In an incredibly prolific career, Robert Altman proved himself to be quite a formidable filmmaker, being one of the few artists who successfully mastered both the art of producing quality and quantity, which is quite an elusive concept that not many people are able to stake a legitimate claim towards. It meant that, despite making some very traditional pieces, there were a few of his films that were experimental by nature – which ultimately leads to vast and varying discussions as to the merit that comes from looking at his more abstract productions. Brewster McCloud is in many ways the definitive Altman experiment – it’s a bizarre comedy of manners that has a broadly surreal tone, and a general incredulity towards any known metanarrative, instead functioning as a likeable but incredibly impenetrable film about the intersections between the folly of youth and the inner machinations of psychologically-deviant individuals. Produced in a form where these underlying themes are not necessarily prominent in the way they’d be in more heavy-handed productions, but rather inserted in through cunning logic and a great deal of humour that was distinctive of its iconoclastic director, Brewster McCloud is quite an achievement. It may not be Altman’s best work (nor even the best film he produced in the year of its release, with the iconic MASH remaining one of his crowning achievements), but whether one is an adherent to the director, or simply someone with an interest in alternative stories about demented youth that carry a powerful underlying meaning, it’s very difficult to deny the incredible strength of a film that doesn’t only dare to be different, it boldly asserts itself as something we can’t help but pay attention to – which is a considerable achievement for a film as strange as this.

There are certain premises that simply feel like they come from the mind of a particular filmmaker – and very few individuals other than Altman could have possibly conceived of a story as deranged as one about a disturbed young man residing in the basement of a stadium referred to as the “Eighth Wonder of the World” at the time, who spends his days working as the chauffeur to a greedy landlord, and building a pair of mechanical wings that will allow him to fly. We aren’t ever sure if Brewster McCloud wants to be a bird or an angel – the film keeps this side of him quite ambigious – but what we do know is that he is searching for some meaning that he simply can’t find on earth, no matter how hard he looks. Altman made his career out of stories about individuals who have never quite fit in – and whether in the ensemble pieces that have given rise to the term “Altmanesque”, or in the more individually-focused narratives, he was always a director who had something going for him in terms of the stories he told. Earlier in his career, films like Brewster McCloud were what he was most known for – stories of an individual in a particular time and place, yearning for something more than they’ve been given. The director didn’t invent this framework, but he did make it his own through constantly provoking certain ideas and finding the humour in the most bizarre of situations, so detached from what is normally considered to be the basis of comedy, we often struggle to rationalize exactly what it is that makes these kinds of stories so endearing and charming in their own way. These films exist because of their director’s constantly need to be provoking the form, which may have had bewildering results from time to time, but have always been quite effective when we find him succeeding. Not every experiment worked out for Altman, but when he hit the right marks at the precise moment, there was very little we could do to silence his demented brilliance.

Prior to having his breakthrough the following year with Harold and Maude (a film that longtime readers will know that I absolutely adore), Bud Cort was a young, promising actor who had already found his place in Altman’s world, working with the esteemed director as part of the ensemble in MASH the same year. Many of the traces of Cort’s later work, especially that of one half of the iconic duo in the aforementioned film, can be found in Brewster McCloud, which is strangely the last time that Cort worked with Altman, despite his peculiar talents being tailor-made for the director’s sensibilities. He’s terrific as the titular loner, with his owl-like eyes (framed by an enormous pair of round spectacles that only accentuate them) conveying a sense of restrained madness, which is buttressed by the very internal manner in which Cort acts. He is one of the actors who can convey an abundance of meaning without saying a word – and in many cases, Cort says the most when he remains entirely silent, such as in the first few scenes of this film. He is supported wonderfully by a terrific cast – Shelley Duvall (her unique eyes being complemented by some enormous eyelashes, and her sweet smile being used to great effect) is the main romantic interest, a shy and intimidated young tour guide who falls for the bizarre charms of this mysterious young man she encounters. Sally Keller plays the titular character’s friend and confidant, as well as someone who may or may not be a fallen angel, implied by one of Altman’s distinctive uses of a quick shot establishing an entire backstory for a character in a matter of seconds. The film is also worth it for brief appearances by the legendary Margaret Hamilton (with a terrific callback to her most iconic role in The Wizard of Oz being one of the most entertaining moments of the film), and Stacey Keach as a wheelchair-bound authoritarian. However, it all dovetails back to the mighty performances being given by Cort and Duvall, both of which may be more defined by later work, but certainly made their first real impression with this film, which makes the strengths of their performances even more impressive considering how early this occurred in their careers.

Brewster McCloud is one of the rare films where the process of trying to make sense of it only confuses the viewer more – the further you try and pull apart its components and rationalize the choices made, the less you understand, which is precisely what makes this one of the quintessential entries into the early days of postmodern filmmaking, where a story could be told through fragments, individual scenes sewn together by virtue of an overarching narrative. The tone of the film can be difficult to determine from the outset – it often comes across as jagged and inconsistent, struggling to reach a coherent point until midway through, after which the pieces start to fall into place, and we understand where Altman was heading with this film. It makes this a deservedly divisive work, since half the audience may be entirely captivated by this unique approach to telling the story, while others may find it uneven and nonsensical – and certainly to his credit, Altman doesn’t ever seem to be impelled to explain any of it, relying on abstract vignettes, such as those feature René Auberjonois as a science lecturer who gradually becomes more avian as the film progresses, to convey a particular message, which is still far too experimental to be considered an explanation, functioning more as a complement to the unrestrained madness of the film occurring around it. It’s not easy to understand where this film is heading, but once we realize that the only way to make sense of it is to abandon all hope of penetrating its stern but playful gaze, there’s very little that can be done that isn’t entirely awe-inspiring.

It does take some effort to become fully acclimated to what Brewster McCloud is saying, but once it hits its stride, there’s very little that can be done that will take this film down. It’s an endearing, masterful exploration of the human psychology, executed through the lens of a bewildering black comedy that isn’t afraid to become increasingly dark (especially with the subplot of a string of murders being conducted by a bird-obsessed serial killer being persistent, and ultimately converges with the main plot in one of the film’s most bewildering sequences), and only becomes more complex as the film moves along. This is a film that takes the audience on a wild ride, and invites us to take part in one of the most dizzying spectacles of experimental filmmaking of its generation. Its intentions may be far murkier than one would like, since even the most provocative of films do tend to have some underlying basis in reality, which is something Brewster McCloud is actively rebelling against, often very creatively and with a devil-may-care attitude that will endear views as much as it will confuse them. For those accustomed to the vaguely surreal appearance his films took on occasion, this is a terrific exercise in provoking thought while openly dismantling conventions and having fun while doing it. It may not be his best film, or his most fluid or compelling, but its difficult to argue against the strange humour and earnest, almost childlike dedication that Altman brings to this film truly allows it to be an effective piece of social commentary that takes flight and soars far higher than our expectations may lead us to believe.