Fuck it. The cinetrix has decided not to hate Wes Anderson. And not just because some days it seems like the most radical and contrarian stance to take, although that aspect of it has its charms, I shan't lie. New Yorkers/critics may be over The Darjeeling Limited already and on to the next thing, but where I live, yearning young film fans are jealous that I've already seen the film and counting the days until it goes wide enough to reach them.
I spent the week rereading reviews of Darjeeling; rewatching Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums [and the making-of extras citing "Persona lighting" and post-Mexico Bunuel camera setups], The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, and Hotel Chevalier; listening again to Armond White's impassioned defense of Anderson; thinking about Bazin on Renoir; trying to find time to watch The River; enjoying The Playlist's tripartite Wes Anderson soundtrack; revisiting the relevant Whitman and Forster; and remembering a beaming bride who processed down the aisle last Saturday to Mark Mothersbaugh's "Loquasto International Film Festival."
You may think this is about Anderson and pop music. Well, yeah, but give me the meticulous mise-en-scene, too. I even have some ideas about the damn suitcases.
