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MaryAnn Johanson, Jan 07, 2010

It's almost impossible to watch this 1983 Robert Altman film today with the mindset of the time in which it was created. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing ... and in fact, that mental schism ends up highlighting just how much some things have changed in so relatively short a time. And how much some things haven't changed.
Based on a play by David Rabe that was written in the late 1970s and set in the 1960s, this is the tale of a band of soldiers about to be shipped off to Vietnam who discover that one of their own is a homosexual. Years before the military's policy of "don't ask, don't tell," gay soldiers weren't telling anyway, because they knew what they'd have to endure as a result, and the threat of that is what looms over the story. Small-scale and made for the stage, the film is compact in its physical and emotional space -- it takes place entirely in one night in the soldiers' barracks -- so that looming is the primary suspense the film holds for us today.
There was an additional suspense Streamers would have held for viewers 30 years ago: Which of the soldiers is the gay one? It's not revealed for quite a while as the soldiers talk about their lives, their fears, their dreams. Is it Carlyle (Michael Wright) or Roger (David Alan Grier, in his first film appearance), for whom gayness would be an additional burden on top of their blackness in a society that denigrates both? Is it handsome, arrogant tough guy Billy (Matthew Modine)? Or is it sensitive, introspective Richie (Mitchell Lichtenstein), who proudly calls himself pretty?
It is obvious to a 2010 audience that, clearly, Richie is gay ... so obvious, in fact, that I spent half the running time second-guessing myself and the film. Wouldn't it be dramatically interesting and vitally cliche-busting if it were Billy who turned out to be the one keeping the secret of his homosexuality? But a twist like that would only work today, when the openness of the past 30 years has led to new cliches (like that a "tough guy" can't be gay, or that a sweet, fey guy must be). Of course, mainstream audiences in the early 1980s -- in the time before everything gay came out of the subculture closet -- likely wouldn't have guessed which character was gay. Hell, we didn't even know the Village People were gay back then, and the thought that we could have been so blind sounds ridiculous.
No, Streamers is a product of a time when more basic misconceptions were still at work in the zeitgeist, and those are the ones explored here. And merely because we can look at this tale through eyes that are more enlightened than might have been conceived of when it was made doesn't make it any less worthwhile. The performances alone are must-see. But it's the prospect of getting your mental boat rocked in an unexpected direction that is the most provocative reason to check this out. Attitudes can change, it seems, sometimes even for the better. That's an optimistic notion for a pessimistic time.

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The 1980s are known as being a dark period for Robert Altman. Having been branded uncommercial by the New post-Star Wars, post-Jaws, post-Heaven's Gate Hollywood, the creative freedoms he and others like Coppola enjoyed during the seventies, as provided by the studio tit, were largely stripped from him as he found himself unable to find studio backing for his projects. Altman's work in the '80s greatly reflected this ostracization, as films like Secret Honor and Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean found him moving away from the freeform mosaics that distinguished his 1970s work and adapting stage plays most of which were chamber pieces restricted to a single set. Streamers, adapted by David Rabe from his Tony-nominated play, is as revealing of this dynamic as any of Altman's work from this period, its drama confined to an army barracks at the eve of the Vietnam war, its characters all existentially and ideologically "trapped" by the tenets and schemata of military life.

Surely this theme resonated with Altman, who almost defiantly does his damnedest to turn a work of theatre into a work of cinema. For better or worse, he does not succeed, and the result is much like the filmed plays produced by Ely Landau's American Film Theatre. As far as filmed plays go, Streamers is a very good one, with electrifying performances from Michael Wright and George Dzundza, some strong performances from David Alan Grier and Guy Boyd, and some rather mannered ones from Matthew Modine and Mitchell Lichtenstein, the latter of whom plays a young recruit whose open homosexuality becomes a matter of eventually explosive contention (although not in a way that's anticipated). Rabe's play is both brilliant and flawed, and the film's virtues and shortcomings are those of a lot of contemporary stage work: characters often speak tangentially, but in a forced way that calls excess attention both to the given monologue and to the lack of subtlety in the message the tangent is intended to augment; overwrought metaphors such as the titular "Streamers" (a song sung by military paratroopers after they realize their chutes have failed to deploy) are both needless and needlessly reiterated for dramatic effect; and the characters as well as their environment remain one-dimensional in their lock-step service to the author's statement. If Altman's work prior to and after the 1980s is built upon his unequaled gift for creating a world that vividly exists well beyond the spectator's frame of view, Streamers achieves the opposite. That said, the experience of watching the film remains a potent one, largely thanks to the performances and the often visceral psychological straightjacket that torments the young members of the drill company. If the flawless first half of Full Metal Jacket describes a degree of physical imprisonment on top of the emotional torture dished out by an abusive and meticulous drill sergeant, Streamers offers the flipside, wherein the young enlistees are shown lounging, showering, and at play, while the drill sergeants, always drunk, stumble obliviously into and out of the drama like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. In that way, they're the most characteristically Altmanesque characters in the film.
Paul Haynes

