Apples and oranges are both round fruit. We tell ourselves not to compare them—but given how often those reminders come, it seems many of us can’t resist. It’s the same impulse for unrigorous comparison that leads us to evaluate the oeuvre of Francophile American filmmakerGawker lament
Really, Anderson has nothing to do with the world of twee, a term defined by a slightly askew adorableness. Truly precious, precocious films stick eccentric bows onto conventional packages—The Royal Tenenbaums, The Darjeeling Limited, Moonrise Kingdom, The Grand Budapest Hotel, which is currently in theaters, and which Ganz took issue with specifically.
But film is a fundamentally visual medium—one where even ugliness or unevenness is a choice, a signifier that, in plenty of films, replaces actual character development or thoughtfulness. A visually beautiful film, of course, isn’t necessarily good, either. But dismissals of Anderson’s work as “twee” or “cold” or “precocious” reveal a kind of disinterest in the ideas that images—and not only speeches and interactions—put forth.
The tension between mood and image in an Anderson film is a kind of treatise on outsider-ism. His perfectly arranged rooms and accoutrements always counter some sort of internal chaos.
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