A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION

After 38 films, 5 Oscar nominations and the affection of countless Hollywood stars, 81 year-old director Robert Altman can pretty much make whatever kind of film he feels like. Oddly enough, the esteemed auteur has chosen Garrison Keillor’s long-running (31 years) radio show, A Prairie Home Companion, as a cinematic meditation on his own mortality.

A variety show that revels in mid-western Americana, Keillor’s radio program is a folksy ode to corny jokes, homespun skits and lots and lots of old timey music. It’s an unlikely fit for the cynical and ironic Altman but clearly the director finds something personally affecting in the show’s dry whimsy and sleepy charm. He mounts a loving and respectful tribute to defiantly do-it-yourself entertainment yet manages steer clear of unbridled nostalgia.

Ken LaZebnik and Keillor’s genial script introduces an element of melancholy that seems to acknowledge Altman’s personality and style. Their playful backstage fable follows the last-ever, rainy-day broadcast of A Prairie Home Companion. Sold to a Texas conglomerate, the host radio station has pulled the plug on the show and slated their longtime venue --the Fitzgerald Theater-- for demolition. The film follows the onstage performances and backstage banter of its soon-to-be unemployed cast.

Appropriately, the film has a decidedly funereal air, akin to attending the wake of a beloved and ridiculous uncle. Brought together by loss, everyone ends up having a good time laughing at familiar jokes, singing half-forgotten songs and spending time with a gaggle of eccentrics who enjoy the hell out of each other’s company. As one character casually remarks, “This radio show is the kind of program that died 50 years ago, only someone forgot to tell the performers.”

In fact, the specter of death lurks in every nook and cranny of the film as scene after scene evokes the impending mortality of the show and its cast. Lindsey Lohan plays Lola, the suicide-obsessed daughter of singer Yolanda Johnson (Meryl Streep). A white trench-coated angel of death (played awkwardly by Virginia Madsen) stalks a member of the company. Even Keillor himself muses, “Every show's your last show. That's my philosophy."

All the while Altman’s graceful camera prowls the theater capturing the cast as they struggle to keep themselves and the show going one last time. Ever the master, he effortlessly glides from conversation to performance and back again, creating an infectiously insular world of artistic dedication.

There really isn’t much in the way of drama, since more than half the movie is dominated by music but Altman expertly captures the improvised chaos of live performance. A few undercooked subplots are offered up as narrative filler but it’s the relationships between the characters that provide most of the film’s charm. Streep and Lily Tomlin indulge in some terrific off-the-cuff interactions as the singing Johnson sisters, Yolanda and Rhonda. Kevin Kline hints at the kind of Clouseau he might have made in the Pink Panther remake by playing Guy Noir, a down on his luck private eye reduced to backstage doorman. Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly are amusing as the singing trail hands Dusty and Lefty and Tommy Lee Jones makes a cameo appearance as the callous Axeman, a corporate heavy sent to close down the show for good.

Presiding over everything is Keillor, an oddly laconic figure whose laid back, unflappable style recalls a Lutheran version of Will Rogers. Stoic yet warm-hearted, he is sanguine in the face of impending catastrophe and seemingly incapable of regret. The only emotion Keillor displays with any comfort is one of resigned bemusement. Even the sudden death of a cast member is casually dismissed by a show-must-go-on philosophy. When asked whether something should be said to the audience, he snorts, “I don’t do eulogies.” It’s all very Minnesotan.

Fans of the NPR radio show will probably enjoy the film for its funhouse mirror view of their beloved revue - though some may be dismayed that stalwarts Tim Russell and Sue Scott are relegated to barely supporting characters in favor of their Hollywood co-stars.

For the uninitiated, however, the story meanders far too much to resonate and Altman’s relentless subtext on mortality dampens the radio program’s amiable charm. Homey, chatty and fitfully engaging A Prairie Home Companion proves to be a noble commitment to the improvisational nature of artists and an inconsequential shrug in the face of cultural extinction.