Smith's Verdict

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

As I begin my review of this wonderful film called “Sounder,” I would like to talk about my favorite scene. It’s late in the film, as its pre-teenage hero, David Lee (Kevin Hooks), visits a school where one of the class tells a story about how he saved his sister from drowning in a creek. The other students think he’s lying; they know he can’t swim. The boy insists the story is true. But David Lee believes, and he speaks for him. He believes the boy had to jump into the water even though he couldn’t swim was because he had to, in order to save his sister from drowning. It’s just like how he, his mother (Cicely Tyson), and his two younger, smaller siblings had to look after the crops after his father (Paul Winfield) has been sent away to serve a one-year hard labor sentence. No one believed they could do it, but they did. Why? Because they had to; otherwise, they wouldn’t survive. After putting it that way, the rest of the class applauds him.

The film is set in the mid-1930s, during the Great Depression, filled with ordinary people doing what they could with what they had. And for a family of poor black sharecroppers in Louisiana, who are the central characters in “Sounder,” they had to work harder, even in the midst of family crises. This is the ethical center of the film: ordinary people faced with needs and rising to the occasion. It’s somewhat easy to root for heroes who have superpowers, lead armies, give big speeches, etc. But it’s so much easier to root for central characters who are not meant for great purposes other than looking out for each other and doing what they can to make their situations better, while also searching for and finding that special feeling within themselves to keep going.

“Sounder” is a slice-of-life film that focuses on such characters. In rural Louisiana, a family of black sharecroppers go through a crisis they have to push themselves out of somehow, and the film shows how they all grow in the process. The oldest son, David Lee, comes of age; his mother is more determined than before; and his father, having served a jail sentence (this is for stealing food for the family early in the film), has valuable advice for David Lee after his return home. The film is about truth and development, centered on real, fully-realized characters who love and try to help each other. As a result, it becomes one of the most moving, effective family films I’ve ever seen—I take it back; maybe not just “family” films, but films in general.

The film is episodic in its storytelling, showing us time after time in a series of events that make up the ethical center. The closest thing that happens on an action level is a sequence in which David Lee and his hunting dog, Sounder, set off on a journey to find the prison camp his father was sent to. He doesn’t have any luck when he gets there, but he does come across a black school where he attends a class and is taken in for a couple of nights by the friendly schoolteacher, who invites him to live with her while he attends her school. It’s here where that scene I mentioned in the first paragraph comes into place.

Another favorite scene comes near the end. The payoff is very effective in a simply moving way. David Lee’s father finally comes home, and David Lee never wants to be without him again, so he doesn’t want to leave to go to the school. But his father insists that he should. Angry and sad, David Lee runs away. But his father catches up to him and gives him a speech about how he shouldn’t get too used to this place; otherwise, he won’t leave and his future will be aimless. It’s a very realistic moment between father and son, and the father’s words are perfectly chosen.

Simply put, “Sounder” is an excellent film with a simple yet affectionate story of growth, love, and hope. The acting is great, especially from Paul Winfield and Cicely Tyson (she brings a lot of subtlety to her role as a nervous but determined mother); the emotions and themes are mature and well-presented; and it’s a film for the whole family to see. Kids can get much out of it, adults can get even more, and all will see that this is a truly wonderful piece of work.

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

WARNING: The last paragraph heavily discusses the film’s ending.

Jack Nicholson. What can you say about this iconic, highly charismatic actor (scratch that—“star,” not “actor”) that hasn’t been said already? He’s one of those actors who could read the dictionary or the phone book and be, for lack of a better word, awesome. There are a lot of movie buffs out there who will argue over which is his best performance. Some say it’s the pissed-off working-class man in “Five Easy Pieces,” some say it’s the slimily charming astronaut in “Terms of Endearment,” and so on. For me personally, it’s no question, although I’d say it’s more my “favorite” rather than “the best.” That distinction goes to his performance in 1973’s “The Last Detail,” as Naval Officer Buddusky, played with the Nicholson charm, the Nicholson attitude, and the Nicholson smirk. His nickname? “Bad Ass.” I get the feeling the screenplay was written with Nicholson in mind as this character because, to me, this completely defines everything this star stands for and is best known for.

