Wes Anderson, Re-evaluated.

Wes Anderson in 'everyday' mode

I have to admit – with the crushing blow to my cinephile credentials that it will inevitably cause – that I came to the work of Wes Anderson late. By late, I mean that 2007’s The Darjeeling Limited was the first film of his that I saw. No, not the much admired Rushmore, or the much-loved The Royal Tenenbaums – the one set in India that drew a tepid response from critics. Yet after people (me included) likened the primary colours and deadpan comedy of the stellar Submarine to the kooky world’s favourite ‘auteur’, I thought I would watch – or re-watch, in some cases –his films and try and draw some conclusions. Chiefly: are his films preening, pretentious, yet ultimately vacuous testaments to a man-child with too much creative control; or are they ironic, incisive and affecting portraits of a particular type of life, as envisaged by a bona fide auteur.

The answer, as always with these sorts of things, is never cut and dry. I did, however, find myself vacillating a ridiculous amount – oscillating between the two different opinions like a schizophrenic. His films, for me, fall into four categories: The Rubbish Ones; The Almost-Rubbish Ones with a Lot to Love and Admire, The Ones I Like; and The Ones I Love. It’s really striking how well they fit into these categories, but given how much creative control Anderson has, the thematic overlap and use of the same pool of actors – it is hardly surprising.

In the first class of film, The Rubbish Ones, there is, in fact, only one film: Bottle Rocket. As his first film, made fresh out of college, it feels slightly harsh to excoriate the bloke for having made it. You have to start somewhere, as anyone who has ever tried anything creative well knows. It’s just I really did hate this film. Its whimsy, 2-D characters and overall tone made me want to tear my hair out and watch Herzog movies on repeat – just to get my cynicism going, so earnest and wide-eyed is it. In that respect, like most early works, it contained many motifs recurrent in Anderson’s later work in embryo. Though, in this case, almost all I hate and almost none that I love.

Bottle Rocket Normality

In the second category, The Almost-Rubbish Ones with a Lot to Love and Admire, there are two films: Rushmore and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. In the case of Rushmore, I found its protagonist annoying – not something that necessarily makes a tragic-comic character weak. But in Max’s case, I found him pretentious annoying, which precluded any emotional involvement. I found what was going on occasionally interesting, very stylish and quite charming. I just didn’t care. The Life Aquatic was in many ways even more frustrating, rekindling as it did my love for Bowie and introducing me to some great Brazilian covers by Seu Jorge, not to mention looking unfeasibly beautiful for two hours. But just as In Rushmore, something was missing. Maybe it is the “terminal whimsy” of Anderson that Roger Ebert has complained about, which, I agree can be grating. Or maybe it is the affected style, the deadpan emoting of the characters and the slow pace that points to a nothingness very different to any Coen Brothers film.

The penultimate category, The Ones I Like, contains two films: The Darjeeling Limited and The Fantastic Mr Fox, which somewhat balances out the bile I have spat. They are also, curiously enough, the first and last films of his I ever saw. Not that that matters. Why I like them is that for all the director’s idiosyncratic hallmarks, there is some realised emotional depth to the proceedings. For in the case of Mr Fox, the characters are literally two-dimensional and its old-school use of stop-motion animation scream quirky – but it works. Although the artifice of filmmaking is highlighted and it may not be entirely suitable for kids, its familiar tale of a dysfunctional family packs a curious punch. The freedom of composition that animation allows Anderson and the childish subject matter, given “the spirit of self-conscious juvenile playacting [that] has informed his work from the start”, means the movie is, in many ways, the apotheosis of the Texan’s creative vision. Even the American goodies/Brit baddies dynamic couldn’t spoil my appreciation

Foxes In Action

The other film I like, The Darjeeling Limited, is marked by the same things: a dry humour, visual beauty and a great soundtrack. And, like Mr Fox, what makes it successful is that, beyond its glacial coolness, there is some real, heartfelt emotion – no matter how formulaic it may feel. Just as a killer soundtrack doesn’t make you Tarantino – who himself has almost sunk into self-parody these days – a cool-looking film isn’t always an enjoyable one.

The final category, The Ones I Love, is like the first, in that it only contains one film: The Royal Tenenbaums. And I do really love The Royal Tenenbaums. For, unlike the other cases I have noted: where unrealistic and tragically flawed characters fail to provide both tears and laughs, here they do. This is a serio-comedy both poignant and hilarious, crammed with great performances. Here the affectations are essential, just like every arabesque on the Alhambra, you couldn’t imagine it without each one. The famous criticism of Anderson – that he doesn’t “let story take precedence over style”, for me, is not an issue here. Everything just works and fits and it is glorious. Somehow the patchwork of the eccentric and idiosyncratic manages to mimic life itself, forming something at once odd, at once transcendent.

Ben Stiller Does Scouse

So, where do the failings lie? A big part of it, for me, are the recurring themes, motifs and style. Though, I suppose, not too many people still pummel the late, great John Updike for writing mostly about the white middle-class, just as they shouldn’t Anderson. Even though a lack of character development is often a reason for me not enjoying films, I respect Anderson’s idiosyncrasy in this aspect: the world does not need more identikit filmmakers. You just need to make sure there is some sort of connect.

