The Screengrab : rushmore

Screengrab Review: "The Brothers Bloom"

Nick Schager — Tue, 12 May 2009 15:00:00 GMT

The Brothers Bloom, Rian Johnson’s follow-up to his kiddie-noir Brick, prances about with a virtual “WWWAD?” – What Would Wes Anderson Do? – emblazoned on its every frame. Taking his debut’s affectations to their ultimate extreme, Johnson’s film is a con man saga in which every symmetrical composition, whip pan, folksy song, hand-written title card, and bubbly, droll caricature seems meticulously modeled after those found in Anderson’s oeuvre, a connection furthered by the focus here on close but at-odds siblings. The duo in question are Stephen (Mark Ruffalo) and his younger bro Bloom (Adrien Brody), a couple of grifters who, as an intro sequence elucidates, moved about from one foster home to another as kids, their transience the result of their preference for causing mischief such as an early ruse in which they swindled local classmates with a yarn about secret caves, hidden treasure, and fantastical creatures. Decked out in matching black suits and bowler hats that reflect their precociousness, they’re an adorable pair who grow into wannabe David Mamet protagonists, with Stephen the cocky author of their convoluted schemes, and Bloom the morose antihero who yearns for a life unscripted by his brother.

Their adventure revolves around Stephen’s plan to con a wealthy shut-in eccentric named Penelope (Rachel Weisz), the type of kook who habitually crashes her canary-yellow Ferrari and then orders a new one, and whom Stephen has chosen as a mark in order to provide Bloom with a shot at true love. Or has he? Working from his own script, Johnson immediately establishes by-now hackneyed circumstances in which nothing is as it seems, and thus nothing can be trusted, a situation meant to keep viewers on their toes but instead reduces the proceedings to a shallow, uninvolving whirligig. The Brothers Bloom wants to fool us narratively as well as trick us into caring about Bloom’s budding relationship with Penelope. Yet it fails to realize that it’s nigh impossible to invest oneself in the plight of characters who only register as fast-talking, quirkily dressed cartoons with weird hobbies, with Penelope’s raft of random, self-taught leisurely pursuits – she plays a range of musical instruments, does gymnastics, juggles chainsaws, and break-dances and DJs – conveyed via such a blatantly Anderson-esque montage that the Rushmore director could just about file a lawsuit on grounds of plagiarism.

According to Bloom, Stephen concocts cons “like dead Russians write novels,” a bit of braggadocio that isn’t confirmed by an ensuing tale that primarily amounts to a formulaic series of rug-pulling scenarios. Yet more than the particulars of the central con, which comes to include the participation of Robbie Coltrane as a buffoonish Danish accomplice and Babel’s Rinko Kikuchi as a mute animé-ish sidekick, The Brothers Bloom falters in its conception, since by forcing us to view every moment with a skeptical eye, it frustrates any opportunity to emotionally care about the madcap shenanigans engulfing the screen. Asked to embody superficially strange ciphers defined by idiosyncrasies, the cast predictably plays down to their material, the charming Weisz and soulful Brody’s performances reduced by the twee atmosphere into merely broad gestures and exaggerated expressions. From their costume-y clothes to their inflated mannerisms and dialogue, everyone involved acts like a child playing dress-up. And while Kikuchi’s too-cool-for-school mime is the story’s most gratingly cute character, it’s Johnson’s equally self-satisfied stewardship that ultimately shoulders the lion’s share of the blame. “I want an unwritten life,” may be Bloom’s recurring plea, but it’s one Johnson thoroughly rejects, his film infinitely pleased with its derivative, fanciful writerly convolutions.

