Julianne Moore

William H. Macy

New Line Cinema

And here I thought the epic was dead.

The past year's flood of unusual and provocative mainstream films (Being John Malkovich, American Beauty, Fight Club) seemed to be an indication that an era of movie-making had ended, and that the artistic future of cinema would hold no place for the lengthy and sweeping sagas that culminated with the behemoth of Titanic. But Paul Thomas Anderson knew better. His brilliant Magnolia resurrects the epic from its wasted and moribund form and, in David Bowie-like fashion, makes it new and meaningful again.

Anderson's "re-vision" is clear from the film's off-kilter start, recounting the occurrence of several supremely bizarre deaths so coincidentally staged they seem sure to be the stuff of urban legend. And yet, as the unidentified narrator assures, they are absolute fact. "These strange things happen all the time," he offers with an invisible smirk. Inventive and charmingly frank as this introduction is, what's even craftier is that no such odd confluence of circumstance proceeds to occur in any one of the eight intersecting storylines that make up the rest of the film. In fact, in all three, thoroughly engaging hours, it's amazing to note that almost nothing happens at all.

Perhaps that's a misleading remark; after all, Magnolia never drags, and it bears no resemblance whatsoever to immobile talkfests like My Dinner with Andre. But while its characters do make choices, take actions and find themselves in precarious positions, none of these happenings brings about an "event"--a predicament that alters the course of the story or distracts from initial situations. Which is perfect, since the characters' situations are already so rich and deeply human to begin with.