Tender Mercies

 

Palmer, Texas

farmhouse as it is today, just East of Waxahachie

 

Director Bruce Beresford

Duvall winning a Best Actor Academy Award

TENDER MERCIES          A                                                                                                  USA  (92 mi)  1983  d: Bruce Beresford

You see, I don’t trust happiness.   I never did.  I never will.                                                         —Max Sledge (Robert Duvall)

With the recent death of actor Robert Duvall, who died of natural causes in February at the age of 95, it’s worth remembering the one role that won him an Academy Award for Best Actor, as it’s a throwback to gentler times, where his hugely understated presence infuses the film with a quiet simplicity in this organically realized redemption story about the price of fame, the devastating destruction of the bottle, and the will to recover from horrendous mistakes in life.  Completely unpretentious, never offering any easy resolutions, nothing is ever taken for granted, as each day matters in the road to recovery.  Not nearly as well known as it deserves to be, curiously turned down by David Lynch after he made ELEPHANT MAN (1980), thinking he wasn’t right for the film, it’s aptly named, written by Texas native Horton Foote, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright who won an Academy Award for the lyrical screenplay, having won the same award for his earlier adaptation of Harper Lee’s novel in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), with Foote developing a reputation for evoking everyday American life in beautifully observed minimal stories that allow the actors to shine, as Gregory Peck also won an Academy Award for his role as Atticus Finch in Lee’s legendary novel, one of the most beloved roles in American cinema, and a film where Duvall makes his first screen presence as the reclusive and pathologically shy Boo Radley.  Foote and Duvall were good friends spanning five decades, with Duvall reading a letter honoring their friendship at Foote’s funeral in 2009 (Remembering Robert Duvall and Horton Foote).  Duvall is known for his larger-than-life presence in Francis Ford Coppola’s APOCALYPSE NOW (1978), uttering the infamous line, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” and will always be associated as the level-headed consigliere in Coppola’s THE GODFATHER (1972), where his favorite role, according to interviews, was playing an ex-Texas Ranger in Lonesome Dove — TV mini-series (1989), but it is here that he really carves out a distinctive place in his career, as this is a quieter, more reserved performance, defined by stifled emotions and the decency of the human spirit, listed at #14 of Premiere magazine’s 100 Greatest Movie Performances of All Time.  Described by film critic Pauline Kael as a “bare-bones ‘art’ movie,” intentionally avoiding big grandiose scenes, even the use of close-ups, instead filming from a respectful distance, this is a spare depiction of rural Southern life where not much ever happens, filled with long silences and the dialed-down poetry of spoken words, a reminder of simpler times where honesty prevails, having a neighborly respect for others, and above all, an effortless display of human kindness.  Very few films are able to achieve the authenticity established here, not just in the immensity of the empty landscapes, but in the personal connections, as we’ve lost this ability to connect on such an intensely personal level, where this becomes a beautiful portrait of the human spirit.

Robert Duvall stars as a washed-up country singer Mac Sledge, a star who’s fallen on hard times, almost always seen wearing a Stetson hat, an alcoholic estranged from his family who has hit rock bottom at the beginning of the film, seen as just a shadow through the window, where all we hear are the violent voices and sounds taking place behind closed doors in a remote country gas station motel on an isolated stretch of highway, with Mac eventually sleeping off a two day bender, finding himself completely broke and unable to pay for his lodging, so he asks motel owner Rosa Lee (Tess Harper in her first screen role), if he can work off his debt, which she kindly agrees to, but only with the stipulation that no alcohol is allowed while working.  Widowed at a young age, she lost her high school sweetheart husband during the Vietnam War, which looms in the background like a ghost, leaving her to raise her young son alone, a child who never knew his father.  Surprisingly, Mac ends up sticking around for months, working for his room and board, with a small salary thrown in, literally disappearing off the face of the earth, with no one knowing where he’d gone, where that anonymity seems to help him come to his senses, regain some semblance of stability, and recover from his own largely self-inflicted personal tragedies.  Like a safe port in a storm, they end up getting married (entirely offscreen, even the proposal), but he still struggles with his demons while haunted by his past, as we’re not even aware he was once a major star until well into the picture.  Country music is a thread that runs through this movie, something the studio executives failed to comprehend, eventually losing faith in the film, failing to understand what it was about and how the music connects to what was at that time a massive unidentified audience, providing few resources to promote it, but country star Willie Nelson was impressed by the authenticity of Duvall’s performance and offered to step in to help promote it.  Most importantly, co-producer Robert Duvall wrote some of the songs he sings in the film and does all his own singing, feeling a genuine connection to the character, which is why it works so well.  Authenticity is the key, something movie studios today still have a hard time understanding, producing very few films that fit that criteria.  The film helped define the American independent film movement of the 1980’s by initiating a trend of personal filmmaking that often looks beyond Hollywood conventions.  Emblematic of that is an early scene with Mac playing a song for Rosa Lee’s son Sonny (Allan Hubbard, who never made another film) in the kitchen, which is remarkably minimalistic, yet rooted in something we all universally understand, Tender Mercies Scene YouTube (2:07).   