Dear Santa: Cinematic Comebacks We’d Most Like To See (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 16:30:00 GMT

SHERYL LEE

Lee was originally cast as the face (and corpse) of bewitching, self-destructive prom queen Laura Palmer on the equally bewitching and self-destructive TV classic Twin Peaks, yet David Lynch was so captivated by the actress that he created a recurring role for her on the show (as Laura’s doomed cousin Maddie), then later placed her at the center of the feature-length Peaks prequel, Fire Walk With Me, a critically-scorned movie that made Lee (and her iconic character) seem, to many, like a guest who’d overstayed her welcome. And yet, even if you’re one of the haters who viewed the film as an unnecessary, self-indulgent folly (rather than an undervalued masterpiece), take another look at Lee’s performance: yes, she gobbles like a turkey at one point (a moment frequently and too easily mocked), but she also commits herself to the role of an abuse victim on the brink of madness with the kind of frightening, vulnerable intensity that would have earned praise and awards buzz if not for the small screen (and Log Lady) associations. Since her fifteen minutes of fame (and undeserved ridicule), Lee has largely flown beneath the radar in projects more interested in her capacity for physical (rather than emotional) nakedness onscreen, but even so there have been some diamonds in the rough: the innocent in This World, Then The Fireworks, the innocent turned deadly in John Carpenter’s Vampires and, most notably (if least interestingly), in her almost comeback roll as the German girlfriend in Backbeat. Lately, Lee’s found a home back on television (most recently on Dirty Sexy Money...remind me to set my Tivo!), but I’d be fascinated to see what she’d bring to a meaty film role now that she’s been seasoned with all these extra years of rejection, experience and wisdom.

MICHAEL ALMEREYDA

After years of a steadily increasing profile on the arthouse circuit, Michael Almereyda made his best film yet, 2002's Happy Here And Now. After some festival showings, it promptly disappeared, only to be cynically resurrected by IFC after Katrina rendered its New Orleans setting suddenly marketable. The truth is that Almereyda's abstract feature doodles are even less marketable than those of his patron David Lynch, but — if you're on the right wavelength — they can also be totally ethereal and enveloping. Since Happy, he's made two documentaries (one of which I've seen — This So-Called Disaster, which lives down to its title), and which decidedly aren't his element. 2006's Tonight At Noon remains in some kind of post-production hell, and this year's New Orleans, Mon Amour didn't even get the token post-Katrina bounce after dropping at SXSW. What gives?

OWEN WILSON

This has nothing to do with Owen Wilson's personal life, which is frankly none of my business. But should he — after finishing what appears to be a contractually-mandated stint in A Night At The Museum 2 — still have any kind of relish for acting or film in general, it would be nice to see not the return of the Wilson who made lazy craptastic vehicles like Drillbit Taylor or You, Me & Dupree, but the thoughtful co-writer of Bottle Rocket and Rushmore and/or the brilliantly limited slacker comedian who single-handedly rewrote and saved films like Shanghai Noon and (yes, I'm serious) The Big Bounce. Hell, he can even make another The Minus Man if that's what it takes.

TOM GREEN

This one's purely personal. I think Freddy Got Fingered is a very funny movie (which is generally not even true for fans of The Tom Green Show). I even think Freddy Got Fingered is a surprisingly emotional and deeply felt examination of poisonous father-son bonds, a deeply felt apologia from Green to his dad for being so awful to him on the show, fueled by a totally sincere desire for reconciliation. You, on the other hand, may be with the majority of the planet, which finds it to be an abomination. Whatever the case, it's time to rescue Green from whatever web-interview-show purgatory he's fallen into. If nothing else, he can keep reminding dudes of the importance of testicular self-exams.

DAVE CHAPPELLE

This one's utterly universal; is there anyone who wasn't amused by Chappelle? Chappelle hasn't disappeared completely; he's known to show up in comedy clubs with little more than 24 hours' advance notice, and he interviewed James Lipton in November for Inside The Actor's Studio's 200th episode. That's all we get? No one can blame Chappelle for the entirely understandable qualms that led him to shut down his show, and it's totally fair if he wants to retreat to the "Fuck Hollywood" ranch. But Dave Chappelle's Block Party wasn't just a joyous neighborhood tribute (and Michel Gondry's best film); it showed a way out for Chappelle, a post-comic persona that allowed him to drop irony and prove a surprisingly affable host to 21st-century race relations. Whether as a comic or simply as a good guy to spend time with on-screen, we could use him back.

