“Images” (1972)
An inexplicably undervalued “minor” Altman film, “Images” sees Susannah York, in probably a career-best performance, play children’s author Cathryn, whose rising tide of insanity feels uncannily linked to the tales she writes and narrates in voiceover, and which come to represent her inner life. Outwardly, she’s a successful, creative woman in a happy marriage to Hugh (René Auberjonois) that is only marred by his frequent absences. But following a psychological breakdown where she mistakes him for her dead ex-lover René (Marcel Bozzuffi), they retreat to an isolated country house in rural Ireland where they are joined by their artist friend Marcel (Hugh Millais) and his young daughter Susannah (Cathryn Harrison). Altman engages in meta- flourishes (note the names of the actor/characters), but those are merely icing on an already deliciously poisonous cake in this return to the recurring theme of female isolation and madness that dates all the way back to “That Cold Day In The Park.” It’s a self-indulgent and rather academic puzzle to work out, but there’s a level of compassion and sympathy unusual for such hysterical melodrama, and Altman’s genius is in summoning not only the horror of madness, but how succumbing to it might feel strangely liberating. [B+]
“The Long Goodbye” (1973)
Given the length of his filmography and the diversity within it, not to mention the wild variance of contemporary reactions, it’s very possible that Altman may be the most frequently revisited, revised and rehabilitated filmmaker ever. “The Long Goodbye” which some now regard as among his finest hours, is a case in point. The 1953 Raymond Chandler novel, adapted and updated by Leigh Brackett and recast into Hollywood in the 1970s, is a great example of exploding tired genre tropes by setting them into a backdrop of mundane yet compelling reality. That collision creates the tension here: this Philip Marlowe (a perfect Elliot Gould) doesn’t exude the same cool professionalism and code of honor that previous incarnations displayed. Instead, dropped into the shambolic ’70s, he’s unable to successfully feed his cat —it’s a deconstructionist take that elevates the material until it transcends noir. The film’s bleak ending, in which we see Marlowe commit a cowardly act, is the perfect stamp on that approach, at once offending Chandler purists and embodying a very modern sensibility in which things can change, people can devolve into lesser versions of their former selves, and the real world can alter even our favorite, most deeply-held genre cliches. [A-]
“Thieves Like Us” (1974)
Considering Altman tackled pretty much every existing genre in his long career (okay, he never quite tackled horror, though “Images” comes close, and his only sci-fi contribution was the fairly obtuse “Quintet“), it seems inevitable that he would broach the “Bonnie & Clyde“-esque lovers-on-the-lam genre. The resulting “Thieves Like Us,” based on the same novel that also inspired Nicholas Ray‘s 1948 film “They Live By Night,” stars Keith Carradine and Shelley Duvall and centers on three bank robbers who take refuge in a small town. The youngest (Carradine) is injured on the job, but falls in love with a girl he meets at their hideout (Duvall), yet Altman’s take on honor (or lack thereof) among thieves is much less dynamic than many of its forebears, and while laudably less glamorous also ends up more emotionally distant (physically too —there’s no score for just diegetic sound, and the camera seems to be far away from the action at times). So laid back and matter-of-fact as to feel a little disengaged, “Thieves Like Us” is a less compelling genre deconstruction than some of Altman’s other movies of the era, but from an academic standpoint, it’s still in integral part of the puzzle that makes up the director’s not-always-perfect-but-consistently-interesting oeuvre. [C+/B-]
“McCabe and Mrs. Miller” (1971)
Leave it to Altman to construct one of the shrewdest, most atmospheric, enigmatic and ultimately brilliant anti-western westerns of all time. Ambitious gambler John McCabe (Warren Beatty) arrives in a town named Presbyterian Church and establishes a brothel, stumbling into success largely thanks to Constance Miller (Julie Christie), a professional madam. The success of the enterprise catches the eye of of a mining company which wants to buy him out — when he says no, three bounty hunters are sent to kill him. Time for a big showdown, right? Not if you’re Altman. After a slow, characterful build, the film essentially turns the entire notion of the western hero on its head. McCabe has no problem shooting anyone in the back, and the futility and pettiness of his pride-driven struggle is beautifully symbolized by those endless trudges through the knee-high snowdrifts in the teeth of a blowing wind. Perfectly set off by Vilmos Zsigmond‘s hazy, dreamlike photography and featuring a gloriously anachronistic score by Leonard Cohen, “McCabe and Mrs. Miller” is a shining examples of 1970s American filmmaking: an impressionistic, boldly individual and completely genre-defying western that still remains unlike anything before or after it. [A+]
“California Split” (1974)
Altman’s signature gambling movie was not originally meant for Altman himself: screenwriter/actor Joseph Walsh had been developing it for several years with a young director who’d just made a splash with a TV movie named “Duel” —one Steven Spielberg— with Steve McQueen set to star. But when that deal fell apart, it landed with Altman, and thus we got “California Split,” the kind of experimental studio movie that would never get made these days and one of the finest gambling movies ever produced. The priceless duo of George Segal and Altman regular Elliot Gould play Bill and Charlie, compulsive gamblers who become friends after being robbed. As is often Altman’s wont, the film is virtually plotless; Bill gets more and more hooked then gets in debt, then has a winning streak, and then suddenly falls out of love with gambling altogether. The film emphasizes character study more than plot, and thanks to the terrific performances and Altman’s trademark overlapping dialogue (the film was the first non-Cinerama picture to use eight-track recording techniques, yielding a more cacophonous soundscape than ever), it’s just about the most unglamorous and authentic take on the subculture that you could ask for. [B+]
