MAGNOLIA (1999)

Does everything happen for a reason? Or is the universe guided by chaos? Sometimes, we witness an event so strange that we can only assume there is an intentional agent behind its occurrence. An incident so peculiar and unlikely, so bizarre and extraordinary, that we can only imagine there was an intelligent force behind it. However, could it just be a matter of chance? Is it simply one of those things? Whatever way we seek to describe it, the fact of the matter is truly undeniable—these strange things happen all the time.

In the next 24 hours in Los Angeles, a lot of inexplicable events are going to take place. Some of them are almost cataclysmic. Others occur at a more personal level, with people realising that their lives are being shaped towards a particular destiny. Across the vast, labyrinthine city, people come into contact with each other and lives are altered forever. Whether through divine intervention or sheer happenstance, nine people’s existences are mysteriously connected. Over the course of one long day and one even longer night, each individual finds they are a part of something so much bigger than themselves.

Much as with Fight Club (1999), Magnolia was the perfect film to close out the old millennium. In what is arguably Paul Thomas Anderson’s masterpiece, we are invited on an odyssey of loneliness and connection, of resentment and forgiveness. We watch as characters’ lives inosculate, each indelibly imprinting on the other. As order is made from chaos, and resolutions found in the depths of despair, we are left asking a very simple question: what is life, love, and existence all about?

It’s an inquiry that Anderson appears intent on asking, even if he never provides an explicit answer. That’s because Magnolia is a film which documents the ineffable aspects of the human condition. It’s a story which conveys the sensation of cosmic isolation: as we watch characters come in and out of each other’s lives, we palpably feel how we’re all trapped on a rock, floating about in space, completely alone and devoid of inherent purpose. As such, Magnolia imparts how we find meaning in human connections, what makes them so fragile and brittle, and why they are always, always worth repairing.

Because we’re complicated creatures. Amidst the forces of the universe, we are likely to be swept up, to lose our way. As we search for reason in the things we do, we’re sure to ask how much control we possess over our own lives. As Quiz Kid Donnie Smith (William H. Macy) laments, he had very little control over how his parents governed his childhood. All the earnings which he accrued over being a prepubescent savant on national television amounted to nothing; his savings were taken by his parents.

He was never given a choice—he had zero control over the situation. Additionally, he had no say in whether he’d be gifted with such intelligence; it simply happened. However it was that his parents came together, how their DNA connected to mould a prodigy with retentive memory, it was all completely outside his control. And when a bolt of lightning reaches out across the cosmos and strikes him on the head, he had no agency over that either: “It’s an electrical charge. It finds its way across the universe… and it lands in your body, and your head!”

Donnie Smith is just one of many characters in Magnolia that forces us to ask whether we possess free will. If the universe is governed by entropy, how exactly can we demonstrate any sense of agency? We cannot choose our parents, nor how their actions affect us. One might argue that we can only decide how we respond to the behaviours of others, but even those modes of thinking are learned. Either through patterns on our genetic code or socialised behaviour, much of what makes us who we are was shaped without our knowing. As the great pessimist Arthur Schopenhauer said: “A man can surely do what he wills to do, but cannot determine what he wills.”

However, if we want our lives to have any meaning at all, we must continue with the understanding that we control what we do. Or, as Isaac Bashevis Singer rather ironically put it: “We must believe in free will—we have no choice.” Starting from this hypothesis, we provide ourselves with the potential to try and do better. Because ultimately, all the characters in Magnolia are constantly searching for an answer to the question: “How do I do the right thing?”

That is what everyone in this tragic story is trying to do: correct the wrongs that they’ve committed, lovingly caress the scars which they’ve imprinted on the poor unfortunates who surround them. As Officer Jim Kurring (John C. Reilly) says to himself in his car: “I want to do well—in this life and in this world, I want to do well. And I want to help people. And I might get twenty bad calls a day. But one time I can help someone and make a save—correct a wrong or right a situation—then I’m a happy cop.”

Unfortunately, it’s not always so simple. Many of our central characters are overcome with trauma. Claudia (Melora Walters), a young woman with a debilitating cocaine addiction, is caught in an endless cycle of substance abuse in an attempt to outrun her past. But as a shrewd barfly remarks at one point during our long odyssey: “We might be through with the past—but the past ain’t through with us.” If we are ever to do good, to overcome the pitfalls which incessantly ensnare us, then we must face the root cause of our traumas head-on.

This is perhaps best seen in Jack (Tom Cruise), a pseudo-intellectual and self-professed alpha-male. With rhetoric replete with scientific buzzwords and charismatic sophistry, he preys on lonely, vulnerable men, promising them a method to seduce women with ease. However, it’s self-evident that his deplorable misogyny is nothing more than a cleverly designed integument: it protects him from having to engage with his actual emotions. Because as much as he strives to control his external environment, it’s soon revealed that he’s woefully incapable of mastering his interior landscape.

