MAGNOLIA

MAGNOLIA (1999) **

Reviewed 1/8/00

Paul Thomas Anderson is an enormously talented director in terms of camera placement, utilization of space, mastery of long tracking shots, and usage of diegetic and nondiegetic sound. As a writer he is horrible -- strained, over-expository, lacking in subtlety, and fundamentally oblivious as to what counts for profundity. These characteristics marked his overly-praised breakthrough film Boogie Nights, and they mark his latest, even more ambitious follow-up, Magnolia. Let no one say Anderson is unwilling to go out on a limb. From its 3-hour running time to its miracle-induced ending, Magnolia is nothing if not aspiring. That its length is ultimately oppressive and its introduction of magical realism bewilderingly misguided points to Anderson being in over his head. Though more visually dazzling, Anderson is no Robert Altman. And Magnolia, despite its similarities in following a large cast of characters and ending with an "act of nature" that ties them all together, is no Short Cuts.

Anderson's characters are one dimensional -- desperate-to-fall-in-love police officer (John C. Reilly), pained-by-marrying-her-husband-for-his-money wife (Julianne Moore), earnest nurse (Philip Seymour Hoffman), down-on-his-luck loser (William H. Macy), two regretful old men (Jason Robards and Philip Baker Hall), their two grown-up children stunted by horrors from their past (Tom Cruise and Melora Walters), and a child-prodigy (Jeremy Blackman) ill-treated by his own greedy dad. They don't go much beyond these quick descriptions, and few, if any of them change by the end of the film either. Each gets to shamelessly emote in their own glorified monologue at some point. These unenlightening emotional outpourings equal drama for Anderson, but it is the simplest form of drama, all show without substance. Luckily for Anderson that he is blessed with a marvelous cast (half of which is lifted from Anderson's Boogie Nights) who nearly transcend their character limitations. Only Walters stays trapped within her hysterical character's confines.

The first hour is promising as Anderson effortlessly weaves between the myriad characters. The film is made up of crescendos built up by increasingly intense cross-cutting and the music of Jon Brion. The first crescendo works powerfully. As does the second, but as the contrivances in the writing mount, the film finally becomes exhausting. Aimee Mann's articulate songs are an asset, though the scene in which Anderson has all the characters sing to one Mann song is preposterous (particularly since two of the characters are very nearly in a coma). The last hour is an experience in incredulousness as Anderson makes facile revelations about character motivations. Finally, when whiz-kid Stanley Spector utters the film's moral lesson, one can't help but wince at Anderson's naivete.