When Paul Thomas Anderson sat down for an interview with Marc Maron in January, he said of his 1999 film Magnolia that, if he were making it today, it would be a great deal shorter. The film runs just over three hours, and though Anderson didn't disown the film at all, he did talk about what drove him to make it the way he did. His father — actor, announcer, and radio personality Ernie Anderson — died in February 1997, a few months before the release of Anderson's Boogie Nights, and Anderson spoke to Maron about the degree to which Magnolia was a way for him to process his grief. It's very much a film of and about mourning: Anderson, not yet 30, was wrestling with the death of his father, and the film that came out of that is wounded, frenetic, and restless with emotion. There's very little release in the film. Rather, initial set-ups will build to emotional intensity and hold it, often cutting between multiple story lines caught at similarly fraught moments, scored to swirling music that never lets up. It's raw, is what it is: uncomfortable, yearning, rocking back and forth. It's the work of a young man working through something big. It's no surprise that he'd tell that story differently now. More than fifteen years have passed, and Anderson's evolved both as a filmmaker and as a person. But that's precisely why Magnolia is so important the way it is. Art is many things, but among them it's a snapshot of the artist at that moment in time. Here is how they decide to tell the story; here is what they value; here is what they revere or disdain. Of course Anderson at 45 wouldn't make the same Magnolia as Anderson at 30. That's the whole point. It's a work by a gifted artist at that instant in their life. A year on either side, and the final product would be different. Magnolia is the howl over a hospital bed, the thump of the first clod of dirt hitting the coffin lid, the sweat on the pallbearer's palms. It's a reckoning, and it's made from inside the pain. A film made with the benefit of distance provided by time wouldn't necessarily be bad (Anderson hasn't made a bad film yet), but it would necessarily be different. The monologue about regret still has blood on the page:
The film runs thick with the themes of parent-child relationships, forgiveness, loneliness, and reconciliation. There are two elderly, cancer-ridden fathers who have destroyed their relationships with their children; a third abusive father who exploits his son; a has-been pining after an unrequited love; a divorced cop struggling to do what's right; and adult children, stunted by abuse, who have to learn how to live. When Anderson talked to Maron, he said there are parts of the film, possibly entire plots, he'd do away with now, and the film does indeed sprawl. But that sprawl is part of what makes the film rewarding. It's a movie made by a guy trying to feel everything at once, then trying to understand it and get it down on paper. It's obsessed with coincidence and chance, with the intersection of mercy and grace, with the way we can make mistake after mistake but still find the opportunity to make up for it. The performances are uniformly stellar, the individual stories land with weight and power, and the film still has the power to stir in the viewer the same awe and fear it evoked all those years ago. Watching it fifteen years later, you're struck not by how long it is, but by how short; not by how much is in it, but by the shadows of the world just outside the frame.