Buddusky and his fellow officer “Mule” Mulhall (Otis Young) are called upon for a “sh*t detail,” but this is one that seems fairly simple: transport a young sailor, Larry Meadows (Randy Quaid), from his Virginia Navy base to the brig in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where he will be imprisoned for eight years (“six years for good behavior,” Buddusky assures Meadows). Meadows’ crime was an attempt to lift $40 from a charity box belonging to the base commander’s wife’s favorite charity—a semi-petty crime from a budding kleptomaniac (though he never actually managed to get the money out of the box). Before Buddusky and Mulhall even get to know the kid, they agree that serving an eight-year prison sentence because of this isn’t the least bit fair. But along the way to the brig, by bus and train, they make small talk and get to know each other. The two officers escorting the prisoner find that he’s a sad-sack kid who’s as unlucky as they come. When he has a mental breakdown on the train, they take him off to relax, and Buddusky gets an idea to make this trip worthwhile by stretching it out as much as possible so he can show Meadows how to have a good time (or rather, Buddusky’s idea of a good time). Their two-day trip becomes a five-day journey of beer, ladies, and badass conduct before they inevitably must take Meadows to his destination.

One of the notable assets that works in the film’s favor is Robert Towne’s script (who also wrote another Nicholson vehicle, “Chinatown”), which doesn’t pull punches or go for the easiest task of sentiment. It’s mostly a series of scenes that are either funny, endearing, insightful, or even all three, mostly told through dialogue. The conversations between these three men are mostly natural exchanges and it’s always refreshing to hear characters just be regular people instead of pawns in a screenplay’s game. Credit should also go to director Hal Ashby and cinematographer Michael Chapman—they help what could be formless scenes into something more; something meaningful; something potent. Even in a scene where they’re just sitting around in a motel room, drinking beer, watching a movie, and talking about life and the future, it works because you get into these guys’ heads even more.

But I don’t want to make “The Last Detail” seem so deep that it’s not entertaining and it would chase people away, because it also is very funny, especially when Buddusky comes up with a new way of teaching Meadows how to have fun. There are also many sharp and witty lines of dialogue that makes the conversations between the characters fun to listen to. There’s a sense of underlying bleakness, but it only truly makes its way as a good balance. This way, when something humorous occurs, it’s well-deserved. Some of my favorite bits include a scene at a bar where Buddusky tries to get underage Meadows a drink and snaps at an uptight bartender and a scene in which he tries to hit on a pretty young woman by talking about romance or life on the sea while all she wants to talk about is politics.

Jack Nicholson was tailor-made for this role—profane, vulgar, charismatic, carrying a suitable devil-may-care attitude all throughout the film, and even kind of sentimental, which is notable in scenes such as when he tells Meadows to take back his order at a restaurant because he should “have it the way you want it.” His presence practically makes the film, and “Bad Ass” is the perfect nickname for his character (you were thinking the same thing). The other two actors, Otis Young and Randy Quaid, are solid support. Young is more controlled than Nicholson and a good counterpoint when Nicholson has another idea that may get them in more potential trouble while also (possibly) subtly respecting him in a way that he might actually wish he could be more like him. Quaid is perfect as their charge who is naïve, goofy, and likable; you could even say he’s so pathetic that it’s hard not to care for this poor guy.

At this point, I’m going to discuss the film’s ending in heavy detail. If you haven’t seen the film, please do and come back and read the rest of this review.

