The Darjeeling Limited

Directed by Wes Anderson
****

Gone are the tableaux of telling stories through the club photos of a prep school yearbook, parody documentaries of Jacques Cousteau's adventures, or the out and out novel of the story your viewing…for now. Only time will tell if Wes Anderson has found a new system, no that’s too cold a word, a new culture to make movies in, or if this departure (in as much that Wes can be considered to make such a thing) was a one time deal, and he'll be back to lavish set pieces and Mark Mothersbaugh scores in the next go around.

Three brothers, Francis, Jack and Peter, who have set off on a spiritual journey through India after having not seen each other in a year, last together at their father’s funeral, aren’t drawn carefully per se, but rather tactfully. Throughout, I’m never quite sympathetic towards Jason Schwartzman’s Jack, but I don’t need to be. Schwartzman captures sibling interaction/rivalry/jealousy perfectly among brothers, provides his fair share of comedic relief, and seems most capable of speaking seriously without sounding forced, all in all enough to enjoy his presence throughout the film. Owen Wilson’s Francis I wasn’t much a fan of, but his suicide attempt seems to keep me from flat out despising him for a bit of a white-lie we happen upon near the climax. He’s the instigator of the trip, desperately trying to reconnect with his brothers. It’s Adrian Brody as middle child Peter who I loved the most as a soon-to-be father still grief stricken by the passing of dear old dad. I get the sense that the writing trio of Wes, Schwartzman, and 2^nd director virtuoso Roman Coppola knew this, and when the movie hits an abrupt tragedy, Peter’s the one who bears the largest burden.

Trading in teams of set designers for a small group of close-knit cadres with cameras on location in ever-cinematic India is a breath of fresh air (almost literally, this film, like the economically forced on-location debut Bottle Rocket, breathes, with empty fields and layers of mountains and natural scenery that’s as ever beautiful as Life Aquatic's Belafonte or the throwback New York townhouse from Tennenbaums). I almost want to call Rushmore, Royal Tennenbaums, and The Life Aquatic a trilogy of father-son issues that feature the aforementioned similarities along with (prominent) Bill Murray roles, but there’s not been enough time to establish proper perspective for such a thesis. (And don't you dare say Raleigh St. Claire wasn't prominent, if not only to say: not prominent enough!) Fathers & sons rings a bit here too, but dad's dead from the get-go. The biggest difference Darjeeling offers is the restriction of narrative. Where before, the smallest of references would be explained through quick flashback or throwaway to an insert of a photo or diegetic film clips, here the minor mentioning of peripheral players or major resolutions are left hanging; the ideas, themes and characters frayed, a big change for Anderson who usually likes to wrap up everything quite neatly, and in slow motion, another signature left out of Darjeeling. The ending does sport what may be my favorite last line ever; call me a nihilist if you will.

The only disruption in Darjeeling’s restricted narrative progression is one flashback, although appropriately evoked, to the day of their father’s funeral. Upon first viewing I passively loved it. The second time, I found it flawed, but was sympathetic to it, understanding that it’s given the task of bringing the emotional low of the film back up to Anderson’s dry wit and storybook kinetics. When serious reflection and screwball comedy are fleshed out on their own, we get beautifully memorable scenes. The two that immediately come to mind, are Peter’s holding a small Indian child, complete fear for the future and sadness converge to put absolute loss upon his face, conversely, for laughs, the three brothers attempting a spiritual ceremony, waving about and acting rather foolish atop a mountain. Neither moment tries to scale the gamut of emotions, but rather flourishes in its singular, lovely tone.

Lovers of Wes Anderson will still love it, albeit either shaken by the “new” direction or keen to it. Haters of Wes Anderson, well, they’ll keep doing what they do best - it’s by no means that different, especially to detractors of the young auteur. I chalk a big X in the ‘like the new style’ column personally, if for nothing more than the change of pace and peace of mind that one of the most visually recognizable filmmakers is capable of spreading his wings a bit.