By Stephanie Zacharek
By Charles Taylor
By Chris Klimek
By Chris Klimek
By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
It's quite a compliment to say that an artist's failures are more interesting than most of his colleagues' successes. That description certainly applies to Robert Altman, a filmmaker who works so close to his heart and intuitions that even his most ill-conceived films usually show you something startling and fresh.
What Altman does with narrative cinema is so delicate -- like weaving spider webs between blades of grass -- that there isn't much separating his moments of genius from his occasional botched scenes and subplots. More than one critic has compared him to a jazz composer, which also fits, but with one caveat: unlike most jazz composers, Altman doesn't take a melody, meaning a story, and improvise around it. Instead, he improvises from the get-go, and hopes that his knack for finding motifs and rhythms and resonant images will pull everything together into something coherent, maybe even indelible.
Unfortunately, Altman's latest movie, Ready to Wear (Pret-A-Porter), never quite comes together. Its missteps are so numerous, and so strongly rooted in Altman's basic conception, that there was probably no way it could have ever been shaped into something memorable. It's as shallow and monotonous and transparently crass as the world it purports to expose.
Set in the glamorous milieu of Paris fashion, the film assembles the standard-issue Altman elements: an ensemble cast of eccentric characters; a set of overlapping, interlocking subplots; and more satire of modern life than you can shake a can of glitter at. There are models and former models (Georgianna Robertson, Tara León, Ute Lemper), fashion magazine editors (Tracey Ullman, Linda Hunt, Sally Kellerman), journalists (Julia Roberts, Tim Robbins, Kim Basinger), photographers (Lili Taylor, Stephen Rea), designers (Richard E. Grant, Forest Whitaker, Anouk Aimee), and assorted businesspeople, government employees and hangers-on (among them Danny Aiello, Michel Blanc, Rupert Everett and Jean Rochefort), and they drift in and out of one another's lives like bits of confetti, plotting against each other, helping each other and getting in one another's way.
Altman sets the picture's tone with the opening credits sequence, which follows a mysterious Russian tailor (Marcello Mastroianni, whose function in this movie I was never quite sure of) from Russia to Paris. The director whooshes the camera around and around on a tripod so that the world becomes a colorful blur, and the names of the cast and crew, embroidered on bright scraps of fabric, drift up the screen.
But just when you think the director is setting you up for a lighthearted, whirlwind tour of an alien world whose inner workings we've all wondered about, he zaps you with satire, or what passes for satire these days: a close-up of a cast member's leg as he places one very expensive shoe right into a dollop of dog feces. The image is both extreme and uninformative; it cries, "Look out! Here I come to deglamorize a glamorous setting!"
That pretty much sums up Ready to Wear, both in terms of subject matter and approach. Altman creates a bunch of potentially interesting characters, places them in a complex and strange environment and cuts from subplot to subplot as if playing hopscotch. He's as dexterous as ever, and some of his individual characters and situations come off beautifully. (My favorites are Forest Whitaker's and Richard E. Grant's incandescently bitchy designer-lovers; Julia Roberts' and Tim Robbins' journalists who accidentally end up covering a big fashion news event from the same hotel room and, later, bed; and Kim Basinger's FAD-TV reporter, whose Texas twang and propensity to be shocked by human perversity makes her a credible audience surrogate.)
If the filmmaker had been content merely to chronicle the lives and loves of his standard-issue eccentrics, the film could have been frothy fun. But Altman just has to score points off these people. I'm not sure what he thought he was getting at by showing us that shoe landing in doggie mess, but you certainly couldn't call it sophisticated.
I'm also not sure why he takes such satisfaction in seeing so many of his characters ritually humiliated, often in public. The three fashion magazine editors, for instance, all fall under the charm of Stephen Rea's giggling Irish photographer, who finesses them into bed, takes photos of them undressing, giggling all the while like some idiot schoolboy -- and then files them away, presumably for blackmail use later on. Our sympathies are firmly with the women, who seem like decent, likable, classy professionals whose only crime is letting their emotional guards down, yet Altman treats them as dolts who are getting just what they deserve.
This bizarre vindictiveness persists throughout Ready to Wear. If it came from another director -- someone such as Oliver Stone or Spike Lee, both of whom are known for their vitriol -- it might seem comprehensible, albeit misdirected and juvenile. But coming from Altman, it's disturbing and surprising. If there's any common theme that runs through his movies, it's that everyone has a dream; the joy of Altman's work comes from watching so many interesting characters with such rich inner lives collide with their fellow men and women -- many of whom are working at cross-purposes with them. In the past, Altman has almost never condescended to any of his creations, no matter how crass or malevolent or petty or idiotic they might have been. He respected them as human beings with idiosyncrasies and contradictions. That he has suddenly and rather inexplicably chosen to wag his finger at humanity is strange. That he has chosen as his grandstand the most ethereal and fantastic milieu on earth -- with the possible exception of the film industry -- is stranger still.
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