Though he’s a misogynistic charlatan, a man who uses fake charm and phony intellectualism as a means of exploiting others, it’s difficult to vilify his character. As disgusting as he purports to be, we can see right through the charade: he himself is a lonely, vulnerable man, too scared to embrace his own emotional scars, ones which have refused to heal. So he relies upon his coping mechanisms, distracting himself from the fact that he was abandoned so long ago: “Respect the cock!”

Much like the other characters in the story, Jack is frightened. He finds his power in denying his past—but he can only deny it for so long. As he approaches the dying man who left him alone when he was only a boy, the theme of forgiveness becomes indescribably powerful: looking into a person’s eyes during their last moments, will you force them to die with regret in their heart? Or is it possible to find reconciliation?

The bitter excoriations of a dying man capture the pain and anguish of so many wandering around the streets of L.A. on that fateful day: “Don’t ever let anyone ever say to you that you shouldn’t regret anything. […] You regret what you fucking want!” Earl Partridge (Jason Robards) becomes a tragic, cautionary tale—he let his love go. He allowed the most meaningful connections in his life to fall apart, neglected them until they were stained with rust, and now he’s dying as a lonely man, filled with shame.

It’s in Partridge’s agonised laments that we see a time-honoured fact of life: meaning can truly only be found in the relationships we build with others. As Maya Angelou shrewdly wrote: “People will forget what you said, and people will forget what you did—but they’ll never forget how you made them feel.”

As human connection is the most prominent theme in the story, it makes sense that loneliness serves as the other side of the coin—for how can one create meaning in a vacuum? Many of our characters are isolated by their traumas, causing them to shun intimacy in fear of being hurt again. But it’s only in accepting their past that any of them can truly find their acceptance. The past ain’t done with them yet, and it’s not just going to stop—not until they wise up.

The symbolism in P.T Anderson’s Magnolia conveys many of these themes with superb subtlety and simplicity. For example, the name of the film itself refers to a flower renowned for its endurance against poor climate and time-tested perseverance, having been on the Earth for millions of years. Or, perhaps, another interpretation of the symbolism behind this plant is apt: it’s been said to be emblematic of the beautiful nature that exists within people.

There’s also something to be said regarding how the film’s thematic focus reflects a flower’s structure. Petals bursting forth, overlapping and occasionally coming into contact with each other, all of which are bound by a single point of connection. Something has brought these people together—something bigger than themselves. Another dramatisation of this idea occurs during a conversation at the bar, as Donnie Smith engages with a self-satisfied patron. He asks him: “What does that mean, a spoke in the wheel?” Thurston Howell (Henry Gibson) smiles smugly: “Things go round and round, don’t they?”

There’s also the continued appearance of the number 82 throughout the story. Why, precisely, would Anderson do that? As many have pointed out, it refers to Exodus 8:2—“If you do not let them go, I will send a plague of frogs.” Besides foreshadowing the film’s dramatic climax, who is the speaker referring to in this instance? In my opinion, they are speaking directly to the personification of the past, the same past that isn’t finished with them just yet: “Let them go. Allow them to move on.”

And so when the rain comes, carrying with it a mass of frogs, it’s as though our characters all arrive at a dramatic abreaction: this is something that happens. This is just one of those things. The rain, though seemingly endless, must stop eventually. But when will it stop? When you wise up. When you accept that, though the night appears to drag on interminably, the day will round the corner, and the opportunity to start again will present itself. Second chances are sometimes given.

While the writing is impeccable, it would have been lacking without the incredible performances given by everyone onscreen. Julianne Moore turns in what may be her finest role—perhaps except for her Academy Awarding-winning showing in Still Alice (2014)—as a mentally unstable woman who is racked with guilt over her decision to marry for money. As she stares at death in her bed, day after day, she discovers she truly does love the man who’s slowly dying before her. The realisation results in her unravelling.

Jason Robards, as her dying husband, stuns equally well. He’s the manifestation of remorse and guilt, utterly ashamed of his conduct, bewildered by the stupidity he exhibited in his youth. And Philip Seymour Hoffman (Happiness), who plays his nurse, conveys such a depth of emotion with only the slightest of facial expressions. He was an immense talent, showcasing how impeccable he was in supporting roles.

However, it feels undeniable that Tom Cruise steals every single scene he’s in. Though he’s become known for his action movies, willingness to perform his own stunts, and personal life, he was at the zenith of his artistic career when he acted in films like this one. As Frank T.J Mackey, he delivers what might just be his most layered role. His facial expressions, hand gestures, and body movement all belie a great pain that’s covered by a veneer of success and achievement.

Meanwhile, it’s arguably Melora Walters who delivers the best showing of the lot, though she has not been recognised enough for her work in this film. Walters brings a febrile intensity to her portrayal of Claudia, a psychologically damaged and distraught young woman. She possesses the fiery energy of a feral cat, lashing out at anyone that dares to come near. Though there is heart to be found everywhere in this story, it’s in Claudia’s character arc that we find the beating pulse of the film.

