By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Chris Packham
By David Kipen
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Caira LaVelle
When Paul Thomas Anderson's second feature, Boogie Nights, was released in 1997, critics and film industry types fell over themselves to designate Anderson the next big thing, an auteur in the footsteps of Scorsese and Coppola. His film turned Mark Wahlberg from a has-been underwear model and rapper into a leading man, Heather Graham into a major sex symbol and Burt Reynolds into a credible character actor. Although the movie failed to make much money or win any Oscars, it did score three nominations, one of which was for Anderson's original screenplay, and it got him the right to pick any project he wanted as his follow-up (give New Line credit for not basing their decision on money alone). As a result, we now have Magnolia, a three-hour epic of intertwining storylines written by Anderson, who was also given final cut and complete creative control.
Given that the cast includes previous Anderson stars William H. Macy, Julianne Moore, Philip Baker Hall, John C. Reilly and Philip Seymour Hoffman side by side with Tom Cruise and Jason Robards, it seems safe to assume that Paul (or is it P.T.? -- the ending and opening credits aren't in synch regarding his billing) got the cast he wanted. When a recent Entertainment Weekly article quoted him boasting about how Magnolia's script ignores the traditional three-act structure, it seemed the gauntlet had been thrown down: Love it or hate it, this movie was going to be 100 percent pure Anderson. And to pull off a movie of this type, he was either going to prove himself a genius or make himself look incredibly foolish, possibly causing New Line to reconsider giving final cut to anyone ever again.
Now it's here, and Magnolia certainly feels like a work of art -- that is, provided you've never seen a little movie titled Short Cuts, from which virtually all of Magnolia's strengths are derived. Admittedly, writer/director Robert Altman himself wasn't being entirely original; his screenplay for that movie was based on the short stories of Raymond Carver. Still, Altman's method of interweaving the individual substories while tangentially connecting each group of characters to the next was all his own (established previously with Nashville) and set the standard by which any films of this type, few though they may be, are to be judged.
Anderson's homage (to put it politely) doesn't stop with his borrowing Altman's structural innovation, general setting (suburban LA), or actress Julianne Moore, who's in both films. Where Altman focused on couples that were falling apart for various reasons, only to (mostly) reconcile at the end, Anderson focuses on individuals who are falling apart because of years of pretense and self-deceit, only to have them generally figure things out by the end. The event that triggers the catharsis in both cases is strikingly similar: Altman had an earthquake unify his characters and generally wrap things up; Anderson uses a more unusual act of God, one that has been foolishly revealed in numerous articles already but won't be spoiled here (although a bus-shelter ad reading, simply, "Exodus 8:2" gives a strong hint to the biblically knowledgeable).
That said, Short Cuts made even less money than Boogie Nights and therefore has probably not been seen by at least half the people who are going to go to Magnolia. This vast majority should enjoy the film just fine. After a series of opening vignettes about incredibly coincidental deaths, framed as a series of mini-urban legends, a narrator implies that what we are about to see is going to be equally coincidental in nature (it's not, but maybe the point is to mislead). There follows a sweeping montage of TV images and rapid camera movements, giving us a quick overview of all the characters we're about to follow: Tom Cruise as a Ross Jeffries/Tony Robbins hybrid who advertises courses ("How to turn your best friend into a sperm receptacle") for insecure men; John C. Reilly as a clean-living Christian cop who hasn't had a date in years; Jason Robards as a dying TV mogul anxious to see his son, who may or may not be Tom Cruise, one last time; Moore as Robards' gold-digging, drug-addicted wife, who only now realizes that she loves him; Philip Baker Hall as a veteran game-show host on Robards' network; Melora Walters as Hall's cocaine-addicted daughter, whom Reilly falls for; Jeremy Blackman as the child prodigy excelling on Hall's show; William H. Macy as the former child prodigy star of the same show.
The fast camera moves continue for a while, just as most of the characters stay in motion so as not to reveal the truth about themselves too soon. As a series of different events starts to break down their individual pretenses, however, the camera settles down, and the takes become longer. Anderson's fascination with pornography is still very much in evidence: In addition to Cruise's borderline-obscene affirmations ("Respect the cock and tame the cunt!"), a porn movie appears on TV that features the titular flower quite prominently, and many uncomfortable laughs are wrung from a scene in which Hoffman orders nudie magazines from home-delivery grocery store Pink Dot, a company that no doubt will see its orders increase as a result of this placement. And, like most of the characters in Boogie Nights, Magnolia's many personalities rise, fall hard, then pick up the pieces with varying degrees of success. A montage shows the different characters at their darkest hour, all in separate locations, singing along to an Aimee Mann tune about giving up. This scene is a love-it-or-hate-it proposition: either a masterstroke or hopelessly pretentious (how one reacts may depend on one's age).
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