The ending of “The Last Detail” is one of the most intriguing and talked-about aspects of the film. It doesn’t end the way movie audiences, especially today’s, would expect. A more conventional film would have ended with Meadows’ escape from his escorts or any kind of decision that would have resulted in him not going to prison. It almost seems as if they were going to go in that direction, in a scene in which Meadows has his chance to escape while Buddusky and Mulhall are discussing bitterly what they have to do in the end. What happens? He bolts, causing them to chase him. They catch him (and not only that; Buddusky pistol-whips him). In the end, Buddusky and Mulhall do their duty and take Meadows to the prison where he is taken away without a word. A lot of people must be thinking, “Why did they do this? Why didn’t they let him escape? How could they let this happen to their new friend after all they’ve done together?” There’s no doubt that both Buddusky and Mulhall are heartsick about the inevitable, but they decide that it is their duty they set out to do and, being honorable men of their position, there’s no other final route. What may throw people off is the hidden irony, which is this—Buddusky pistol-whips Meadows when he catches him and the officer in command at the prison berates him for it…and Buddusky has already mentioned the probable brutality Meadows should expect in the prison. What does that say about the situation? (To be fair, Buddusky does lie when asked if Meadows tried to escape, just to save him any more trouble.) Something else conventional movie audiences would expect is Buddusky and Mulhall would become great friends after this. Do they? It’s hard to tell—as the two men leave, they talk about what they’re going to do next, one of them hoping his Navy orders came through. They just walk away, uncertain of their futures. Fade out. The end. Roll credits. This is what the late film critic Gene Siskel used to call the “life-goes-on” ending, a rarity in films. It’s a resolution in which no matter what we would like to happen to get a “happy ending” out of the film we’re watching, it ends in a way that both surprises and unsettles the audience. (“Terms of Endearment” is another example of this.) It doesn’t end the way we expect it to, or even the way we would like it to, but that’s what you can say for just about any situation in real life. As a plus, by ending movies this way, the audience remembers the movie and can think about what it all amounted to in the end. Discussions among friends can also come about. The ending of “The Last Detail” is hard, realistic, and also ambiguous. It’s a great ending to an already terrific film. The more times I watch it, the more I get out the setup, the journey, and the resolution

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

Don Siegel’s 1956 cult classic “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” is a consistently creepy sci-fi thriller with a clever idea and a chilling subtext for its time, about (presumably) McCarthyism and the paranoia it caused. When you think about it, it’s a premise that would suit any time period and act as a metaphor for whatever issue is at hand in society. That’s what made the idea welcome to be reinterpreted for a remake in 1978. If the ‘50s version is a metaphor for McCarthyism, this ‘70s version could be about the beginning of a new generation that is all about themselves, ending the era of the flower people. But it could also work as a parable for faceless city life, having moved the original setting of a small suburban town to a big city.

But even when that aside (and it’s not a thought that’s dwelled upon in the actual film to begin with), Philip Kaufman’s 1978 retelling of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” not only matches the original in tone but also surpasses it in execution, concept, and even effect. This is a horror film that frightened, delighted, and captivated me all at the same time.

Strange-looking flowers have bloomed in San Francisco. A health department employee, Elizabeth (Brooke Adams), picks it and decides to inspect it. She brings it home. The next morning, her selfish, slobbish boyfriend seems like a different person—more cold and distant. This is not her boyfriend, she argues, even if it still physically looks like him. Other people in the city have this problem as well, claiming that members of their family and friends are not the same people they used to be. Her colleague, health inspector Matthew Bennell (Donald Sutherland), is ignorant of any change until his writer friend, Jack (Jeff Goldblum), and his wife, Nancy (Veronica Cartwright), discover a deformed body in the bathhouse they both run. The body has an adult figure but no distinguishing characteristics…and it slightly resembles Jack.

The body is missing when Matthew brings his psychiatrist friend, Dr. Kibner (Leonard Nimoy), in on the discovery, and he dismisses everyone’s paranoia as excuses to get out of relationships or not accepting change in their lives. But when Elizabeth falls asleep and Matthew discovers a forming double of her, things get stranger and even more unnerving as it seems the flowers and their pods are the cause of the phenomenon. It seems people are being duplicated and replaced as emotionless beings, and before long, it’s becoming harder for our main characters to know who to trust.