Click Here For Part One, Two & Four

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Vadim Rizov

Screengrab Presents: Cinema's Greatest Comebacks (Part Three)

Andrew Osborne — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 22:00:00 GMT

RIP TORN in DEFENDING YOUR LIFE (1991)

A director I know who once worked with Rip Torn described him as a man filled with rage at all times, which may or may not be true. Yes, the actor famously smacked Norman Mailer on the noggin with a hammer in a bizarre fight somehow related to the production of the 1970 film Maidstone (an altercation that may or may not have been staged, but definitely seemed to draw actual blood). And, yes, there was that time he passed on the Jack Nicholson role in Easy Rider (specifically written for him by Terry Southern) after Dennis Hopper pulled a knife on him during a fight in a New York restaurant. So maybe he’s not the mellowest cat in the pet shop (and, sure, the man has been known to have a drink on occasion), but Torn nevertheless managed to maintain a fairly steady career, mostly as a character actor, from the time of his first screen appearance in the 1956 Baby Doll and his Broadway debut a few years later in the original cast of Tennessee Williams’ Sweet Bird of Youth through subsequent decades of TV and movie appearances. Yet, despite the occasional high class gig (like Alan Rudolph’s Songwriter in 1984 and a 1989 Nicolas Roeg adaptation of Sweet Bird starring Elizabeth Taylor), Torn’s later career had a distinct whiff of has-beenery (Jinxed, The Beastmaster)...until, that is, Albert Brooks cast him as the bombastic afterlife attorney Bob Diamond in Defending Your Life, thus unleashing the full, hitherto untapped comic brilliance of Torn (and, to a lesser extent, Meryl Streep), launching a late-period renaissance in the actor’s career as the go-to guy for directors and showrunners looking to capture that “Rip Torn” feeling, including Garry Shandling (who assured Torn’s place in comedy heaven by casting him as uber-producer Artie in The Larry Sanders Show), Barry Sonnenfeld (who assured mainstream theatrical heat via Men In Black) and, lately, America’s sweetheart Tina Fey and the gang over at 30 Rock. Who knew an angry guy could be so frickin’ lovable?

BURT REYNOLDS, BOOGIE NIGHTS (1997)

Burt Reynolds probably thought Rent-a-Cop would be his big comeback vehicle. Or Switching Channels. Or how about Cop and ½ ? That's why Boogie Nights almost has to be considered an accidental comeback; there's no evidence to suggest that Reynolds felt it had any more merit than, say, Striptease or Mad Dog Time – quite the opposite, in fact, as the one-time Bandit fired his agent after seeing the rough cut of Paul Thomas Anderson's opus. Hey, if you throw enough shit at the wall, something's bound to stick, and few have flung as much feces as our man Burt. Indeed, it is perhaps this very quality that makes Reynolds so convincing as porno patriarch Jack Horner, a kindred aging show-biz vet who mistakes his life's work for great art. Reynolds won a Golden Globe and was nominated for an Oscar for this performance, then parlayed the resulting goodwill into a string of firecracker roles that launched him back onto the Hollywood A-list. What, you missed Crazy Six, Waterproof, Pups, Grilled, Universal Soldier II and III and Uwe Boll's In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale? Your loss.

BILL MURRAY in RUSHMORE (1998)

Let's maintain a little perspective here. Chevy Chase would probably love a big, spangled comeback, though he turned down the Kevin Spacey role in American Beauty, apparently because he was concerned that it was dirty and would sully his image so that he would be less likely to be invited to do such family fare as Snow Day. Murray, who hasn't always seemed that interested in being a movie star, has never really gone as far away as Chase, who was all but driven from the A-list by a torch-carrying mob. But Murray spent most of the '90s veering between lightly promoted character roles (in such movies as Ed Wood and Wild Things) and star vehicles that he often seemed a little embarrassed about. (In the TV commercials for his 1997 The Man Who Knew Too Little, he offered to personally recompense any dissatisfied viewers for the price of their ticket, vowing, "I will put money in your hand with no anger in my heart.") If his melancholy, graying performance in this Wes Anderson picture feels like a breakthrough and a comeback, one that lifted him to a different level in movies, it may be because it never feels like a gag, or a stunt; you never pick him out in the frame and think, "Hey, there's Bill Murray!" Fourteen years after his weird attempt to stretch himself in The Razor's Edge, Murray, always good company in a movie, had quietly evolved into an actor.

