I've been enjoying a revisit to one of the key artistic figures and inspirations of my galaxy, Robert Altman, in this, the year of his centennial. A quick glean of Altman's films — COME BACK TO THE 5-AND-DIME JIMMY DEAN JIMMY DEAN, NASHVILLE, QUINTET, and THE COMPANY, to name four of the most immediately relevant in 2025 — suggest we have many, many lessons to still draw from his oeuvre. In my view, we have not fully reckoned with his achievements, because we have not fully reckoned with his radical working methods, his pecuniary savvy, his antiauthoritaniasm, the way he makes a dazzling hash out of the false binary of "failure" and "success" in American culture (I've been reading "The Politics of Totality," a 1994 Jameson essay, where everything that he maps out about William Carlos Williams can easily map onto Altman), and Altman's spiritual alignment more with the worlds of painting and music than cinema (especially the version of cinema closely linked to U.S. capitalist entertainment that salivates over economic "success", and the theatre which salivates over coherent character/narrative "success"). This engrossing oral biography, while clearly compiled by a very knowledgable and passionate dilettante, gravely shortchanges the fascinating and productive periods (namely, the late 70s and the 80s) where Altman was at his most experimental; weird yet essential works like BUFFALO BILL AND THE INDIANS, 3 WOMEN, A WEDDING, A PERFECT COUPLE, QUINTET, POPEYE (beyond the excesses of its production), and Altman's theatre-to-cinema work — none of which have been subjected to the serious attention that they so loudly merit — are all ignored in favor of giving big chapters to his big hits (whether the middling THE PLAYER, MASH, and GOSFORD PARK, or the masterful MCCABE and NASHVILLE). Yet, Zuckoff nevertheless brings a significant richness to the flavor of his universe and his biography through the sheer polyphony of voices that make up the Altman universe. This made me realize a dream book of mine is a study of All of Altman in the style of Shiguéhiko Hasumi, which would try to link Altman with the Americans that compel Fred Jameson (Stevens, Faulkner, Williams) in his own modernist canon — the company, similar to Lynch, in which Altman belongs.
Two particular testimonies ring through my mind: a very egocentric, ego-bruised and ungrateful Sam Shepard lambasting what Altman did to his play FOOL FOR LOVE (i.e., encouraged Sam himself to play his own role, to great effect I thought, though Sam himself would say I'm wrong: "Anyone who loved the film just didn't see the play" — uhhh, fuck me, right?! shame I never saw the original Globe performance of Hamlet, too...), and a very hesitant Jules Feiffer critically considering the pluses and minuses of the Altman style. Both of these men have the same critique: Altman didn't understand "story." He sacrificed character for indulgence, and, according to the unsparing Shepard, "he doesn't know a thing about acting." Well, Altman would be the first to admit that not-bombshell fact. Not knowing, not needing to know it all, trusting others, is the first step.
Sidenote: I remember once getting frustrated with a director friend of mine back in, like, 2019 when I told him, "God, I love actors, what they do — it's such a mystery to me." He snapped back that if I was going to be a director, I'd better learn how to direct them, and fast, and that it's not that hard to know. It was my job to know, he said. Six years on, I still love the dude to death — and I still think what he said is a total crock of shit. What actors do, what artists do, should always (in some measure) remain a mystery. That way, the childlike wonder of how we interact with each other — the fact that the next word or next gesture might erupt from some hitherto unseen cauldron — never leaves you, and there's space for you to do, play, think, dream beyond a dream.
Back to Feiffer: discussing POPEYE, which he wrote, he hits the nail on the head, in a sort of backhanded compliment, of why Altman was the master: "He's not interested in storytelling, building character — that's just not an interest of his. He is more of a painter on film, giving you impressions. He works a little like the action painters." Et voilà. He operated by fanatical instinct, refusing to do the convention, rejecting the cliché. If Altman was given a film noir, he'd have the reasonable detective blindly kill his best friend in a temporary rage by picture's end. If given a musical, he'd have them sing the weirdest, most uncommercial music ever conceived and (charmingly failingly) convince us they could make the cover of Cashbox Mag. If Altman was given complete uncensored access to Paris Fashion Week, he'd have 10 gags of people stepping in dog shit at every runway. He would even, when bored, film a one-man play — just to fuck with the people who try to simplify artists with these horrible adjectives like Lynchian, Lubitschian, Felliniesque, Altmanesque. And, as The Company proves, given a movie made in Hollywood, Altman would dare to have no "story." Certainly not the kind they teach you in Screenwriting 101. If he was told to be a director, he'd go right off and make films that were more like paintings, favoring things like atmosphere, line (of camera movement), music, shades varied according to the main pigment: actors. Only with films, the pigment sings back. Powell and Pressburger sought that out with The Red Shoes; to much humbler ends, so does Altman with THE COMPANY, and achieves it.
His isn't neener-neener rebellion for its own sake, much as his detractors would like to claim it is, finding a cheerless contrarianism in his work, not to mention their baffling projection of blind misanthropy. (He only made, like, two films that could be comfortably quantified as 100% misanthropic: MASH and OC & STIGGS, and the targets — the jingoist, macho U.S. military in occupied Korea, and white boy summer in Reagan's Phoenix — more than warrant it.) Altman's rebellion, rather, was a principled, deeply moving (to me, at least), unceasing quest to find what makes cinema cinema and not theater, and not music, and not poetry, and beyond all three. What makes it its own weird thing? How can an inner state be conveyed physically? "And all at once I knew I knew at once I knew he needed me" — if that ain't Gertrude Stein resuscitated in flop-chic Shelley Duvall, I don't know what. That's the inner state, physicalized against all odds, in a Disney kids' flick. And the inner state of the acceptance of death in life? Well, it's the moment in THE COMPANY when a ballerina snaps her Achilles, only to be immediately replaced by another dancer; the very next scene is of the performance the next night, where the replacement gets all the applause, as the now-hobbling replaced watches from the wings. And she's smiling for her. Not only acceptance of the end, but also contentment with where one's been.