About what I wrote above about how the film works as a parable for city life, that theme of individual isolation is present throughout, especially when more of the city’s residents become converted by the growing population of “pod people” and our main characters are easily outnumbered against many. How do you trust your fellow neighbor when you don’t know who he really is? It’s a scary notion that is played very effectively, as the invasion expands slowly but surely. The tone laced within the film’s atmosphere is perfect—there’s a great sense of quiet foreboding that makes small actions almost seductive. Even in the final half-hour, when the climax should be loud and bombastic, is still quietly creepy and succeeds at being suspenseful in moments of betrayal, fear, and shock. This isn’t a case of the “it’s-good-but-it-could’ve-been-great” syndrome that countless resolutions cause; this film is riveting from the beginning to the middle to the end. (And speaking of endings, I won’t spoil it, but it ranks among the best shockers in horror-film history.)

Most of the credit has to go to Kaufman, whose direction constantly fills the audience with uneasiness. And it looks and feels like he thought up every shot and decided to throw in a little extra something here or there for every frame of the film. He has a disturbing shadowy look that works with the material; he has extras stand still in windows and walls for unnerving effect; reflections cast oddities such as rays of light; and so on. I’ve seen this film about ten times so far—I’m not sure I caught everything as of now.

But more importantly, with a unique gritty style of filming, it feels real, which is one of the main reasons this film still continues to scare me.

This may not seem like an actor’s film, but all the actors do great, believable jobs. Donald Sutherland is excellent what could’ve been a thankless role; this actor knows how to grab your attention with his voice, his poise, and his attitude. Brooke Adams is suitably vulnerable and easily sympathetic. Leonard Nimoy gives us the same deadpan wit that his Mr. Spock character on “Star Trek” is known for, and it rings true for the character and for the situation at hand. Jeff Goldblum is good comic relief. Veronica Cartwright is the least impressive of the bunch, but she’s not bad; her terrified reactions seem a little over-the-top sometimes. While we’re on the subject of casting, Kevin McCarthy, from the original 1956 film, makes a terrific cameo appearance.

To sum up, I love this film. It’s a brilliantly unsettling remake that, in my opinion, even better than the original. I know someone out there is thinking of redoing this idea for a new version in a new era (as well they should, because a good allegory remains a good allegory); one can only hope it’ll be as solid as this version.

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

Akira Kurosawa’s 1950 Japanese classic “Rashomon” is a mixture of simple storytelling and psychological complexity. Just when you think you may have a handle as to what the film is truly about, it raises questions, offers subtle symbolism, and has some things to say about human nature.

Labeled the film that put Kurosawa’s name on the map and had him declared one of the best film directors of all time with his further-coming films (“Seven Samurai,” “The Hidden Fortress,” and so forth), “Rashomon” has a great story idea that is very effectively handled here and has gone on to be copied in other films and TV shows, such as the 1996 war drama “Courage Under Fire.” The central story is about the murder of a man (Masayuki Mori) in a remote wooded area, most likely by a bandit named Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune, who would go on to appear in other Kurosawa’s films) who wanted the man’s wife (Machiko Kyo) for himself. But the story is told through four different perspectives. The strange thing is neither of the four stories told by the witnesses match up. We see from each perspective presented in flashback as each person tells the story. The characters and the details are roughly the same, more or less, but the accounts of the incident are presented differently.

The film begins as a woodcutter (Takashi Shimura) and a priest (Minoru Chiaki) stay dry from a rainstorm, beneath the Rashomon city gate. A commoner (Kichijiro Ueda) joins them as he wonders what’s troubling them, as they are upset about something not making sense to them. They tell him they witnessed a disturbing story, which they begin to describe to him. The woodcutter claims to have found the man’s dead body and reported it to the police. At the courthouse garden, he and the priest listened in to three different testimonies, describing what happened. The bandit Tajomaru was brought in to tell his part of the story; he accepts the responsibility that he did commit the murder but states the rape of the woman was of mutual consent. The woman’s story follows, as she claims Tajomaru attacked her. Then comes the story of the dead man, told through a medium, which states that there was betrayal from his wife and he committed suicide. It makes very little sense to anybody, since so many details are changed in each story, but then the woodcutter reveals that he not only found the body but saw the event first-hand. His story intertwines elements from the other stories so everything makes more sense.