The relatively barren locations are perhaps more reflective of West Texas, taking place on a little desolate stretch of flat land, yet the film was mostly shot in and around Waxahachie and Palmer in north central Texas by Australian cinematographer Russell Boyd, who has the distinction of shooting one of the most beautiful films ever made, Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), while the film is directed by fellow Aussie Bruce Beresford, whose groundbreaking war drama BREAKER MORANT (1980) helped usher in an Australian New Wave, so it may come as a surprise to some that an Australian is able to so eloquently capture the poetic nuances of small-town America, yet that is what truly elevates this film over so many others.  Perhaps the only other film that gets the unique distinctiveness of the South right, particularly Texas, is Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show (1971), which was adapted by Larry McMurtry from his own novel, though the Truman Capote autobiographical adaptation of David Perry’s A Christmas Memory - made for TV (1966) captures the subtle nuances of small-town life in rural Alabama.  Tess Harper was raised as rural and working class herself, coming from the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas, providing just the right touch of firmness, grace, and mercy, with an ever-observant eye, always watching over others.  The film has a stripped down, almost raw feel to the narrative, taking its time, only revealing what’s essential, as so much is expressed by what is left unsaid, where every scene feels valued, contributing to the overall build-up of the interior realms of the characters.  With its themes of sin and redemption, forgiveness, hope, and personal transformation through religious faith, some may recognize this as a religious movie, as it also speaks to the power of prayer, which is where the title comes from, with the kind-hearted frontier woman Rosa Lee, a devout Christian, revealing, “Each night when I say my prayers I thank God for his tender mercies,” which is simply a wonderful revelation, whether it has religious intent or not.  The church also figures prominently, as the family attends a Baptist church on a regular basis, accentuating the singing of the hymns and the idea of baptism (the visual expression of baptism by immersion is rare in films), where it eludes to the possibility of being reborn in the spirit of the Lord.  God does not protect us from the inevitable pains and sufferings of life, but he knowingly sends the “tender mercies” that somehow make life worth living, regardless of the circumstances.  Most people do not recognize this as a religious movie, but to those who see it that way, this is a profoundly powerful film, as religious a movie as you could ever find, as it speaks of God in an unusually secular way, yet is also fundamentally human, expressing the stirrings of love in an existential sense.

