Bio of a Player

Robert Altman: The Oral Biography
by Mitchell Zuckoff
Alfred A. Knopf, 2009

As any discerning film buff knows, the 1970s were a Golden Age for American cinema, with classic works spilling out from auteurs like Scorcese (Mean Streets, Taxi Driver), Coppola (Godfather and Godfather II, The Conversation, Apocalypse Now), Hal Ashby (Harold and Maude, The Last Detail, Being There) and Roman Polanski (Chinatown). Of course, any such list would be criminally incomplete without the inclusion of Robert Altman, whose turbulent, fiercely independent, multi-phased career included such highlights as M*A*S*H* (released in 1970), Nashville, The Player and Short Cuts, and included television (Bonanza, Combat), the pioneering cable miniseries Tanner 88, and A Prairie Home Companion, released just before his death at 81.

The maverick director is the subject of a recently-published "oral biography," a form uniquely suited to a subject who inspired such intense loyalty among colleagues. More so than maybe any modern director, Altman assembled a loose ensemble company of distinctive character actors, many of whom worked on several movies with Altman, usually performing their seminal roles with him: Rene Auberjonois, Keith Carradine, Bud Cort, Shelley Duvall, Michael Murphy, Lily Tomlin. All speak reverently of their time with Altman, whose reputation was as an enthusiastic ringmaster who encouraged improvisation and collaboration among his fellow artists, even those who other talented directors (such as Sam Peckinpaugh, in a contrast drawn by Altman protege' and television director Reza Badiyi) would bully in order to achieve their grand vision. Auberjonois, who is unfortunately probably best remembered for his role as the insufferable governor's aide in the mediocre Soap spinoff Benson (God, I know I've completely lost anyone under about 35 reading this), sums it up when talking his experience filming Brewster McCloud, a whcked-out movie starring Bud Cort as a teenage boy living clandestinely in the Houston Astrodome who has a dream of flying (and yes, it's a real movie, that's the kind of thing they did in the 70's):
It's a rare thing to get into a situation where you truly feel like a collaborator with the
director. He was so brilliant at knowing how it was all going to come together. He was so flex-
ible, and in my life the great directors I've worked with are always directors who know exact-
ly what they want but will change on a dime when they see what the actor brings to it. They
are supremely confident that they know what they want, but at the same time open to know-
ing what might be better. That's what Bob was (p. 204).

Although Altman embodied the independence that today's young directors go to the same handful of film schools and festivals to cultivate, he also got electrifying performances from many of the biggest stars of his day, some of whom appreciated his style more than others. Elliott Gould and Donald Sutherland complained to the studio behind Altman's back about his lack of deference to their star power on the set of M*A*S*H*, while Warren Beatty chafed at his lack of control on McCabe and Mrs. Miller. But Robin Williams was born to play Popeye, and I think it can be argued that Tim Robbins took his craft to new levels with his collaborations with Altman.

The reader gets a detailed look at Altman's personal life, as well. Although he was married several times and a, frankly, neglectful father and stepfather many times over, there is little or no bitterness on the part of family members interviewed for the book (again, a contrast could be drawn with Sam Peckinpaugh, whose daughter I met briefly one time). His sons worked in the movie business in various capacities, including the amusing story of Michael Altman, at the age of 14, writing the lyrics of the song "Suicide is Painless," for M*A*S*H*. For those of you familiar only with the t.v. show, it may come as a surprise that there are actual lyrics. But Michael's arrangement gave him 50 percent of the royalties for the song. So the movie's a hit (probably the biggest of Altman's career), and there are those royalties. It's adapted for television, kept as the theme song, sans lyrics. The show is a hit, runs for 12 or 13 years, goes into syndication:
Anyway, after the series came out, I got another check for, like, twenty-six bucks. And
then the second check was like a hundred thirty dollars. And I'm going, "Oh, this is nice." And
And the next check was like tweny-six thousand dollars. And then it started, the whole thing
started with the royalties. I think I ended up making close to two million dollars. And Bob had
gotten paid seventy-five thousand dollars to direct the movie and no points, right? And it
made Fox Studios what it is, right? It was their biggest hit ever, you know. Then the tv show
and stuff like that. And Bob's just been livid about that for years (p. 179).

So there's the career of a maverick in a nutshell. His biggest box-office hit and first critical splash is associated in most people's minds with a t.v. series, and his then-teenage son ends up making more money off of it than he does. Read all about it, and then give Netflix the heads up, because I think a lot of us will be readjusting our queues afterwards. Let's see, I think I'll start with McCabe and Mrs. Miller, haven't seen that in years. But I've never seen Quintet, or Popeye, for that matter. And maybe I should give Images another chance. Gosford Park, oh and Kansas City was so good,.....