The Company” is a modest film that doesn’t attempt or accomplish very much. Constructed with a loose, almost stream-of-consciousness narrative, the movie goes back and forth between a sparse plot and dance numbers choreographed with the cooperation of Chicago’s famed Joffrey Ballet.
The dance numbers are filmed cinematically, though not over-emphatically. Once, in the age when dance pervaded Hollywood movies, these sequences might have been considered montage-heavy. After “Moulin Rouge” and “Chicago,” however, “The Company” plays like a Sokurov film — slow and heavy, like the neverending camera in his “Russian Ark.” Altman’s use of digital video further separates “The Company” from past Hollywood films.
The plot is anecdotal: Ry (Neve Campbell), a dancer with the Joffrey, is chosen to do a solo number because another dancer is injured. She dances beautifully during a storm and later hits on a bohemian chef (James Franco), and they begin dating. That’s about it. None of these strands go anywhere in particular, nor are they integrated. They’re merely offered.
Sometimes, these offerings are quite beautiful. The film’s director, after all, is Robert Altman (“M*A*S*H”). In the great tradition of Jean Renoir, Altman’s finest talent is a cruel poetic realism wherein none of his characters are given exclusive agency over the viewer’s gaze. Altman is famous for offering every perspective, most notoriously in “Nashville,” which stars an ensemble of characters whose voices overlap on the soundtrack as Altman constantly redirects our ears from one conversation to the next.
Altman uses similar techniques in “The Company’s” best sequence: Ry’s breathtaking performance in the rain. We get the audience’s perspective of the performance; Ry’s perspective of the audience; and the perspectives of the backstage crew whose technical instructions can be heard along with the classical music, the applause, the pitter-patter of Ry’s feet and the thunder and rain that erupt outside. The perfection of this moment lies in Altman’s understanding of the imperfection of the real world’s timing. Alanis Morrisette would ask, “Isn’t it ironic?” Robert Altman’s take: Isn’t it sort of beautiful?
After this wonderful scene, the picture becomes drab. Even the climactic recital at the end has nowhere near the power of this earlier sequence. The film’s main flaw isn’t its refusal to be plot-driven, but its lack of any kind of emotional, atmospheric or aesthetic arc.
And then there’s Malcolm McDowell. As the dance company’s (Italian? British?) leader, McDowell quips and quacks with all the energy and charisma of a true droog. With his callused features and harsh accent, he commands too much attention in a movie that is not about any one person.
Of course, if the film is about anyone, it’s Ry. But because Campbell can’t exactly act (I’ve never seen her play any role that isn’t a whiny over-achiever), and because Franco underplays his role to good effect, Altman has created a movie whose true star is “the company,” or the aural-visual clatter that the company produces. McDowell, a real actor, doesn’t belong.
Vacillating between brief glimmers of artfulness and general mediocrity, “The Company’s” narrative mimics another, gloomier narrative: the story of Robert Altman’s career since his last spurt of bravura in the early 1990s (“The Player,” “Short Cuts”). Maybe if we clap our hands together real loud, this master filmmaker will come alive once more. Sadly, not in 2003. B-
Communication junior Jeff Deutchman is a writer for PLAY. He can be reached at [email protected].
Robert Altman
McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971): Altman’s lyrical interpretation of the Western defines his style: It’s a film centered more on atmosphere than story.
Nashville (1975): The classic, kaleidoscopic story of of 24 people in the Music City. A precursor to “Magnolia” (1999) and Altman’s own “Short Cuts” (1992).
Kansas City (1996): Altman, possibly more than any other major director, has a career littered with duds. This jazzy homage to Altman’s hometown, however, is worth another look.