FRANK SINATRA in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY (1953)

Some revisionists (such as David Thomson) have questioned just how desperately Sinatra needed the role of Maggio to salvage his career, or even how badly the career needed salvaging; it's true that the singer was under fire from newspaper columnists and self-righteous "morals" groups for his divorce and his (then liberal) politics, but it's not as if it were dog-food-for-dinner time. But everyone who was there agrees that Sinatra felt as if his world had collapsed; he may still have been rich and famous, but he didn't feel like Frank Sinatra anymore, which is to say that it had been a while since a mob of screaming teenage girls had threatened to lick his clothes off. And anyway, of all the great movie-star comebacks, this may be the only one to have inspired a major subplot in a great movie, and to be based on a rumor so widely circulated that the people who saw The Godfather were assumed to know damn well who "Johnny Fontaine" was and the title of the "new war picture" that he so badly wanted to be in. Though it does seem to be untrue that the Mafia got Frank the job. If it were some piddly-ass thing, Sinatra might have turned to his shadier friends, but for this, he felt he needed to use his big guns. So Ava Gardner got him the job.

MARLON BRANDO in THE GODFATHER & LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972)

In last year's TCM documentary Brando, Michael Winner, who directed Brando in the 1971 film The Nightcomers, described how he was able to sell the American rights to Universal Pictures as part of the studio's scheme to get rid of its connection to the star. Universal had a multi-picture deal with Brando, and the bosses jumped at the chance to use Winner's film to burn off its contract with the actor whose recent track record -- Morituri, The Appaloosa, Candy, The Night of the Following Day, et al -- seemed to be that of a spent force. Francis Ford Coppola famously had to fight the Paramount brass just to get permission to have Brando do a screen test, even though demanding a screen test of Brando was considered such an insult that many expected that once the request had been made, Paramount would have the relief of never hearing from him again. By all accounts, Brando was always helpful and considerate during the filming, though he later made it clear that he felt that he'd been screwed financially on the deal. The movie was still chugging along happily at the box office when Tango, the adults-only character drama that Brando had done for Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci, was shown at that year's New York Film Festival and set off the first shock waves caused by both the power and sexual directness of Brando's performance. As an actor, he would never dive as deep again, and as a co-worker, he would never be so well-behaved again -- certainly not for Coppola, who he tortured for every perceived Godfather-related slight he'd shrugged off, first by refusing to do a cameo in The Godfather, Part II, then by keeping one eye firmly on the clock while making Apocalypse Now. But the one-two punch of these two masterpieces left him with a mystique that he would carry to the end of his days, and though his post-1972 resume is strange and spotty, no one doubts that he was doing whatever it was he wanted to do.

Click Here For Part One, Two, Four & Five

Contributors: Andrew Osborne, Scott Von Doviak, Phil Nugent

The Screengrab Highlight Reel: Nov. 15-21, 2008

Scott Von Doviak — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 22:00:00 GMT

I have no wacky character to introduce this week’s Highlight Reel. I have only this goofy photo of Ginger Spice in a Wonder Woman costume. But really, shouldn’t that be enough? After all, Spice World is one of the entries in our survey of Guilty Pleasures (Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six). And comic book movies are all the rage, I am told. Besides, I’ve run out of story – just like Hollywood! So I might as well just tell you about the highlights from the week and Screengrab and be on my way:

We welcome back Vadim Rizov, who wonders Why Action Heroes Must Have Manly Haircuts

Despite my physician’s warnings, the Unwatchable project continues with Yu-Gi-Oh! The Movie and Carry On Columbus

Phil Nugent explores The Short Career and Strange Legacy of Tom Graeff and explains Why Cinemark Shouldn’t Get Your “Milk” Money