But did he really see anything at all? Whose story is the more accurate one? What really happened in those woods? What does it say about human nature when you consider all the perspectives about the horrific event in the first place? These questions are all raised, especially by people who try to comprehend the chronology of the incident, and those people aren’t going to find real answers except for those they come up with in their heads. What just about everyone will find in “Rashomon” is what they can learn on the news, when another horrific crime with very few witnesses comes up—that we have hardly a way of knowing the truth unless we were really there ourselves. And even if we did see anything, how will the people we tell our story to interpret it? Perspective is different from reality; it’s how things are seen in retrospect than what happens in the moment that lives within us as time goes on. Therefore, when someone thinks he remembers things clearly, is it really as clear as it seems? We also know people lie, and we know some of these people in this film are lying, but we don’t know who and therefore we don’t know which side to take here. What really happens in “Rashomon” is unsure and not absolute; what do we know for sure? This is why ‘Rashomon” works so well and still holds up after all these years—its themes of unknowable truths, perceptions of innocence & guilt, and variations of human nature are evident and very profound.

Kurosawa’s script is wise and intelligent, but his filmmaking is also very sharp, tightly focused, and quite thrilling and riveting, especially when each of the four stories are told. By the time the fourth story comes about, something happens in the storytelling that makes the visuals and the emotions even grander than before. It makes for a riveting climax that left me on-edge the first time I saw it and still gets to me today. The cinematography (by Kazuo Miyagawa) is gorgeous and really captures the feel of that semi-tropical forest the action occurs in, and there are moments in this film that owe more to silent film than to the Westerns that Kurosawa’s work associated with in the future, particularly in the swordfight sequences between the bandit and the man and also in the first flashback which shows the woodcutter’s journey through the woods before he comes across the body.

The actors must be given due credit as well, since they are asked to play four different variations of the same character. The actor who pulls it off the most is Toshiro Mifune as the bandit Tajomaru; whether playing it dirty or violent or even frightened, he gives an excellent performance, riveting throughout. I can also say the same for Machiko Kyo as the woman in question, who probably has the most difficult challenge of playing the damsel in distress, a fierce, manipulative siren, or a spiteful, sexy vixen.

It’s a brilliant move on Kurosawa’s part not to reveal what really happened in the woods. Every time I watch “Rashomon,” I find myself having a different opinion as to how everything played out. Surely, everyone else who watches the film will have their own opinions, each of them different, but that’s what makes film a great art form; the secret, subtle resolutions can be the way you want it to be, especially with films like “Rashomon.” It’s a great film, it’s still a classic today, it only gets better each time I see it, and I find myself thinking about it a lot more afterwards.

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

The title of the 1959 French drama, “The 400 Blows,” refers to an idiom that roughly means, “to raise hell.” It’s actually a somewhat-misinterpretation of its French title, “Les quatre cent coups,” derived from the French expression “Faire les quatre cent coups,” meaning, “to live a wild life.” (The literal translation is “400 practical jokes.”) I didn’t know that until I looked it up after I saw the film. Up to then, I didn’t understand what “The 400 Blows” meant and its literal translation didn’t make much sense to me either. But when the phrase “to live a wild life” came into place, I started to think about it and it made more sense.

The film’s central focus is a resourceful, misunderstood adolescent who is unlucky—he doesn’t necessarily go looking for trouble but it always seems to find him. Adults see him as a troublemaker—his insensitive teacher finds it easy to describe him as a troublemaker, his mother sometimes loves him while doesn’t know how to feel about him at other times, his stepfather tries to be his friend but even he sort of the same as everyone else does toward him, and by the end of the film, he’s labeled as a juvenile delinquent. Even before then, when he gets into trouble, he finds it best to run away and live on his own rather than go home. This kid lives in a world he didn’t make, he doesn’t understand, isn’t understood by, and would rather be left to his own resources, or to put it bluntly, “to live a wild life,” which the film’s title indicates.

