Nashville

Nashville is saturated in a youthful intensity. Released when director Robert Altman was around fifty, it feels like the work of a man in his early twenties, as if it must have been made about that period in life when you search, trying to figure out what you want to do with the lifetime ahead of you. Set in the chaotic post-‘60s American South, Nashville rarely liberates itself from a strange loneliness in the gut. The two-dozen characters and countless extras, move from place to place, never staying, feeling out Nashville in five hectic days leading up to a concert in support of some grassrooty presidential candidate. The feeling is a sadness rather than an anger, and we discover that it isn’t just for the young, after all – that an elderly man (Keenan Wynn) who has lost his beloved wife is faced with the question of who he is without his significant other. On a larger scale, the film is about our nation, in the past and the present – picking up the pieces after the revolutionary ‘60s shock, and, now, trying to figure its way around problems like terrorism.

The gut feeling must be due to the transitory nature of everything in Altman’s urban American portrait. People live their lives in cheap hotels, vehicles, hospitals, rented rooms, and bars – the two sides of civilization are the audience and the country singers, but many who are part of the audience are like the stars themselves – pushing on to the next town, or the next venue. Altman’s Nashville isn’t the kind of place you belong to, and this speaks to our own sense of loss or uncertainty, for whatever reason that might exist. But even though the film aims to encompass all American life, it is also a specific look at the titular city (which is so distinctive that, when I visited, I felt it had its own smell and taste), and we realize that we would not get the same movie if it had been set and shot in New York or Los Angeles. Nashville is depicted as a tourist town rather than a home, with the pungent atmosphere of American roots being industrialized.

Country music has an endearing simplicity, and the best of it has an unrelenting, romantic honesty. But the opening sequence of the film maps out the contrasts between the love of life and music at the origin of country and the moldiness of these musicians-turned-pop-stars: Henry Gibson, as the narcissistic local legend Haven Hamilton, records an irksome patriotic tune in one booth with his attitude of exclusivity and unpleasantness, while high-pitched Lily Tomlin and a black gospel choir sing God’s praises as if tunneling to the joyous depths of humanity (and obviously ignoring, with good sense of humor, the high-pitched and strained thinness of Tomlin’s singing voice). A number of black supporting players, who exist on the outskirts of the movie, remind us that the country scene is one made up almost completely of white people.

The concept of the country star is the corporate packaging of a belief in the common man – a humble, approachable figure. Yet, the most angelic of them all – Ronee Blakley’s central character Barbara Jean (who aches beautifully, Patsy-Cline-style, on “Dues”) – is an enigma to the audience. Mysteriously, we may have more understanding for a reckless, womanizing rock star like Tom Frank (Keith Carradine). There isn’t a scene in Nashville more moving than the one at the bar where his band stops by for a performance; four of his lovers sit in the audience and each of them believes they are being serenaded when the idol sings “I’m Easy.” Through the song, Tom makes himself out to a victim of some woman’s “sometime” love and casts himself as a vulnerable sweetheart (“Take my hand and pull me down/I won’t put up a fight…”); but the lyrics seem to reflect more accurately what his women must feel. Yet, we believe every word as it comes from his mouth because he is also serenading the audience the way rock stars do. We almost feel pity for this shaggy creep.

In a way, Nashville is a love song dedicated to the cast, the way Altman's latest gem, Gosford Park, is also a celebration of the gifts of its (mainly British) actors. The Altman concept of huge ensembles dates back, at least, to Hollywood star parades like Grand Hotel from 1932, but in Nashville, despite the movie’s own set of devices and coincidences, the communal feeling that is not counterfeit and it powerfully reflects the shared experience of watching movies. Altman’s not selling celebrities the way Hollywood did with Grand Hotel, but the actors become our rock and country stars anyway, and some also assume a place with us – the fans and spectators.

In the final sequence, a struggling singer-wannabe (Barbara Harris) takes over for her gunned-down idol at a political rally none of the participating singers wanted to be a part of. But it turns out that everyone is very much involved in politics, whether they want to be or not, and Altman also tells us that everyone owns a bit of the stardom they cling so tightly to and reach so far for. The very same obsession that fuels the assassination of the country star inspires the rejuvenating gospel spin the amateur gives her politically charged number. The walls between the star and the audience are always being broken down. Robert Altman believes wholeheartedly in the equality of all mankind, yet he is eager to explore the boundaries people put around themselves. In our current political climate, it feels so good to see a movie that neither looks away from the flaws of the United States not ignores the beauty of the country. The fusion of primitive hopefulness and the veil of commercialism – the dichotomy between the roots and the truths of our nation – are all at the heart of Nashville, one of the most moving – and most American – movies ever made.

By Andrew Chan [MARCH 11, 2002]