|
|
 |
   
LIVE FROM RADIOLAND
(continued)
Then follow the noises of a Minnesota December: St. Bernards bark in search of snow victims, Marley's ghost clanks his chains (the ghost of Christmas past didn't pledge to NPR), and chaos reigns on the movie set. There, the arrogant West Coast director, incompetent hick performers, and absurd screenplay (requiring perfect timing from a squawking chicken) give Noir yet another accidental success, marked by the sounds of circling helicopters, chanting Indians, construction equipment, and the horn of the boat carrying Noir to Pago Pago.
Keillor's weekly monologue itself parodies radio news. "The News from Lake Wobegon" tweaks journalists' inflation of global and national politics at the expense of intimate, local goings-on. In contrast to the villains and heroes of the regular news, whose failures and sorrows imply a meaningless world, the ordinary folks of Lake Wobegon show that life is good. Not that a midwestern Calvinist would say so. "Summer never is quite good enough," he reported on June 10, 2006, "whereas winter, you know -- it could be worse." The lesson of this weekly good news (whose links to the Gospels many commentators have observed) is hope. "This is the tragedy of a summer day," he mused, considering everything gone awry on a beautiful June day. "So many lives gone amiss, so much disappointment. But ... people go on planning things, things that will not turn out to be as good as you hoped they would."
Keillor's monologues revel in sentiment, yet slapstick and irony temper the sweetness, and the mood is decidedly not nostalgic. Where nostalgia evokes days gone by, the weekly "News" stands squarely in the present. Yes, its themes recall timeless cycles of nature and human life, from the blooming of the neighborhood irises to the high school students' annual graduation prank on the superintendent, but the action unfolds along with the story. The sense of ongoing action results not only because Keillor delivers the tale deadpan, declining to hint at the outcome, but also (and more subtly) because after his opening "It's been a quiet week ... ," he slips into present tense and puts us in the scene. Sensory details invoke a shared present: he sings the melody as the Lutheran bell choir is chiming in the living room, hints at the combined scents of skunk, tomato juice, cheeseburger, and fries on a roaming dog, and recounts the feel of warm water hitting the superintendent's trousers. Uniting them all is the sound of Keillor's voice, blending affection, amusement, and intimacy -- all in the immediacy of live talk.
This voice, speaking directly to the radio audience in real time, welcomes us to Radioland. The televised version, with its backstage view of radio production, gives away its secrets and emphasizes that viewers are one step removed from the broadcast that counts. "Radio is the medium that allows you to walk unhindered in the world," he declared on September 27, 2003, opening his 30th broadcast season. Indeed. Built of sound and imagination, Radioland incorporates every element of Keillor's variety show format, parodic and straight. As Walter Ong explained in ORALITY AND LITERACY (1982), sound creates an environment that envelops and links all who hear it, whereas sight separates us from our surroundings and each other. Thus, the specifics of Keillor's imaginary town, sponsors, and comic conflicts account only in part for A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION's lasting success. Its prime source, and the source of the show's humor, is Keillor's insight that radio creates community.
Top banner photos: Meryl Streep, cast of A PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION (photo by Dana Nye), and Garrison Keillor (photo by Joe Sinnott-Thirteen/WNET). |
|
 |
 |
Tanglewood is the Boston Symphony Orchestra's summer home (photo by Michael Lutch). |
 |
 |
|
Members of the Hopeful Gospel Quartet. |
|
 |
|
The program is not available on VHS or DVD. |
|
|