“The 400 Blows” is a brilliant film—one that gives us a hard-edged, open-minded portrait as to how this boy, Antoine Doinel (played perfectly by Jean-Pierre Leaud), slowly but surely turns to crime because of how everything and everyone around him seems to judge him. We see events in his life that help shape his present while raising questions about his future. This material could have been treated as light as a feather, but through the vision of French filmmaker Francois Truffaut, it becomes as real as the feelings many kids like Antoine feel.

“The 400 Blows” was Truffaut’s debut feature and it came at a time when filmmakers took advantage of the French “New Wave” cinema by making unique choices through personal stories. This film was one of the most influential at the time because you could tell it was personal and even semiautobiographical (I’ve read reviews that state how the movies saved Truffaut from crime, and there are times when Antoine’s mood is softened by a trip to the cinema). Add solid filmmaking to that and it’s easy to tell why this film was so well-regarded from the start and even still holds up today.

Antoine is a real kid, not much different from other kids his age or from his own classmates for that matter. It’s just he’s usually the one that’s caught and he’s unlucky enough to get punished. At the start, the students are passing around a pinup; the teacher punishes him once it’s in his hands. Antoine fails to turn in homework, skips school, and even makes up a lie about his mother dying to cover for both. Once the lie is revealed, that puts him in a worse spot. For Antoine, it seems he can’t do anything right in his teacher’s eyes. At one point, he writes an essay about his grandfather’s death in homage to Balzac, whom he has a shrine dedicated to in his bedroom. But his teacher gives him a failing grade and suspends him, accusing him of plagiarism.

At home, things aren’t much better, especially when his parents immediately take things from the teacher’s perspective instead of Antoine’s. The only time there seems to be an attempt at understanding Antoine comes when he tells his mother he has trouble concentrating, and even then, it’s hard for Antoine to get across what he wants to say (like real people in general, not just children). Antoine lives in a tiny apartment with his mother (Claire Maurier) and stepfather (Albert Remy). It’s revealed that Antoine was the product of an unwanted pregnancy and his mother wasn’t ready for parenthood. It’s clear that she still doesn’t quite know how to handle issues with her son and grows impatient with him when something new comes up. She has her own problems as well, such as poverty and attempting to cover up an affair; she seems to want to spend as much time out of the house as possible. The stepfather seems friendly sometimes but also has his short-tempered moments due to work. The moments when the family is even remotely happy seem sporadic. For example, the happiest moment in the film comes after Antoine accidentally starts a fire. First, the parents are infuriated but then they decide to forgive him, and the whole family has a pleasant night going to the movies. But most of the time, they just see their son as a bother. This is why, when he gets into real trouble, he’d rather live on the streets than in his own home.

He does live on the streets for a while, with the aid of his school chum Rene (Patrick Auffay), who sometimes instigates Antoine’s troublesome activities. He slowly but surely stoops to petty crime, stealing milk, theater lobby cards, and eventually a typewriter from his own father’s office so he can sell it for money. But when he has a change of heart and decides to return it, he gets caught and arrested by the police. From that point on, he’s labeled as a juvenile delinquent and sent to reform school. His parents won’t help him anymore because they believe he’ll just run away again if he comes home. No one will help him because they have no interest in doing so. He’s left at the mercy of social services and is simply a victim of circumstance. The saddest moment in the film is when he is treated like a criminal and put in a police holding cell and a police wagon in the company of prostitutes and thieves. His look through the bars is heartbreaking.

Author Stephen King once said, “In all our lives, there’s a fall from innocence, a time after which we are never the same.” “The 400 Blows” is a film that illustrates that viewpoint very effectively. Nowhere is that clearer in this film than the scene in which Antoine and his friend discuss a way to make more money through petty crime…during a puppet show. While dozens of children are laughing and enjoying the show, these two older kids are in the middle of scheming. By the end of the film, Antoine is no longer innocent and his future is uncertain. The final shot, following a half-grim/half-satisfying final scene, is a freeze-frame with an optical zoom on his face—this closing image has been copied long since this film’s release, but this one has a purpose: for us to interpret Antoine’s predicament for ourselves.

