It shouldn't have worked. Honestly, on paper, the A Prairie Home Companion film sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. You take Robert Altman—the man who practically invented the cynical, overlapping-dialogue ensemble piece—and you pair him with Garrison Keillor’s midwestern, Lake Wobegon niceties? It feels like mixing battery acid with warm milk.
Yet, in 2006, this strange alchemy resulted in something that wasn't just a movie. It was a wake.
Altman was eighty-one. He knew he was dying. The insurance company wouldn't even underwrite the production unless Paul Thomas Anderson stayed on set as a "backup" director in case Altman collapsed. That’s the heavy, real-world context hanging over every frame of this fictionalized version of the long-running radio show. It’s a movie about the end of things, made by a man who was at the end of his thing.
The Fitzgerald Theater as a Liminal Space
The plot is basically non-existent. You've got the final broadcast of a legendary variety show because a corporate conglomerate from Texas (represented by a very stiff Tommy Lee Jones) has bought the building to turn it into a parking lot. That's it. That's the whole hook.
But Altman doesn't care about the "why." He cares about the "how." How do these performers act when the lights are about to go out for good?
The A Prairie Home Companion film treats the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul like a ghost ship. Characters wander in and out of the wings, swapping stories that don't always have a punchline. Kevin Kline plays Guy Noir, a bumbling private eye who seems to have stepped out of a completely different genre, yet somehow fits right in. He’s the one tracking a "Dangerous Woman" in a white trench coat, played by Virginia Madsen.
Is she a person? Is she an angel of death? The movie doesn’t hit you over the head with it, but she's clearly there to escort someone—or everything—to the other side.
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A Cast That Actually Sings
One of the biggest misconceptions about this movie is that it’s a "musical." It’s not. It’s a movie about musicians.
Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin play the Johnson Sisters, the last surviving members of a family act. Their chemistry is so natural you’d swear they’d been sharing a dressing room for thirty years. They talk over each other. They finish each other's sentences about their mother’s funeral and old boyfriends. It’s some of the best "Altman-esque" dialogue ever captured because it feels less like a script and more like an overheard conversation at a diner.
Then you have Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly as Dusty and Lefty. They’re the "singing cowboys." Their songs are filthy, or at least as filthy as public radio in the mid-2000s would allow. They provide the comic relief, but there’s a sadness to them, too. They are relics.
When you watch the A Prairie Home Companion film, you realize how rare it is to see a cast of this caliber actually performing live. Most movies dub the singing in post-production. Here, Altman insisted on capturing the energy of the room. When Streep and Tomlin sing "My Minnesota Home," the crackle in their voices is real. It’s raw.
The Genius of the "Small" Moments
Garrison Keillor plays a version of himself that is, frankly, kind of an ego-maniacal curmudgeon. He refuses to acknowledge the show is ending. He won't give a farewell speech. He won't say goodbye to the crew.
Some critics at the time hated this. They wanted a big, emotional climax. But Altman and Keillor (who wrote the screenplay) knew better. In real life, things don't usually end with a sunset and a swell of violins. Usually, you just pack your bag, turn off the light, and leave.
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There’s a scene where the stage manager, played by Maya Rudolph, is trying to keep the chaos organized while she’s pregnant. It’s a subtle nod to the cycle of life—death in the wings (literally, a character dies during the broadcast) and new life waiting to be born. It’s a bit on the nose, sure, but in the context of the A Prairie Home Companion film, it works because the atmosphere is so thick with nostalgia.
- The Cinematography: Ed Lachman uses these long, sweeping takes that follow characters from the stage to the basement.
- The Sound: It’s a sonic masterpiece. You hear the radio audience laughing in the distance while people whisper secrets in the shadows.
- The Stakes: They are incredibly low, yet they feel like life and death.
Why We Still Talk About This Movie Twenty Years Later
Most films based on radio shows or SNL sketches are hollow cash-grabs. This wasn't that. It was a meditation on the permanence of art vs. the impermanence of the artist.
When the Axeman (Tommy Lee Jones) finally arrives, he isn't a villain in the traditional sense. He’s just a businessman. He represents the inevitable march of time and capital. He doesn't hate the music; he just doesn't value it as much as he values a leveled plot of land.
The A Prairie Home Companion film reminds us that everything is temporary. The radio waves go out into the ether and then they’re gone. The theater gets torn down. The director dies (Altman passed away just months after the film’s release).
It’s a movie that feels like a warm hug from someone who is already halfway out the door.
Actionable Insights for Fans and New Viewers
If you’re planning to revisit this or watch it for the first time, don't look for a tight narrative. You’ll be disappointed. Instead, approach it like you’re attending a party where you don't know everyone, but you're happy to listen to their stories.
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Watch the background.
Altman is famous for hiding things in the corners of his shots. Pay attention to what the crew is doing while the main stars are talking. The "life" of the movie happens in the margins.
Listen to the original radio show archives.
To truly appreciate what the A Prairie Home Companion film was satirizing and celebrating, find old clips of the "News from Lake Wobegon." The movie captures the rhythm of Keillor’s speech perfectly—that slow, meandering pace that feels like a Sunday afternoon.
Check out the documentary "Altman."
If you want to understand why this specific film was such a miracle of production, look into the 2014 documentary. It covers his health struggles during the shoot and how the cast rallied around him to make sure his final vision was realized.
Explore the soundtrack separately.
The music stands alone as a great folk and Americana album. The tracks by Jearlyn Steele, in particular, bring a gospel weight to the film that anchors the more whimsical elements.
The movie ends with the cast in a diner, still talking, still joking, even though their world has technically ended. It’s a reminder that the "show" doesn't really stop; it just moves to a different venue. You don't need a grand finale when you have good company and a decent song to sing.