Initially released in only a handful of theaters, coinciding with the early days of MTV, which is diametrically opposite to what this represents, it was a box office dud until word of mouth spread, as critics who saw it provided enthusiastic reviews.  While it’s rare for movies to portray rural characters as complex human beings, the back story revolves around Mac’s embittered ex-wife, Dixie (Tony Award winning actress/singer Betty Buckley), who became famous singing Mac’s songs, Betty Buckley from "Tender Mercies" singing "Over You YouTube (3:59), the first country single to be nominated for an Oscar, with Wilford Brimley as her over-protective manager Harry, but their contentious divorce-filled allegations of alcohol-fueled violence left their daughter in limbo, with Dixie refusing to allow Mac to see or speak to her as she grew up.  Now that she’s reached the age of 18, Sue Ann (the wonderful Ellen Barkin sparkles in a very early role) can decide for herself, as their worlds intersect briefly when she pays him a visit, a girl he barely knows, where she remembers a song he sang to her at night, but she can’t quite remember it.  Taken by surprise, Mac doesn’t either, but the moment she leaves he’s seen alone at a window with his back to the camera quietly remembering the song in what may be the film’s most poignant moment, with the song carrying the central theme of the movie, “On the wings of a snow white dove, God sends his pure, sweet love,” Tender Mercies (1983) - “A Song You Used To Sing To Me ... YouTube (2:59).  With the encouragement of a band of local kids who idolize him, Mac makes a comeback, of sorts, balancing the sacred and the profane, singing with them in a honky tonk bar, Clip from "Tender Mercies (1983)" YouTube (3:22).  The film deals with a constant refrain of “champagne ladies” and “broken dreams,” the subjects of his old songs, but also paints a picture of how much it hurts to face reality, expressing the pain of mortality, where nothing can explain the sudden loss of life of a loved one, especially a child, as there is so much meaning packed into such a devastating loss, where there are simply no words that can fill the empty hole in one’s heart, but love may be the closest thing we have, in all its forms and permutations, with real emotion literally filling the screen in the haunting final moments when reality comes crashing into our lives in the most unexpected way, Scenes & End Credits from "Tender Mercies (1983)" YouTube (4:31).  The final musical ballad, the Craig Bickhardt song You Are What Love Means to Me YouTube (4:11), which takes the film to the end credits, feels surprisingly commercial and out of place, completely altering the tone of bare essentials and stripped-down authenticity, though the lyrics do fit the story.  Still, it may be the film’s only misfire.  Mac comes to embody a second chance in life, whose redemptive arc is largely a symbol of a possible resolution to the American chaos and disorder inherited from the 60’s and 70’s, yet despite the anguish and grief associated with death, where there’s no clear answer or road map, love prevails, in all its simplicity and grace, as in the end that’s all we really have to fill the void of meaninglessness. 

Countdown

 

Director Robert Altman

Altman on the set

Screenshot of James Caan and Joanna Moore

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COUNTDOWN         B-                                                                                                                USA  (101 mi)  1968  d:  Robert Altman

An early, often forgotten film by Robert Altman, his first feature shot more than a decade after his earlier 1950’s ventures, the perpetually underseen Corn's-A-Poppin' (1955), a horribly bad film where Altman is only listed as a co-writer in the credits, a fictionalized look at juvenile delinquency in THE DELINQUENTS (1957) and the teen exploitation documentary THE JAMES DEAN STORY (1957), none of which show early signs of the director he was to become.  While working steadily in television for more than a decade, this film has bigger stars and more recognizable camera movement, yet it’s still more of a television drama than a Robert Altman movie, an adaptation of the 1964 Hank Searles book The Pilgrim Project, which is mostly a behind-the-scenes look at NASA in its infancy, which fully cooperated with the film, offering its facilities, including the Cape Canaveral missile launch location and the nearby, recently opened Kennedy Space Center.  Released 18-months before the first manned mission to the moon, this is a fictionalized, last-minute attempt to beat the Russians to the moon during the space race, known as the Pilgrim Project, accelerated into action after learning the Russians were on the verge of making a moon landing, where egos and petty jealousies come into play, yet in true Altman fashion he was fired before completing the film, as studio head Jack Warner looked at some of the footage and immediately demanded his dismissal claiming “That fool has actors talking at the same time.”  Of course, overlapping dialogue would become a standard trademark of any Robert Altman film, but early on the studio expressed little interest in this innovative filmmaking quirk.  Executive producer William Conrad, who actually hired Altman for the film, shot some new footage and provided a happier and more upbeat ending, as Altman’s original bleak ending had the astronaut lost on the moon, wandering in the wrong direction, ultimately doomed on a lifelessly deserted terrain.  Despite this interference, there are early signs of an Altman film, basically a blip on the radar, standing in stark contrast to Philip Kaufman’s large-scale historical drama THE RIGHT STUFF (1983), pitting two astronauts against one another (a prelude to seeing them work together in The Godfather (film series) 1972, 74,1990, also appearing in Coppola’s THE RAIN PEOPLE in 1969 and again as rivals in Sam Peckinpah’s THE KILLER ELITE in 1975), starring Robert Duvall as Chiz, an Air Force trained colonel who knows every aspect of the mission, groomed for the project early on, completing all the exercise missions, but he’s pulled out at the last minute because of his association with the military, which the top brass felt was a bad look for the first man on the moon, needing the optics of a civilian on a mission of peace, as they want no rumors of military intervention in outer space during the Cold War, when Americans were competing against the Russians.  In an early scene, where viewers aren’t sure what’s an exercise and what’s real, the mission is mysteriously aborted, leaving the crew totally befuddled, only to learn afterwards that there’s been a revision in the sped-up timetable and a change in assignment, Countdown (1968) -- (Movie Clip) Roger, Houston, Apollo 3 ... YouTube (2:27).  Plucked from the ranks is James Caan as Lee Stegler, an All-American guy who was a subordinate of Chiz, a member of his crew suddenly catapulting over him for the coveted mission, given just three weeks training before the launch, which doesn’t sit well with Chiz, who intends to undermine Lee, agreeing to train him, but drive him hard, proving he’s not ready, making the case that he’s the only one for the job.  Even during exercise missions there are plenty of distinctly different points of view, leading to disagreements and bureaucratic handwringing, causing unneeded tension, hardly the teamwork one might expect, yet the astronauts themselves are surprisingly clear about what they need to do, Countdown (1968) -- (Movie Clip) He Thinks He Can Fly - TCM YouTube (3:54).