“The 400 Blows” is a subtle, well-acted, great-looking, and emotionally deep character-study that I can’t recommend enough. Today, it still holds up wonderfully as a remarkable film and a classic. Truffaut’s style is direct and truthful so that his film is far from a traditional melodrama, like a good chunk of teenage “coming-of-age” dramas. It’s moving, effective, and causes us to reflect on our own youths. Where will Antoine end up? How did we get here?

NOTE: Truffaut would bring back actor Jean-Pierre Leaud to reprise his role of Antoine Doinel in four other films: the short film “Antoine and Collette” and the features “Stolen Kisses,” “Bed and Board,” and “Love on the Run.” This could show that “The 400 Blows” really was from a chapter in Truffaut’s life and wants to show how he became the kind of person he is now, but I haven’t seen these films…yet.

Smith’s Verdict: ****
Reviewed by Tanner Smith

“We may be through with the past, but the past is never through with us.” The meaning of that quote in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Magnolia” is at the core of the film, which is a series of tales that involve grief, regrets, resentment, and sadness among their central characters. Yes, “Magnolia” is an ensemble piece (and a three-hour long one at that) with many different storylines surrounding different characters (only some of whom interconnect) while maintaining a consistent theme to make the characters’ stories parallel. This is a risky move for any filmmaker to make, but Anderson not only manages to pull it off; he really manages to pull it off. The three-hour running time is enough time to allow each character to develop and have their full story told; the characters’ stories are interesting enough to keep us invested; the filmmaking is riveting; and here’s the true test of how effective it was for me—I was so empowered by each story being told in this three-hour epic that I rarely even noticed what time it was. This is an example of a wildly ambitious project that works wonderfully.

“Magnolia” takes place in one day in rainy Los Angeles and presents a slice-of-life look at many different people. I suppose it’s best to begin by describing each character. Stanley Spector (Jeremy Blackman) is a child genius and a star contestant on a popular TV game show, “What Do Kids Know?” He’s a very smart kid who has every answer and the potential to win the ultimate money prize on the show, and his father couldn’t be prouder; in fact, winning the money seems to be the only thing to get his dad’s attention. The show’s host, Jimmy Gator (Philip Baker Hall), has terminal cancer and learned he has two months to live. He wants to try and reconnect with his daughter, a cocaine addict named Claudia (Melora Walters), but she believes (though he doesn’t remember) he molested her as a child. Meanwhile, Claudia meets a friendly but incompetent police officer, Jim Kurring (John C. Reilly), who looks past the fact that she’s strung out on drugs and just wants to date her and possibly start a relationship.

We also meet a former champion on the show, Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), who has grown up and is unhappy with how his life turned out. He seeks to gain attention from someone he loves—a bartender with braces—by getting money for “corrective oral surgery” so he himself can get braces on his teeth. At the same time, we have the producer of the show, Earl Partridge (Jason Robards), stricken with cancer and on his deathbed. His second wife, Linda (Julianne Moore), is a young woman trying to deal with her imminent loss, and she even admits that she never really loved him and only married him for his money; this self-revelation causes her to think suicidal thoughts. Earl has a dying wish to see his estranged son. His nurse, Phil (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), tries to fulfill that, discovering that the son is actually Frank Mackey (Tom Cruise), a magnetic guru who aids men in the conquering of women—his mission statement: “Seduce and Destroy.” (Aaron Eckhart’s character in “In the Company of Men” would envy this guy.) Earl abandoned Frank when he was a boy and Frank has never forgiven him, and Frank had to take care of his mother who died of cancer.

