Indie, or quasi-indie, American cinema is just as concerned with underexplored places and feelings as French or Iranian cinema (don't listen to the critics, American cinema is fantastic and rough these days). The Royal Tenenbaums, sort of caught in time and place (what decade is it really? where are they really?) and between their "thought and expression," (lots of VU on the soundtrack) are prime examples of that American mystery.
Maybe the quest for auteurishness is self-conscious--it thematically and aesthetically fits together too well--and a bit distracting, but there are some fascinating, emotive things at work here. Some obvious symbolism, broken limbs, climbing up buildings, childish clothing, the book motif for people who don't know much about themselves, whatever, is still moving.
And the humor, well, who wants to take the pains of rich geniouses THAT seriously. They're not starving to death. They're intelligent, but very normal. Well, Wes Anderson's normal. Second city America normal. You know, like us, emotionally infantile and brilliant or the other way around. No inbetween.
And if you don't like it, I'll kick you in the gut.
Maybe the quest for auteurishness is self-conscious--it thematically and aesthetically fits together too well--and a bit distracting, but there are some fascinating, emotive things at work here. Some obvious symbolism, broken limbs, climbing up buildings, childish clothing, the book motif for people who don't know much about themselves, whatever, is still moving.
And the humor, well, who wants to take the pains of rich geniouses THAT seriously. They're not starving to death. They're intelligent, but very normal. Well, Wes Anderson's normal. Second city America normal. You know, like us, emotionally infantile and brilliant or the other way around. No inbetween.
And if you don't like it, I'll kick you in the gut.