Paul Clark reveals how Brian De Palma went bad with Bonfire of the Vanities and revisits Thunderball and Moonraker

Leonard Pierce cranks up Rushmore: OST and Hayden Childs gives us The View Through the View-Master: Iron Giant

Kate Winslet Allows Leo DiCaprio to Strangle Her until She Passes Out

Film Threat Unveils Frigid 50 of 2008

OST: "Rushmore"

Leonard Pierce — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 21:45:00 GMT

Wes Anderson, whatever his other faults as a filmmaker -- and I, for one, would argue that they're plentiful -- has developed a justified reputation as a consummate crafter of motion picture soundtracks. Unlike other directors who simply leave it to the judgment of whoever's writing the score to make sure sound and vision are properly attuned, with a complementary mood and tone, Anderson personally supervises the selection of the music that goes into his films, painstakingly matching existing songs and original scoring to make sure every scene is perfectly matched, that viewers not only see what he wants them to see, but hears what he wants them to hear. This gift of blending original music, extant pop music artifacts, and film is one that he shares with a handful of other directors of a distinctly post-modernist bent: Jim Jarmusch, Quentin Tarantino, and the grandaddy of them all, Martin Scorsese. All four men have a positive passion for blending rock, pop and other musical forms into a lively mix and then folding them delicately into their movies. Tarantino, the consummate pastiche artist, may be the most adept at this form of cinematic mix-tape, but Wes Anderson may be the most inspired, and both musically and cinematically, Rushmore is his masterpiece.

For a movie as distinctly modern as Rushmore is, it has a curiously archaic quality. The music borrowed from other sources is intensely retro; the finished product sounds like a mix CD put together by a quirkily aggressive friend who's obsessed with the music of the British invasion. And while that might seem pretty odd for a movie about a kid who came of age in the late 1990s, it's less odd than it might seem once you've seen Rushmore: Max Fisher is undoubtedly one of those insufferable kids who's utterly scornful of any band containing people close to him in age, and ostentatiously listens only to music that was composed before the invention of the cassette tape. In the album's liner notes, Anderson claims that he originally wanted the soundtrack to contain nothing more than Kinks songs, but a combination of legal issues and the pleading of his collaborators made him change his mind. It's probably for the best -- such an extravagant gesture would be too relentlessly outre, more in keeping with Anderson's later, crazily idiosyncratic work than Rushmore, a movie that keeps a relatable and recognizable human heart beating beneath its ironic hipster exterior. And while Quentin Tarantino might have cast Bill Murray as some sort of flamboyant bit of revivalism, Anderson, here, does it because Murray is the only actor who can deliver the blend of sly, wicked humor and melacholy that is reflected in the soundtrack.

Of course, Wes Anderson did more in putting the music of Rushmore together than comb through a couple of late-'60s Britpop anthologies. The music he selects ranges from smash hits to rarities obscure enough to stun newcomers and surprise experts. Beyond that, he does break up the monotony of endless pop snippets by allowing the wise presence of a score -- and a score composed by another '70s throwback element, Devo frontman Mark Mothersbaugh. There are bits and pieces of Mothersbaugh's original music -- mostly burbling, optimistic electronic pieces of the sort that used to show up on bachelor-pad hi-fi samplers in the sixties -- on the Rushmore soundtrack, and they're both brief enough to not be intrusive and skillful enough to not be superfluous. An entire album of them would be pretty intolerable, but used like this -- as leavening for the pop gems that surround them -- they show that Anderson still has confidence in traditional film-music usages, but is clever enough to give them ann interesting twist. Since the making of Rushmore, Anderson's films have gotten more abstract, more arcane, more personal in a way that is almost inaccessible and alienating, and while they still feature some gems (like Seu Jorge's terrific Bowie covers in The Life Aquatic), he's never topped the cinematic and musical magic he displays here.