Loosely remade by Ron Howard in APOLLO 13 (1995) with a much larger budget, this fits the low budget B-movie profile, better than expected, with very little science fiction to speak of but plenty of realistic detail, less interested in heroism or an established plot, with no real good guys, just a bunch of ordinary working stiffs doing their jobs, yet lacking the personal intensity of an Altman movie, resembling the cheesy sets on the television series Star Trek (1966 – 69), yet this is a typical Hollywood studio film told in linear fashion, using a structure that Altman would largely rail against for the entirety of his career afterwards, with a swelling atonal orchestral score by Leonard Rosenman that offers a sense of spacious anxiety, Leonard Rosenman music score from Robert Altman's COUNTDOWN (1968) Main & End Titles. YouTube (2:55), mirroring the epic musical score from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) which was released just one month earlier, while the sets seen are replicas of actual NASA lunar modules used for exercise missions, where it’s hard to imagine being cramped into that tight space for days on end.  The script was written by Loring Mandel, a giant of “live” drama from the Golden Age of Television like Playhouse 90 or CBS Playhouse, anticipating the actual moon landing, though in much more desperate and alienating fashion, as Lee would be transported to the surface of the moon, where he would have three hour’s worth of oxygen to find a space station already on the surface, where once inside, he could safely live there for the next 10 months, or a year or so, until another mission could come to rescue him.  This astonishing isolation, being stranded on the moon, is actually the intended goal of the mission, the first dry run of the international space station which has been in existence since 1998, though orbiting around the earth.  This offers a completely different emotional edge to the experience, as neither astronaut has been trained to endure long periods of isolation. Altman shifts the focus to the astronaut’s wives, Barbara Baxley as Jean is the seemingly exiled wife of Chiz, rarely seen in each other’s company, while Joanna Moore as Mickey is the devoted wife of Lee (both blondes), often seen in social settings with a drink in their hands, but they are largely ignored and kept out of the official loop, literally kept in the dark, both seen here when they first inadvertently hear about the mission, still thinking Chiz will be the lone astronaut, Countdown (1968) -- (Movie Clip) An Emergency Backup To ...  YouTube (3:08).  Living in the shadows of their husbands, feeling obligated to support them, yet clearly they’re stressed out about all the things they aren’t being told about what could possibly go wrong, not the least of which is having a husband and father stranded on the moon indefinitely, while their shock and silence mirrors their husband’s overall sense of secrecy and extreme isolation.  There’s also a power play between a no-nonsense NASA administrator Ross (Steve Ihnat) and Navy doctor Gus (Charles Aidman), who voices his concerns for the health of the astronaut which, to put it bluntly, is never the primary focus of the operation, typically overlooked for the bigger picture, precariously cutting corners in a last minute high risk, high reward gamble in order to beat the Russians to the moon, with Ross quickly setting him straight about the mission’s expedited priorities, as you’re either all-in or out, Countdown - Steve Ihnat vs Charles Aidman YouTube (1:50).  

