Why 'Cookie's Fortune' Is About as Uplifting as a Soggy Biscuit
In the murky swamps of Mississippi filmmaking, Robert Altman's "Cookie's Fortune" floats like driftwood. Released in 1999, this quirky dramedy unravels over Easter weekend in the sleepy Southern town of Holly Springs. We meet Jewel Mae "Cookie" Orcutt, a wealthy, aging widow whose unexpected demise sets off an absurd comedic chain of events that resonate like an off-key banjo. The film's charm lies in its eclectic characters played by a star-studded cast, including Glenn Close, Julianne Moore, and Charles S. Dutton. However, what makes "Cookie's Fortune" a delectable target for conservative critique is not its quality production but its audacious insistence on poking fun at traditional values, akin to trying to tickle a sleeping bear.
First, let's entertain the fact that Altman, a director often named a liberal darling, drenched this movie in his usual disdain for orderliness. Imagine a Southern town where the local constabulary is as comical as a bunch of Keystone Cops. The Sheriff's department, led by Liv Tyler as Emma Duvall, seems more interested in solving mysteries using intuition than actual investigative skills. What a perfect mirror for those who cheer when chaos prevails over discipline.
Secondly, there's the film’s carefree attitude towards death. Cookie's demise isn't given a tearful lament but is instead painted as a launching pad for deception and greed. Camille Dixon, portrayed by Glenn Close, embodies this lack of moral integrity as she tries to cover up Cookie's suicide and paints it as murder. She’s not a grieving niece; she’s a vulture circling a seemingly endless buffet of opportunities. Robert Altman crafts this farcical portrayal of family dynamics with the kind of insensitivity that resembles spraying perfume on a pig.
In third place, observe how the small-town setting is designed to mock Southern tradition. Holly Springs, usually the kind of place where status quo reigns supreme, becomes the stage for a satirical escapade. Altman signals his intentions to systematically rib conservative culture by demonstrating how even the most hallowed institutions can be subverted by the whims of a self-interested few. It’s the perfect Hollywood fantasy targeting rural America—a world where inculcated values are depicted as flimsy reeds swaying in the emotional wind.
Fourth, the character of Willis Richland, performed by Charles S. Dutton, becomes a makeshift hero, taking on the role of a wrongly accused suspect. His character symbolizes the “outsider” triumphing over the incompetence of the authorities—a narrative often used to undermine established systems. Is it just an oversight, or is it a thriving liberal trope aimed at the middle America jury box?
The fifth salient feature is the depiction of religion, a frequent anchor in Southern life. The film doesn’t ensconce itself in spiritual reverence; instead, it treats the Easter backdrop as a flimsy prop, much like a cheap theatrical backdrop threatening to fall over at any moment. Traditional faith is painted not as a personal guiding light but as fodder for ridicule.
Sixth, when focusing on family values, Altman’s film swiftly strips away any notion of them being irreplaceable tenets. Families are usually the bedrock of society, but in "Cookie’s Fortune," they're exploited as mere plot pawns. The portrayal offers a classic Hollywood narrative filled with dysfunction, a jab at those who might think the nuclear family has any real purpose.
Seventh, the film trespasses further into conservative sensibilities with its keen focus on female leads like Close and Moore crafting a caper à la "Thelma & Louise," not in a spirited escape for freedom, but a cynical romp through a family's land of opportunity. It’s painted as empowerment, yet it looks more like entitlement parading in broad daylight.
Eighth on our rundown is Altman's thematic use of suicide as a narrative tool, disguising a tragic event as merely a gateway to comedic antics. This trivialization speaks fervently against sincere discussion of mental health, waxing poetic instead on the morbid charm it lends to the film's eccentric atmosphere.
Ninth, the film's humor belies its blatant attempt to ridicule societal norms. It plays out like an inside joke where only the director and like-minded audiences are in on the punchline. The cast barely needs to stifle laughter as they romp through the script, leaving viewers to ponder whether to chuckle or wince.
Lastly, one cannot ignore the potential subtext of inheritance and wealth, subtly woven through the narrative like a snake in the Mississippi mud. Character motivations dance around the desire to control Cookie's considerable wealth, serving as an indictment of avarice unchecked by virtue—a notion relished by those intent on painting the capitalist dream as a sinister Sisyphean endeavor.
In sum, "Cookie's Fortune" constructs a layered narrative that seeks to challenge traditional tenets through sardonic humor and ironic unfoldings. Altman's southern satire is ripe for those who appreciate its irreverence, but it leaves a conspicuous gap where earnest storytelling might have thrived. For those who champion order, discipline, and the sustaining comfort of customs, this film might feel like a buttered biscuit dropped in the muck—deceptively inviting but with a scrappy aftertaste.