His using the same coterie of actors can often be counter-productive; the palimpsest of the collective imagination is indelibly imprinted with residual memories of actor’s previous roles. Bill Murray is always Bill Murray, as Zombieland showed, which occasionally makes Anderson films seem samey: a flogged, dead horse. That’s why I am intrigued as to whether Anderson’s new film, Moonrise Kingdom, with its new stars: Edward Norton, Bruce Willis and Tilda Swinton, will mark a new stylistic direction. Something tells me it might not; so let’s just hope it’s in the last category. For when they work, there are few as great – and when they don’t, there are few as irritating.

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller (Se una notte d'inverno un viaggiatore)

Vintage Cover

Having originally come to my attention during a university class on contemporary fiction, I had been meaning to read Italo Calvino’s metafictional classic for some time. Described by David Mitchell as “Breathtakingly inventive” and heralded as a classic in most parts, it has a coruscating – if difficult and slightly wanky – reputation. After reading it, I can report that it is a bravura piece of writing and much, much more satisfying than some people give it credit for – on Amazon, at least.

Its structure is a complicated postmodernist one, recalling the 1001 Nights, Borges and others, whereby the narrative alternates between chapters told in the second person, addressed to “You” the reader, and the beginnings of ten unrelated novels, which stem from a printer’s error. The novel openings are in a number of different styles, including: thriller, western, romance, detective story, satire and more. This can, of course, disorientate and confuse, not to mention frustrate – so beautifully crafted and appealing are the introductions, so stop-start are the different chapters. But as the second-person chapters’ story starts to take shape, the novel becomes all the more captivating as the reader tries to make sense of all that is happening. There, a romance burgeons between two readers of the original novel, as they try and piece together what has happened to the original. The action that follows is part detective story, part elaborate conspiracy: a tale that takes in oppressive regimes, Japan, shady translators, along with several dead languages and republics.

Many themes central to postmodernism are lightly touched on and explored in detail, such as: intertextuality and the problems of authorship. However, much of the book is devoted to the art of writing: why we do it, how we do it, etc.; it is a “meditation on reading”. Those second-person chapters are fascinating and offer genuine insight, rather than trite truisms. Each sinuous sentence has to be mulled over for some time before it meaning eventually rises to the surface; but, given how slick William Weaver’s translation is, this is never tiring – just part of the literary detective’s work. Indeed, every start of a novel at some point contains a playful analysis of the literary techniques in use and their eventual goals.

In fact, considering what I had read about the book beforehand, I am pleased to report that the most frustrating thing about the novel was actually the clash between the British and American spellings of “Traveller/Traveler”. With its understated love story and screwball plotting, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller is an eccentric gem. Any ideas or fears of a typically postmodern shaggy dog story are quickly banished by the real things that the book has to say about the art of reading and writing. It really is a must for anyone interested in postmodernism, metafiction, writing or reading. It just goes to show that being serious and playful aren't mutually exclusive.

Italo Calvino

The Maid (La nana)

Despite living in London and being a massive fan, world cinema can sometimes pass me by. Often only showing in a couple of cinemas for a couple of weeks, you really have to be on your guard. For my sins, I missed the Chilean film, The Maid, which hit theatres at the end of August last year. Garlanded with great reviews by film critics and “certified fresh” on Rotten Tomatoes, I knew it was going to be interesting if nothing else. However, I wasn’t really prepared for liking it as much as I did.

Set almost entirely in the house in which she works and calls home, La nana tells the story of forty-something Raquel, the maid to an upper-class family in Santiago. Through a birthday scene at the beginning, we discover that she has been working for the family for almost all of her adult life, maintaining only distant contact with her own family. She is shy, awkward and nervous – characteristics that only become heightened when the mother suggests they hire another maid to help out. Through clashes with some of the four children and the new employees, we see Raquel’s world and her mind begin to unravel. as Raquel’s health begins to worsen, her brusque exchanges with her employers and increasingly sadistic treatment of others often threatens to bubble over into psychopath territory.

Despite being shot through with scenes of genuine comedy, the thriller-ish elements of the psychological drama dominate. Through the seemingly haphazard and gradual release of information, another image of Raquel and her life begins to form. This Hemingway-esque iceberg effect felt in the snatches of dialogue and the accretion of information marks Sebastián Silva out as a talent to watch. Is the nature of the work responsible for the stultification and infantilization of the maid? Is it some deep-seated childhood trauma? Is it a problem with society?

The movie largely shies away from socio-economic class criticism as the family are so accommodating and forgiving. There may be a touch with the ice-queen aristocratic grandmother, though, as she seems a blunt relic of a bygone age. Through a clever script and terrific acting by lead, Catalina Saavedra, the movie holds you attention for all of its 90-odd minutes. So well formed was it that I was still thinking about it for days after.

