I swear, I’m the only college-educated liberal of my generation who doesn’t “get” the films of Wes Anderson: Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic, and now The Darjeeling Limited. They are all cute collections of likable vignettes featuring oddball characters and poignant slow-motion sequences set to catchy music. The trailers are always so enticing. The tragic elements are always outweighed by some light and satisfying resolution, and I leave the theatre smiling at the world…
But so what? It’s the cultural equivalent of ice cream. Pleasing, indulgent, and rich. It’s yummy and you’ll love it, but you’ll forget about it pretty quickly. The plot is secondary to the visual baubles like Indian cough syrup, poisonous snakes, designer luggage, and peacock feathers. Wes Anderson is a unique director, but he will not stand the test of time.
Then again, what do I know? Martin Scorsese, the Zeus of cinema, is full of praise for Anderson’s “very special kind of talent” for conveying “the simple joys and interactions between people so well and with such richness”. I concur with Scorsese – what choice do I have? But damned if I can remember any of these simple transcendent details a week later.
