie Home Companion.' So it's not over.”

How wonderfully appropriate that he should have mentioned this film in the context of those comments. If Altman’s acceptance speech stood in opposition to the expected tradition of the twilight of a career, so too does “A Prairie Home Companion” stand in opposition to the real life circumstances of the show that inspired it. The film tells the tale of the final night of Garrison Keillor’s long-running weekly radio variety show, a bittersweet evening of death, life, reflection, denial and above all, joyous performances.

In reality, the show, amazingly, goes on, a time capsule of what radio once was and will never be again. In a world where the airwaves are dominated by the latest bubble-gum pop hits and political blowhards spewing their ungainly views so their followers will know what to think, Keillor’s cheerfully old-fashioned opus remains a rock on public channels across the country. “It’s the kind of show that went out of style 30 years ago,” observes Guy Noir (Kevin Kline) in the opening narration. “Problem is, somebody forgot to tell them.”

The film is a hypothetical tale of the night the truth comes crashing down. Written by Keillor himself, it depicts the last broadcast of the proud old tradition that still commands the attention of “hundreds” of listeners, according to Noir. (The character, whose adventures are depicted on the Companion as a sly detective satire, appears in the flesh here as the theatre’s supposed head of security.) A big conglomerate has bought the station that broadcasts the show, and will be tearing down the theatre it runs in to make it into a parking lot.

The cast whispers about these happenings to one another in questioning tones, not knowing how close the axe actually is. Keillor (playing himself) seems to be in denial, refusing to even acknowledge the event on the air. There is little doubt that there is a serious sense of finality to the proceedings, even among those who still refuse to believe it’s the end. Before the curtain falls, tears will be shed, a life will end, old wounds will be opened, and a sad remembrance of what once was will transpire.

But I’m making the film sound maudlin. The tone is far too joyous for that to stick. This isn’t a funeral, it’s a rip-roaring wake where laughter and music fill the air. The dialogue, while still having depth and weight, is wonderfully crisp and sharp, frequently hilarious, and always true-to-character. Each of the performers and stagehands connected to the show emerge as fully-realized individuals, brought to glorious life by the actors.

We meet them as they arrive for the show, in various states of acceptance of its fate. Most memorable are the Johnson Sisters, Yolanda (Meryl Streep) and Rhonda (Lily Tomlin), a country duet act whose best days have long since transpired. Streep and Tomlin, two of the best actors we will ever have, engage in eternal verbal debate with one another, overlapping, completing each other’s thoughts and sentences, thoroughly believable as both characters and siblings. Along for the ride is Lola (Lindsey Lohan), Yolanda’s daughter, ever-exasperated by her mother and aunt, slouching in her chair as if she wishes she could fall through the cushions. It’s suggested that she perform one of her songs on the show. She explains, “They’re mostly about death.”

Bringing an aw-shucks attitude to pretty much everything that transpires are Dusty (Woody Harrelson) and Lefty (John C. Reilly), a pair of singing cowboys who, like the show they perform on, seem caught in a time warp. It is they who perform a particularly hilarious and over-the-top number, in classic “What can they possibly do to us?” fashion. Maya Rudolph is equally funny as Molly, the overworked stagehand, whose pregnancy brings about many sideways glances and sarcastic remarks.

Then there is the Dangerous Woman (Virginia Madsen), whose arrival leads to no end of speculation and curiosity. Eternally clad in a white raincoat and appearing in and out of shots, her presence is a mystery, as no one knows who she is, or why she would be here. When she finally reveals her nature to Keillor in a backstage conversation, we’re not sure if we believe it, but then, we shouldn’t be. A late arrival is the Axeman (Tommy Lee Jones) a representative of the company which is ending the show, who sits in the back observing the proceedings with a halfway interested gaze. His demeanor suggests that just maybe, a stay of execution will be granted - or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

The film is wall-to-wall with music, with acts coming to and from the stage all night, and virtually every event occurring with accompaniment in the background. Virtually every cast member will take a turn at the microphone, including Lola, though her lack of preparation leads to a somewhat, shall we say, half-remembered delivery. You can practically feel the joy of performance coming through the screen - everyone up there is loving what they’re doing, and it shows.

That kind of joy is apparent throughout Altman’s work. He made it plain in that same Oscar speech that he never had to make a film he didn’t want to, and nowadays that kind of autonomy is rare. Here, he has made a film that is gloriously entertaining and has so much truth within - truth about death, society, obsolescence, living, so much more. There are so many movies nowadays where you can (and often do) have a wonderful time as they are happening, but if you dig even a bit beneath the surface, you find them hollow at their core. This one, however, is filled to the brim with joy, nostalgia, and even a little hope. This is one of the year’s best films.