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by Bob Cashill

By the early 80s Robert Altman was at an impasse in Hollywood. The success of MASH (1970) and Nashville (1975) was mitigated by numerous critical and/or financial flops, including Quintet (1979) and Popeye (1980). But New York was equally hostile when in 1982 he directed his one and only Broadway play, the unsuccessful Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean.
Still, two things resulted from its failure. One was a second wind for co-star Cher, who received good reviews. The other was a six-year stretch where Altman mostly adapted plays for the movies and TV, starting with a better-regarded film of Jimmy Dean and including Secret Honor (1984), with Philip Baker Hall’s searing tour-de-force as Nixon, Sam Shepard starring in his own Fool for Love (1985), and for ABC in 1987 Basement, a double bill of Harold Pinter plays (featuring John Travolta, Annie Lennox, and Linda Hunt) that I can’t imagine any network footing the bill for today. Most of these are pretty hard to see. Their economical shooting schedules and resourceful filmmaking did, however, inform his best work of the decade, HBO’s fly-on-the-wall “political fable” “Tanner ’88.”

Running a close second in quality is his excellent 1983 film of David Rabe’s Vietnam-era drama Streamers, which Shout! Factory has unearthed in grainy but serviceable shape. First produced in 1976, Streamers ended Rabe’s trilogy of plays inspired by his own stint in the war, composed of the Tony-winning Sticks and Bones and the Drama Desk-winning The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel. As it happens the movie began co-star Matthew Modine’s tour of duty, which took in 1984’s Birdy and 1987’s Full Metal Jacket. In a supplementary interview Modine recalls that Mike Nichols, who directed the Tony-nominated Streamers on Broadway, compared the play to a plane crash, whose survivors, strangers to one another, struggle to find some means to cope and communicate. It’s a good analogy, and first-time viewers are advised to strap themselves in.
Other than an abstractly lit set of drills that open and close the movie, Streamers is confined entirely to a Virginia military barracks in the mid-60s. Scheduled to ship out to Southeast Asia are Billy (Modine), who sees himself as a typical Midwestern hick; Roger (David Alan Grier), an easygoing black recruit; and Richie (Mitchell Lichtenstein), a blue-blooded Manhattanite who acts as if tailor-made for the eventual “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. The three men are seemingly OK with each other, but a fourth, Carlyle (Michael Wright), tests their bantering relationship. Carlyle, another of the few blacks on the base, is a mess of insecurities and hostility, and as he needles them on race, class, and sexuality taunts turn to violence. Sgt. Cokes (George Dzundza) and Sgt. Rooney (Guy Boyd), who run the barracks, might be expected to contain the situation yet are lost in their rambling reminiscences.
With its lengthy, profane monologues, Streamers, like Rabe’s Tinseltown-set Hurlyburly, is a favorite of acting students. For audiences, the show and the movie (which Rabe adapted) wouldn’t work without a strong sense of unity, which the cast provides. Altman freed the actors to find their roles and, as Modine says, “conducted” them. There are no weak links in this symphony. If I had to pick a favorite, it might be Grier, in his film debut. Usually cast in comic parts he centers the tricky role of Roger, whose equilibrium among whites is tested. (He’s equally good in David Mamet’s disappointing new play Race, which doesn’t dig near as deep into that issue as Streamers.) The Venice Film Festival couldn’t decide among them, and in an unprecedented move voted the entire cast an ensemble acting award.
Modine, Lichtenstein, and Dzundza are part of a retrospective supplement on the disc, which also includes comments from Herbert Jefferson, Jr. (who played Roger in the show’s first production, at the Long Wharf Theatre in New Haven, CT) and Bruce Davison, who appeared in its original Los Angeles staging. The film actors are full of praise for Altman, who with cinematographer Pierre Mignot vividly shaped the material for maximum impact. (When I saw the play Off Broadway in 2008 I was comparing it to the film, and not the other way around. It was a draw as to which was better.) They’re more rueful about the film festival, which never sent them their Gold Lion awards. Davison remarks that during one particularly high-wire performance in LA a fellow actor wound up hospitalized with a broken toe, and was placed in a room with an audience member who had collapsed during the show’s bloody climax, a fairly regular occurrence. When he woke up the man demanded to know how the show ended. No Gold Lions, but plenty of war stories from Streamers.

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