Odd, tense and utterly original – try and find this film, if you can. I know I am annoyed it took me so long to get my hands on it.

Source Code

I previously stated in one of my blog posts that I hoped for “a more nuanced blockbuster, somehow informed by arthouse”; and, with Duncan Jones’s new film, Source Code, it may have just arrived. That does not mean it is without its faults: it is simply an intelligent, ridiculous and fantastical film that will keep you talking long afterwards.

Jake Gyllenhaal plays U.S. helicopter pilot, Colter Stevens, who wakes up inside someone else’s body on an early commuter train heading to downtown Chicago. Opposite him is a woman, Christina (Michelle Monaghan), who appears to know him, even though he has no idea who she is. 8 Minutes later, a bomb blows the train up. Stevens is transported back to a strange, dungeon-esque cockpit where he is strapped in, in full military gear. Ignorant as to whether he is dreaming or not, he is given instructions by a curt air force officer, Goodwin (Vera Farmiga), who tells him that he is part of a “time reassigment programme” called the Source Code. Through this system, he must go back to the train in eight minute bursts and discover both were the bomb is and who the bomber is, with a view to preventing a future tragedy.

So far, so high concept. Despite being very much situated in far-fetched sci-fi territory, the breathless beginning of the film really draws you in. You watch, transfixed, and ask questions later. The movie’s trailer doesn’t really do the film justice, as it is more sci-fi thriller than action smash. Through the desperate and repeated trips back to the train, more is gradually (and cleverly) revealed about Colter, Christina and all of the other characters. There is a strong element of Groundhog Day about the repeated scenes and the humorous interaction of Gyllenhaal with the other passengers, but it is further mixed with the locomotive intrigue of Hitchcock and Murder on the Orient Express. Its concept even reminded me of La invencion de Morel.

Many echoes of Moon and sci-fi stereotypes crop up, such as Chesney Hawkes and the faintly evil scientist with a limp (Jeffrey Wright). However, much of the action is rooted in the human drama, as the desperate Colter begins to fall for Christina and forlornly hopes to save all of the passengers on board. I greatly enjoyed the film and was sucked in by the acting, inventive plot, crisp visual style and directing. What I couldn’t get away from was the ridiculousness of the final part of the film. Little be it for me to suggest that the film didn’t make complete sense, but that was the impression I got. If not, then the philosophy involved is somewhere way above my pay grade.

That and the potentially Hollywood feel of the ending aside, I thought it a tremendously engaging picture from a great young British director. It has everything: love, action, comedy and ideas. As I suggested, the fact it kept me talking for hours afterwards is just what I want from a blockbuster. Go and see it and make your own mind up – I and the Internet clearly haven’t [spoiler warning]. There’s no denying its fun or allure.

Deerhunter – Shepherd’s Bush Empire (31/03/2011)

On Thursday I was lucky enough to go and see one of my favourite bands play live. Having already seen them once 18 months ago, before the release of last years astonishing and critically lauded Halcyon Digest, I knew what to expect and I was genuinely excited. Thankfully I wasn’t let down.

The support came from Lower Dens, a good band who sounded – to my ears at least – like Cryptograms-era Deerhunter. Typically the crowd didn’t get too involved; the most people stretched to was a polite nodding of their heads. It should be noted that many of those heads were balding or already bald, as the Atlanta band, like a lot of music I seem to listen to, attract a very diverse crowd. Age-wise, anyway. Towards the back end of their set, the place really started to fill up and my position near the stairs became more and more moronic.

The view from my iPhone

When Deerhunter finally took to the stage, with their own newfound brand of phlegmatic calm, it was up to affable front man Bradford Cox to do all the talking – and rocking. Guitarist Lockett Pundt and the other members are never ones to go too mental; they just play, trance-like, as befits the tight live band they have evolved into. They started with a new track, ‘60 Cycle Hum’, which they recently played live on the BBC, but it somehow failed to get the crowd going as much as I anticipated.

Second track, the Lockett-led ‘Desire Lines’, really upped the tempo and was one of the highlights. It seamlessly blended two of Deerhunter’s defining characteristics: the love of pop melody and the tendency to veer towards murkier jams. The set also consisted of two songs from Cryptograms, ‘Hazel St.’ and set-closer ‘Octet’, which married well with the rest of their more recent material.

Another highlight was my favourite track from Halcyon, ‘Helicopter’, whose cathartic line: “No one cares for me…” really got the crowd going. But this audience was not entirely for moving: the ponytailed fans certainly remembered My Bloody Valentine the first time round and definitely liked swaying.

Microcastle highlights, ‘Little Kids’ and ‘Nothing Ever Happened’ were performed with as much aplomb as the last time I saw them, but it was the rendition of ‘Cover Me/Agoraphobia’ in the encore that got people most excited. I, for one, loved it all. They really are one of the very best bands around; Halcyon Digest and Microcastle are undoubtedly too of the best albums of recent times; and they are a compelling live presence – dress and fake blood or not. The lack of crowd interaction may put some of the harder rockers off, but listen a bit harder and you’ll be richly rewarded.

Setlist.