All these characters are different but also kind of similar too. The central theme of “Magnolia” could be either parental cruelty and its lasting effect on both the parents and their children or the effects of spiritual and physical cancer and looking back on life in sorrow and guilt. Two of these people, Earl and Jimmy, are dying physically, and maybe even more, such as self-destructive Claudia and depressed Linda, are not too far behind. Along with Claudia, the rest are hiding some deep mental scars brought on by the sins of the parents and have their own defenses—Frank uses his misogynistic self-help to mask his insecurities; Donnie is loving and surely losing; and the boy genius, Stanley, is being pushed by his father to keep answering correctly and go on to win the grand prize. It starts to become too much pressure for him. There are so few who try to help, the two in particular being Jim and Phil. A policeman and a nurse—the only figures who represent care and hope in these people’s lives. But they’re only available for about two or three of the people in question; the others could benefit from their help. (What makes it more upsetting is that the connections Jim and Phil make with the people they come across probably won’t last long.)

For a three-hour ensemble drama, “Magnolia” is perfectly-paced. As strange as that sounds, it was enough to keep me involved in each one of these characters’ stories. There’s a lot that happens in this film (obviously, given its running time), so I can’t say too much about the plot in this review. Even the least interesting storyline (to me, it’s the subplot involving Donnie) has something worthwhile to keep me watching. It not only helps to establish these characters in a strongly realistic portrait of how real people with similar problems behave and interact. It also helps to have a top-notch cinematographer (Robert Elswit, Anderson’s usual DP) to photograph the film beautifully; to edit it energetically; and to add a few eccentric moments, such as when all “dying” characters sing along to an Aimee Mann song playing on the soundtrack (“It’s Not Going to Stop”). But there’s also something that happens near the end…but I’ll get to that later.

Every actor/actress in this terrific ensemble cast does a spectacular job. Newcomer Jeremy Blackman is terrific as a kid under tremendous pressure; I felt for this kid at a crucial point when he realizes this game isn’t fun anymore. Julianne Moore does a great job at making Linda into someone who is always sympathetic even in times when she can be unlikable. Jason Robards delivers arguably his best scene in any film he’s been in: a heartbreaking bedridden monologue about how many regrets he has in his life now he’s at death’s door. John C. Reilly radiates a soft gentleness to his policeman character, and he and Melora Walters share a nice, offbeat relationship together. Philip Baker Hall, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and William H. Macy are equally effective. And then there’s Tom Cruise—this may just be the best performance I’ve ever seen from this top-notch star, playing Frank with much charisma with much sadness hiding underneath. It’s a spellbinding portrayal.

It’s hard to pick my favorite scene—is it the prologue involving urban legends?; is it Stanley’s breakdown on the air?; is it Earl’s monologue about regret and guilt?; is it Frank’s tearful reunion with his dying father?; is it the beautiful sequence in which all “dying” characters (figuratively and literally) share a musical number?; is it the extraordinary, completely out-of-nowhere occurrence near the end of the film? How about the whole thing?

If you’ve seen the film, you’re probably wondering what I make of said-“extraordinary, completely out-of-nowhere occurrence.” This was a sequence that took everyone by surprise in its original release, caused many debates, and even split many audiences and critics in their overall opinion of the film (some say it was a work of genius while others say it was an unbelievable copout; if you haven’t guessed, I belong to the former group). If you don’t know what it is, I won’t reveal it here, but I will say this—nothing in the first 2 hours and 40 minutes of this film will prepare you for it. I certainly wasn’t prepared for it. It may be a copout for some people who thought it ruined a perfectly good setup of effective human conduct and communication, but to me, it only raised the film to a new level that I was fascinated by it. I found myself thinking more about it the second time I watched the film. (I also realize that without the prologue that indicates that even the most improbable things can happen in life, this ending would have made no sense at all.)

P.T. Anderson’s “Magnolia” is simply a wonderful piece of work—a very well-put-together ensemble drama that quite frankly, I would even rank higher than Robert Altman’s best works. I cared about each character, I felt like I knew each of them rather than just some of them, and again, I was engaged by all their storylines, which to me is its biggest accomplishment. Maybe I understand it or I was in the right mood for it when I first watched it, but “Magnolia” was a tremendous film for me to experience.