BEST TRACKS: Aside from a flat track or two and some inessential incidental music from Mark Mothersbaugh, there's hardly a dud in this whole stack. "Making Time" is an absolutely crushing track from the forgotten Creation, a Who knockoff so skillful it could have slipped onto The Who Sell Out without anyone noticing; and the Who themselves are well-represented by one of the slicker, cleaner versions in existence of their charming mini-rock opera, "A Quick One (While He's Away)". Although only one Kinks song remains on the soundtrack, it's an absolute killer -- the quiet, sweetly sinister "Nothin' in the World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'Bout That Girl" -- and two of Cat Stevens' best tunes, "Here Comes My Baby" and "The Wind", make an appearance before the whole thing winds down with the Faces' flawless "Ooh La La".

Related Posts:

OST: Beetlejuice

OST: Pulp Fiction

Half Measures: Leonard Pierce's Favorites of the First Half of '08

Leonard Pierce — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Hey, all the cool kids are doing it. With Andrew Osborne posting his favorite films of the first six months of 2008 last week, and Paul Clark doing the same only yesterday, who am I to drop the ball? This list, already heavily revised just since last week thanks to some illuminating July 4th viewing, will no doubt undergo serious revision before anything on it makes it to a Best of 2008 list; living in a city where first-run movies are hard to come by unless they're American and released by a mainstream production company, I've come to reply quite heavly on home video releases, film festivals, and other avenues of distribution that make assessments of this sort quite difficult so early in the year. That said, here's what's flicked my switches so far in a year that follows one of the best in recent memory.

My top five:

1. WALL*E - They say that the studio system is dead, and that the releasing company no longer tells you anything about the quality of the film. That's true to an extent, but Pixar is a glorious exception to the rule. The computer animation studio has hardly released a single film during its entire existence, and their latest, concerning a robot whose job is to clean up the detritus of a dead world, has raised the wrath of conservatives while managing to be perhaps the greatest movie Pixar has yet made. Especially daring because it largely abandons the clever dialogue of previous releases, it instead gives the eyes a feast like they've never seen before throughout its long periods of silence. An astonishingly successful film with heart, spirit and intelligence, proving that great art can be commercial. Or vice versa.

2. Shine A Light - Is it a testament to Martin Scorsese's skill as a filmmaker, or the Rolling Stones' skill as musicians and personalities, that his documentary about them has proven to be one of my favorite movies of the year, despite the fact that I long ago lost interest in them as a band, and wouldn't go see them in concert if you paid me? Perhaps that's not so surprising -- Scorsese, after all, has been following and filming the band for decades, and much of the appeal of Shine a Light comes from the effortless way he edits together his own footage of the Stones and old archival material taken by himself and others. To top it all off, he blends this compelling historical material with a contemporary performance so overwhelming that it almost convinces a skeptic like me that the Rolling Stones are still a band that matters.

3. Iron Man - As a lifetime comic book nerd, I had to sit through decades of neglect, followed by decades of failure, for Hollywood to start getting superhero movies right. While I've always been partial to DC comics, Marvel was the first to get it right, with the two initial X-Men movies; then, with the first two Spider-Man films, I was able to relax and say, finally, somebody gets it. With this year's release of Iron Man, Marvel -- now producing their own product with the Marvel Films studio -- continues to get it right: it's a near-perfect superhero film by a director (Jon Favreau) who clearly adores his source material but knows what to jettison to make it work on screen. Add tons of humor, exhilarating action scenes, and an incredibly charismatic lead performance by Robert Downey Jr., and you have one of the best movies of the year.

4. Assassination of a High School President - Yes, one of my favorite movies of 2008 has Mischa Barton in it. Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are. Not yet in wide release, this clever satire, disguised as a teen comedy, Brett Simon's clever, twisting neo-noir travels some of the same paths as obvious predecessors like Brick, Election and Rushmore, but does so with an intricate and well-carried-out plot and an overall thematic twist that's a lot more cutting than it appears to be on the surface. Not a perfect film by any means, Assassination's reach exceeds its grasp, and it has some clunky tonal problems throughout. But a game cast, some terrific dialogue, and a funny, confident presentation does a lot to compensate for its flaws, making it one of the better festival finds of 2008.

