Never one to back down from exploring a distinctive milieu's various inhabitants and activities, legendary film maverick Robert Altman — who turns 79 on Friday — dove headfirst into the convoluted, cutthroat world of professional ballet in "The Company."
The flawed yet beautifully observed film that emerged from his typical brio and technical flourishes is, to a certain extent, as naturalistic and dramatically probing as "Nashville," "The Player" and, most recently, "Gosford Park."
Though its success comes at the expense of a linear storyline and rich characterizations, this latest work, as many Altman connoisseurs have suggested, could possibly be the closest the director has come to self-expression.
After an off-screen ballet announcer politely reminds the (onscreen) audience to turn off their cell phones and prohibits flash photography — shades of "MASH's" satirical loudspeakers — an arresting opening title sequence suggests the inner-dynamics at work in Chicago's Joffrey Ballet Company, who cooperated extensively in the film's production.
Played against a turbulent, jangling symphony, the scene has a group of dancers pulling long strings of cloth into perfectly symmetrical patterns until they unravel into a single, flowing colored line. There is an immediate sense of the complexity and difficulty in their performance, and how despite the apparently discordant interplay, their skills will result in pure beauty.
Pristine beauty sometimes comes at a price, however, and the film's perspective is unflinching enough to acknowledge the dancers' personal and professional sacrifices in achieving elegance onstage.
Obviously, given his reputation, Altman is not concerned with telling a hackneyed "backstage" drama. The story is documentary-like in its simple directness: It charts the rehearsals and performances during one season for the Joffrey Ballet. The abrupt ending during the final production should come as no surprise following the almost pragmatic structure that has preceded it.
Neve Campbell, herself a dancer since childhood, developed the idea with scenarist Barbara Turner. Even though she portrays the lead, an auspicious young woman named "Ry," (short for Ryan) Campbell did not receive preferential star treatment from Altman, who she personally lobbied to direct her labor of love.
Per the director's method, the camera lingers over conversations between nameless dancers, using his standard multi-track dialogue recording to capture even the minutest of exchanges and expressions. By eavesdropping on the dancers and the production team, we begin to understand the precarious nature of the ballet company.
The glue binding the operation together is Alberto Antonelli (Malcolm McDowell), Joffrey's co-founder and artistic director. Although the seasoned vet's leadership style is blunt at times, his spirited nature is infectious and inspiring for the dancers whom he genuinely cares for — much in the same way Altman cherishes his actors.
Antonelli may not directly reflect the director's working style, nor is ballet itself a comparable artistic medium to film. But since much of "The Company's" running time concentrates on the preparations and rehearsing behind the performances, it is safe to assume that Altman found correlations in the material with his own work.
Outside of those pre-production scenes and the dancing set pieces — which are magnificently staged and adeptly performed by Campbell — "The Company" loses its footing during the sparse depiction of the characters' lives beyond the stage.
"Ry" is provided a requisite love interest in Josh (James Franco), a young chef, and while their romance interestingly plays out with little to no dialogue, the relationship is arbitrary in comparison with the film's principle agenda.
If it had kept a strict gaze on the action with the Joffrey Company, Altman's film would have been unadulterated success. Yet it is continuallysurprising and amazing to find the canny master still creating valuable work after all these years, spinning precise cinematic circles with seeming ease.