It can be hard work being a Wes Anderson fan. When someone hates him, they tend to do so relentlessly. The accusations remain the same: his films are too twee, too stiff, too symmetrical. There are too many vinyl records and leather suitcases, too many precocious brats, and too much Bill Murray. In short, they’re too much of the perfect, coordinated same.
But to a true-blue Andersonite, that’s like standing on the deck of a boat, looking down at the ocean’s surface and declaring it devoid of life. His films are beautifully regimented, yes. Beyond that, they’re also pulsing with thought and emotion, drawn to every corner of the globe, from Hans Holbein the Younger to filmmaker Satyajit Ray, and powered by history and personal remembrance. He captures what it’s like to feel adrift in your own family, to feel hollowed out by grief, or to cling to the fragile dream of solidarity in the face of fascism.