5. Bigger, Stronger, Faster*- I've probably seen more documentaries this year than I have narrative feature films, and one of the standouts, both in terms of subject and execution, is Chris Bell's Bigger, Stronger, Faster* (asterisk in the original). Bell, a former steroid user himself and one of a family of three brothers, all of whom are juicers, has made a movie where the real villain isn't the concrete thing of steroids (which, in fact, are shown, if not as beneficial, at least as not nearly as harmful as TV 'experts' and their drummed-up hysteria would have us believe), but the abstraction of a country that will forgive anything if it ends in victory. Filled with images both inspiring and grotesque, it does what good documentaries do: presents us with the situation and lets us decide what it means and what to make of it.

RUNNER-UP: The surprisingly great first two-thirds of The Strangers.

MADE IN 2007, BUT NOW PLAYING: My Winnipeg; The Band's Visit; and, especially, Paranoid Park.

When Good Directors Go Bad: The Darjeeling Limited (2007, Wes Anderson)

Paul Clark — Fri, 09 May 2008 19:00:00 GMT

Wes Anderson is something of a polarizing figure among cinephiles. For every one who believes he’s a gifted filmmaker with an irresistible comic sensibility, there’s another who finds his work too self-satisfied. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground, and Anderson seems to be fine with this, as his style has become quirkier and more eccentric with each film he makes. For years I’ve been in the pro-Anderson camp, and I’ve often found myself defending movies like The Royal Tenenbaums and The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou against those who found them insufferable. But when I first saw The Darjeeling Limited, I had to admit that the naysayers had a point.

Still, at the time I was reluctant to write off Darjeeling as a failed effort on Anderson’s part. Yes, I didn’t respond very well to it, I wondered if my reaction was based on my disappointment at the film being somewhat less than totally awesome. I decided to give the film a little distance and revisit it after it was released on DVD, so that I might be able to approach it with some perspective. And so I watched it again this past weekend, and this second viewing mostly confirmed my initial misgivings. The Darjeeling Limited isn’t a total botch, but it’s definitely the least of Anderson’s films, and the one in which the limitations of his style really come through most clearly.

One of the most common objections that’s raised to Anderson’s work has to do with his visual style, in which he situates his characters in storybook-style tableaux. In Anderson’s films, there’s always some curious knick knack or peripheral detail at the corner of the frame. But while in previous films, all of these sly little jokes added up to create convincing and original environments for the characters- remember the underwear painting in Eli Cash’s house?- here they just become oppressive. Anderson and production designer Mark Friedberg let their imaginations run wild in creating a colorful version of India, but the small bits of design business don’t really add up to anything, so instead of creating a delightful world for the film, the style instead becomes oppressive, like it’s been art-directed to death.

Of course, some of this problem might have been alleviated had the world created by Anderson been populated by vivid characters, but sadly, it’s not. Darjeeling focuses on the travels of the Whitman brothers- played by Owen Wilson, Adrien Brody, and Jason Schwartzman- as they venture across India in an attempt to reconnect with each other and have a shared spiritual experience. However, none of the characters is drawn with very much depth, with each being defined primarily by his quirks. Faring worst is Schwartzman as little brother Jack. Jack is meant to be a sensitive writer who is still reeling from the disillusion of a longstanding relationship (part of which we see in the film’s companion piece Hotel Chevalier), but I never felt a thing for the guy. Part of the problem is Schwartzman’s performance- perfect as he was for Rushmore, he’s not a very expressive actor, certainly not soulful enough to pull off a character who should by rights be an emotional linchpin for the film.

All of Anderson’s recent films are in some way or other about family, whether the bond is one of blood or, more commonly, a surrogate family arrangement. The Darjeeling Limited is no exception, but what it lacks is a character who stands outside the family unit, grounding the more whimsical and dysfunctional aspects of the family unit. Frankly, Darjeeling needs a character like this, because without it the story becomes a parade of quirkiness. Even Adrien Brody’s Peter, who appears most likely to become the pragmatist of the group, ends up getting caught on the wavelength of the other characters.

