So many people hate Wes Anderson. Every time another Wes Anderson project announces itself they come out of the woodwork -- they are all very happy to be very vocal about their opinions on him. And so it always feels like, to me, that Wes Anderson walks jauntily into a room twirling his cane saying howdy-do, only to be met every single time with a room full of chattering people who go silent, snap their necks in his direction with furious force, and start hissing. Perhaps you are one of them. I know plenty.
I'm not. I feel a deep compassion for and commiseration with his frantically compulsive picture-making -- leave me to my devices and I will stack every stack of papers just so, I will swivel the knick-knacks on every shelf for hours until they sing with just right off-right harmony. His movies speak to me on a primal obsessive level. The airlessness some decry feels like life to me -- like order and truth and poetry. It's like a visual puzzle, a person's insides put on display, and it's my job to figure out the patterns that make them them. I find it so fascinating!
Anyway in case you didn't get it already the trailer for Wes' The French Dispatch dropped this morning, and another chapter -- or winkingly obvious chapters plural, given its how-many-ever-furcated story-telling device -- in the Book of Wes feels imminent; another opportunity to scale the highs and plumb the lows of figuring out the way another curious person sees the world.
That's the fascination of his movies to me -- they are blisteringly auteurist and interiorized and I suppose some people don't find that space fun, but I think the entire world we live in, the entire process of life itself, lives in the process of opening up another person's brai, outside of our own, and trying to decipher the intimate sphinxes therein. so I am good. This is what I live for and I am happy here. Also...