If it weren’t for Aimee Mann’s music, Claudia’s personal journey (and the film as a whole) may not hit home quite as hard as it does. Her lyrics convey a deeply rooted sadness in a pure, unembellished manner, and her soothing vocals impart a despondency that’s very matter-of-fact. Her wonderful songs never tend towards mawkishness or melodrama; it’s as though she understands that life is dramatic enough as it is, with her songs merely documenting it. The songs “One”, “Wise Up”, and “Save Me” all appear to crystallise a single thought: there’s a lot of sadness and loneliness in the world—but life goes on.

Anderson’s writing and directing work on this film may well be the best of his career. Considering he’s one of the pre-eminent filmmaking talents of the last 50 years, as well as the only person ever to win director prizes at film festivals in Cannes, Berlin, and Venice, it speaks volumes that he considers this to be his finest career achievement. Perhaps with the exception of There Will Be Blood (2007) and The Master (2012), it does seem a difficult position to argue.

Though he’d already treated audiences to his signature style of long-takes and skilful camera movement in Boogie Nights (1997), it feels as though Magnolia was the film in which Anderson announced himself as a confident auteur. Incorporating rather unique artistic choices—such as the opening segment of freak coincidences, the weather alerts, or visuals of man’s cancer-ridden lungs—Magnolia is a treat for any cineaste.

In both Magnolia and Punch-Drunk Love (2002), Anderson incorporates music in such a hectic way it can induce anxiety in even the calmest of people. Here, the music effortlessly allows transitions from scene to scene, imparting a sense of the ceaseless present, relentlessly marching forth as we attempt to control our lives. Dylan Tichenor, a frequent collaborator of Anderson’s and editor of this tragic mosaic, also deserves credit here: his work is phenomenal.

I’ve heard people say the film is too long, which is an argument I’d ultimately disagree with. Even at 188 minutes, there are few films which demonstrate such expert pacing; it moves at such a brisk, tumultuous speed that the film could be only 90 minutes. There are some films that eclipse the three-hour mark—such as Once Upon a Time in America (1984) and The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)—and which expertly convey the difference between how long a film is and how long a film feels. Magnolia never once threatens to lull, with each scene feeling important either for character development or plot progression.

Additionally, Robert Elswit’s brilliant camerawork, complete with fast zooms and ornate, dexterous long-takes, provides a pulsating rhythm to the story. The constant motion of the camera reflects our characters’ incapacity to relax, to feel in control, or simply to breathe. Whenever our camera is static, it’s usually because our scene is reaching a peak in the conflict: a wife asking her husband why their daughter has become estranged, a woman lying to a policeman, and a man confronted about his past.

While the film asks questions about our free will, musing on whether our actions are fated or if chaos reigns supreme, it doesn’t provide any definitive answers. Do things happen for a reason? Or do things merely happen, as simple as that? Cosmic irony proliferates throughout the narrative: a man with perfect teeth, who insists he needs corrective oral surgery, leads himself blindly into a position where medical intervention is actually required.

A gun falls from the sky, hinting at how the forces that govern our universe can take and return, all in the blink of an eye. Or perhaps it’s a suggestion of how our world folds in onto itself, repeating a cycle of pain, regret, and reconciliation: a man who abandoned his family is betrayed behind his back, all while dying of the same disease that stole his lover. It feels as though our characters are trapped in a circle of death and rebirth, that Los Angeles is Ouroboros, the snake that devoured its own tail.

And so, perhaps we don’t have control over the world that surrounds us, nor what we want in it. It’s a frightening thought. But as Stephen Hawking amusingly observed: “I have noticed that even people who claim that everything is predestined, and that there is nothing we can do to change it, look before we cross the road.” Because even in the most cynical of us, there exists a kernel of hope that we can impact the world for the better.

How might we do that? It could be in offering a helping hand to someone that desperately needs a loving embrace. Or, it might be found in turning somebody back onto the straight and narrow, offering understanding instead of a rigid, exacting punishment. Most importantly of all, we can impact the world for the better by forgiving those who are about to leave it, by being by their bedside to return a contrite, agonised gaze.

As our characters realise the intangible connections that bind them, things appear to become clearer. As Jim tells Claudia: “You want to be with me—then you be with me. You see?” And then, in an utterly sublime final shot, Claudia glances straight down the camera lens, looking at everyone in the audience right in the eyes, and smiles. It’s anyone’s guess as to why such a spark of precious, innocent happiness finally lights upon her. But I like to think that she’s finally ready to accept the love in front of her. I like to think that the rain has stopped—that she’s finally wised up.

USA | 1999 | 188 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • GERMAN • FRENCH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Paul Thomas Anderson.
starring: Tom Cruise, Jason Robards, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Julianne Moore, William H. Macy, John C. Reilly, Philip Baker Hall, Melora Walters & Jeremy Blackman.