But perhaps most annoying is how on-the-nose certain elements of the film are. Anderson has always had a tendency to use symbolism in his work- like the shark that represents death in The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou- but never have the symbols clanged so loudly as they do in The Darjeeling Limited. For example, as if Owen Wilson’s bandaged head doesn’t make it clear enough that he’s been psychologically scarred, Anderson includes a scene in which Wilson removes his bandages in front of his brothers, looks at his scars, and says, “I guess I’ve still got some healing to do.” The train itself is pretty clearly meant to symbolize life, which Anderson makes explicit in an admittedly pretty neat scene in which various supporting characters are shown living their own lives in individual train cars. But the most egregious use of symbolism gone haywire is the use of the Whitmans’ dead father’s custom-made monogrammed baggage, which they carry along with them. The film’s climactic scene finds the boys chasing down a departing train and finally having to leave behind their baggage in order to catch it. Needless to say, the thundering obviousness of the scene is sort of insulting.

All of this is not to say that The Darjeeling Limited is without any merit whatsoever. Anderson is too talented a director to make a worthless, uninteresting film, and Darjeeling contains its share of delights. For one thing, its opening scene is brilliant, so much so that the rest of the film is all the more disappointing in comparison. In addition, the film has another of Anderson’s characteristically wonderful soundtracks, this one packed full of music from films directed by James Ivory and Satyajit Ray. However, these delights are modest compared to the film’s many faults. Hell, I haven’t even gotten around to mentioning the parallel scenes in which Wilson is taken to task for ordering dinner for his brothers, and the one where the boys’ long-lost mother (Anjelica Huston) does exactly the same thing. Hardly subtle, and sadly, all too typical of Anderson’s approach here.

Most filmmakers have a comfort zone as far as style and material are concerned, and many of the films I’ve written about so far in this series have failed because their directors have stepped too far out of this comfort zone. But The Darjeeling Limited is exactly the opposite- everything about the film resides so squarely in Anderson’s wheelhouse that it practically feels like an inside joke. I still believe Anderson is a gifted filmmaker, but if he wants to grow as an artist he needs to find new wrinkles for his style, because if The Darjeeling Limited is any indication, diminishing returns have begun to set in, which if you’re an artist is the last thing you want to happen.

Screengrab Review: Charlie Bartlett

Peter Smith — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 19:00:00 GMT

December brought us Juno, a teen movie (over)written by a thirty-year-old ex-stripper; February brings us Charlie Bartlett, a teen movie apparently written by a twelve-year-old whipped into a frenzy of high-school anticipation by every other teen movie ever made. It's an odd creature, this Charlie Bartlett — thick with references to Rushmore, Harold and Maude and Ferris Bueller's Day Off, it feels persistently unreal, untempered by real-life experience of high school. The "drug" sequences seem to come from someone less familiar with altered states than with the pot montage in The Breakfast Club, and a key virginity loss is mysteriously set inside a scene from Sixteen Candles. You might find this annoying, or you might find yourself getting wistful for the worst years of your life.

Charlie (Anton Yelchin) has been booted out of every private school in the state — not for bad grades, of course, but for persistent attention-seeking prankery. He's desperate for popularity, and at his new public school, he finds it by psychoanalyzing his classmates and prescribing them medication via the bevy of shrinks thrown at him by his doting, overbearing mother (Hope Davis, who chastizes him for not eating his dinner with the line, "I've cooked you a perfectly Oedipal meal" — or at least that's how I heard it). Simultaneously, he befriends a bully (one Tyler Hilton, who looks far too much like a young Morrissey to be threatening) and romances the principal's daughter (Kat Dennings, of The 40-Year-Old Virgin). But the principal himself (Robert Downey, Jr., entertaining as ever) turns out to be a problem, though not too much of a problem to resolve in a ludicrous climax. Basically, this is not the next Rushmore, Donnie Darko or even Ferris Bueller, despite Charlie's preference for a Bueller-esque shades-and-beret combo. It's not without fun, though. You can scoff at it if you like, but if you're twelve, you'll probably find it highly plausible. — Peter Smith