Using Altman regular Michael Murphy as one of the crew, whose work with Altman goes back to a television episode of Combat (1962 – 67) in 1963, and Ted Knight, known for his role as a dim-witted and totally clueless news anchor with perfect enunciation on The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970 – 77), plays a bloviating NASA public relations guy, yet what Altman gets right is the look of the late 50’s and early 60’s, particularly the men working for NASA, all in crew cuts, wearing those undistinguished Eisenhower era glasses that were so commonplace, but also the press corps, the vintage cars, the bars, and the social gatherings.  At one party filled with NASA personnel (actually shot at Altman’s own Mandeville Canyon residence in Brentwood), an out-of-place Bohemian folk musician (voice artist Robert Ridgely) is singing a song about folk hero John Henry, transporting him from the railroad to the moon, making up satiric spoof lyrics about how “the moon is gonna be the death of me, Lord, Lord,” Countdown (1968) -- (Movie Clip) The Man In The Moon Is A Girl YouTube (3:20).  This is in such bad taste, especially with the astronauts and their wives present, that it feels like it had to be an Altman touch, as the man had a thing for bad jokes, much like incorporating a song entitled “Suicide is Painless” during an irreverent Last Supper homage in MASH (1970), MASH Funeral Scene 1080p YouTube (2:25).  The moon flight has Lee in the capsule while Chiz guides him from the Houston Command Center, staying in radio contact, continually providing instructions, while the wives watch from a glass-enclosed room in the back, seeing and hearing everything.  What’s surprising is that Lee gets rattled by unexpected circumstances, encountering a power drain malfunction that causes him to lose his composure, showing visible fear at having to shut down much of his power, not trusting that it will be there when he needs it, but conditions eventually stabilize.  Radio contact is sporadic as he nears the moon, so part of each message is missing, yet Chiz is adamant about aborting the landing should he be unable to make eye contact with the space module with a flashing beacon, as there is still an opportunity for a safe return to earth.  Never really seeing it on the approach, Lee refuses to see failure as an option and lands on the surface anyway, losing all radio contact, shot in the Mojave Desert to simulate the surface of the moon.  He has only a brief window to find it, and instead, in a chilling Altman twist, discovers gruesome evidence of a failed Russian landing that is a sobering reminder of just what can go wrong.  An inveterate gambler, Altman devises a scheme of chance that sends him in the wrong direction, as viewed from a pulled back vantage point from the module, like a Hitchcockian device, ending in downbeat fashion, but that’s not what we see, just the opposite, curiously expressed through a long and wordless sequence, which does really feel like an exploration, but lacks any sense of outer space curiosity, showing no signs of awe or wonder.  Unlike the actual moon, with little gravitational pull, where a moon walk consists of giant skips and bounces, this is more straightforward where a walk is a walk, yet the region is entirely lifeless and desolate, exhausting the entirety of his oxygen supply, relying upon a miracle, which, of course, happens in the movies.  Every expedition needs a little luck.  Still, even if successful, he’s stranded up there for months on end, yet food, air supply, and radio contact will allow him to maintain human contact.  It’s a very eerie and unsettling conclusion, where a scene involving the American and Russian flags might seem surprisingly civil, as there’s little patriotic fervor, but James Caan does an excellent job as the man on the moon, where all earthly relations and connections will just have to wait until the scientists figure out how to get him back.  It’s a bit surreal, evolving slowly in extreme quiet, allowing the potentially dire implications to play out.