As the years slip away and the specter of death looms, nostalgia takes over with increasing ferocity. There were times when it merely tapped me on the shoulder as a subtle reminder of better days, but after passing the half-century mark, it’s all I can do to keep it at bay for an evening. While there are any number of things I’m nostalgic for (energy, drive, hope, pleasure of any kind), the list is topped – as usual – but the fondness I hold for uncompromising cinema.
Movies that pushed boundaries, risked offense, or had the audacity to tell assorted audiences to fuck the fuck off. In that sense – the best sense – I look to Robert Altman. I had all but completed his oeuvre, but there, like the proverbial sore thumb, stood Brewster McCloud. It was in print, so I had no excuse, save the fear that its legendary weirdness would put me off. A kid who wants to fly? A fetish for bird poop? Unsolved murders and car chases galore? I hoped for another Nashville but feared Quintet. Still, it was time. I owed Bob, after all.
Thankfully, Brewster McCloud lives up to the billing. No, it’s not even remotely among the master’s best works, but it left me reeling nonetheless. Though not always in a good way. The entire experience – a blissfully brisk 105 minutes – is unlike any I’ve had in quite some time, but if you’re going to put a fever dream on film, at least have the nerve to go all the way. And all the way it goes, down corridors one could never expect, always in pursuit of Altman’s singular vision. Is there a story? Not really. Characters of substance and insight? Maybe. Fulfillment, closure, and wide-eyed wonder? I guess, if those things are important to you. Regardless, one very important promise was kept: in no uncertain terms, I was told to fuck the fuck off. Repeatedly, in fact. Any moment I asked for clarity, I was mocked with merciless detachment. I could almost hear Bob’s cackle from the great beyond. I was naïve to expect otherwise.
For 55 years, scholars and fans have been debating the film’s essential meaning. Check that – they stopped decades ago, but for my own sanity, I must believe Altman is still being debated in circles that matter. But if it’s just me at this stage, so be it. I’ll carry the torch like a good soldier. Young Brewster (Bud Cort), lives in the Astrodome. Yes, that Astrodome; still, in 1970, a cultural wonder that influenced vacations and insisted on only the biggest of events, from title fights to celebrity tennis matches.
Brewster wants to fly, so he spends his days constructing an apparatus that can best be described as a set of mechanical wings. He’ll fly inside the stadium, dammit, whatever it takes. Why? Because he can, and maybe it’s simply a matter of feeling free and unencumbered for the first time. So is that it? A statement of individuality in the face of suffocating conformity? If you insist, only I’m not about to join that camp. If it were simply the story of a rebel with a cause – youth in full flower – I doubt Altman would have been interested. Inhaling clichés was never his business.
It helps to know that the entire movie is framed by – or exists within – an extended ornithology lecture given by “The Lecturer”, played by a delightfully unhinged Rene Auberjonois. He’s on board to explain the behavior of birds, yes, but also to connect those behaviors to the human characters who act in their stead. At least that’s what I’m going with. I had no idea what The Lecturer was babbling about half the time, but I appreciated his squawks and squeals nonetheless. The bird theme is hammered home at every turn, and we see hundreds of the little buggers, as if Altman decided to poke at Hitchcock with a little cheeky irreverence. More than the actual birds, however, is the presence of bird droppings. Shit, to be frank, and it’s everywhere. Especially when someone is murdered. Oh, did I mention that there’s a serial killer afoot? And that the perpetrator is likely a human female who may have at one time been a bird herself?
The woman in question, Louise (Sally Kellerman), wanders about the film, always showing up just when a character needs to be made good and dead. She appears to be Brewster’s protector, as everyone killed is a potential roadblock to the lad fulfilling his dream of flight. A guardian angel, perhaps? Yes, but not necessarily. Because, at bottom, nothing is all that necessary. Because there are crimes being committed, we add to the mix a slew of bumbling detectives and cops, including Shaft himself. No, not the Shaft, but had it been so, it wouldn’t have seemed out of place. As played by Altman regular Michael Murphy, Shaft has an unparalleled reputation for solving crimes, which means he won’t solve this one, and will eventually commit suicide in one of the most random and unexpected turns in many a moon. For a central figure to shoot himself almost as an afterthought is vintage Altman, and one of the biggest laughs in the whole demented enterprise.
And it wouldn’t be an Altman film without Shelley Duvall, playing a dopey sex fiend named Suzanne. One minute she’s talking about diarrhea, the next she’s taking Brewster’s virginity with all the gusto of a woman playing solitaire. She’s fleeing a nutty ex-boyfriend, of course, and having stolen his car, it stands to reason that same car will figure in at least two car chases of note, both of which lead nowhere fast. Which is just fine. I’d like to think Altman was making Smokey & the Bandit seven years in advance, but I think the legendary director just wanted an excuse to smash up a few vehicles. Oh, and before I forget, Stacy Keach makes an appearance, caked in heavy makeup, playing a wheelchair-bound old man who has his driver (Brewster) take him around to his various properties (all being retirement homes) to collect overdue payments. The character is, as the saying goes, apropos of nothing, but his out-of-control ride down a busy highway is the second big laugh of the film, primarily because it has nothing to do with anything. It’s simply a scene Altman wanted to film, and we should all be grateful.
All the crazy boxes are checked in turn. A scene in a zoo ending in murder. A truly inspired opening credit sequence where Margaret Hamilton (from The Wizard of Oz) butchers The Star-Spangled Banner, only to start again (thereby re-starting the movie itself). Naturally, she says everyone else is in the wrong key. An escaped prisoner snooping around a crime lab. More bird poop. A funeral. More strangulations. A wife more than pleased with her husband’s death. An ugly kid called out by his uglier father. A masturbating young woman. Racist invective. A manhunt. And the end credits! Naturally, they’re utterly self-aware, but exactly as you’d expect. And yes, it all ends in the Astrodome. With a circus. And a party. And Brewster’s violent death.
Naturally, because I’m so inclined, I pondered meaning throughout, even though I knew it was a fool’s errand. An allegory for innocence? A metaphor for sexual awakening? A brutal satire of a culture gone mad? An expensive in-joke? A wink and a nod about the Vietnam debacle? Yes to all. And just as defiantly, a firm no. It’s one of the few films in existence where literally any interpretation is a sound one, and one I’d defend at all costs. What is clear is that Altman has great affection for Brewster, and by killing him, he’s making him a martyr for something important. Though as the final image of Brewster is that of a broken, distorted corpse, maybe he’s nothing more than a sadistic sacrifice. While nuttier than the fruitcake of your choosing, Brewster is not without his charms, and perhaps Altman wanted to create something loveable, only to destroy it with a perverse glee. Hey, that I can respect.
If you were to tell me that you hated Brewster McCloud with unprecedented force, I’d likely nod in agreement. A personal favorite, topping your 70’s “best of” list? A similar nod, with a wink to match. Loving a film you hate, or hating a film you love is just about the best way to honor Mr. Altman, and I firmly believe in honoring him at every opportunity. He’s from a time when setting studio money on fire was a genuine act of love, and following a box office smash (M*A*S*H*) with a dud is just the way it goes. On to the next. I’ve heard that Altman himself counts this film as among his personal favorites, and I’d never be in the dark as to why. In a safe and cowardly time, it’s a way for us to breathe again. Sit back. Revel in what was, even if only for a brief moment.
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