The Royal Tenenbaums: A+
BY NEIL FAUERSO
With the exception of David Lynch, no other filmmaker commands
my interest and anticipation like Wes Anderson, whose latest film is The Royal Tenenbaums. His debut, Bottle
Rocket, is
one of the great unseen films, a hilarious yet tender tale of listless rich
kids who try to rob banks. 1998’s Rushmore was easily the best film
of that very strong year and is probably one of the ten best films of the 90s.
The pressure and anticipation of his follow-up, the all-star ensemble The
Royal Tenenbaums, was enormous, but with it Anderson not only silenced the
naysayers, he established himself as the brightest young director in America
(and I am considering P.T. Anderson). The Royal Tenenbaums is completely different
from Rushmore but shares Rushmore’s attention to detail, love of obscure
pop music, and warped, unique sense of humor. Those expecting the joyous symphony
of Rushmore will probably be disappointed—Tenenbaums is more serious,
slower, and definitely sadder.
The film begins with a ten-minute narrated sequence (a nice wink to The
Magnificent Ambersons) about the Tenenbaums. They are, or at least were,
a family of geniuses: the mother Etheline (Anjelica Houston), a bright
vibrant woman, and each child—Chas (Ben Stiller), Margot (Gwyneth
Paltrow), and Richie (Luke Wilson)—exceptionally gifted in a distinguished
field. The weak link was the father Royal (Gene Hackman), a strangely likable
lout and borderline sociopath who introduces Margot as his adopted daughter,
dises her play, shoots Chas with a BB gun, and blames the kids for the
split between him and Etheline. The only one he is remotely interested
in or nice to is Richie. Needless to say, this takes its toll on the kids,
even after Royal is excommunicated from the family.
When we catch up with the Tenenbaums 22 years later, they are in a sorry
state. Margot is married to a much older neurologist, Raleigh St. Claire
(Bill Murray) and seems clinically depressed. Chas lost his wife to a plane
crash and is now obsessed with the security of his kids. Richie, a former
tennis star, suffered a breakdown on the court and has been traveling around
the world on an ocean liner. Only the family friend Eli Cash (Owen Wilson)
is successful as a western novelist, albeit one with a serious drug problem.
The family is removed and alienated, and most have not spoken to Royal
in several years, but when he comes back with the news that he is dying
and wants to set things right, the family begrudgingly gives him one more
chance.
Anderson plays all his strengths to their full capacity in this film.
The attention to detail is giddily obsessive. From the covers of Raleigh
and Eli’s books to the almost comic-strip uniformity of each character’s
recurring outfit, Anderson gives the film an almost unparalleled richness
with his layered tapestry of minutia. The script by Anderson and Owen Wilson
is remarkable, balancing between broad absurdity and kookiness, and the
sort of truly elegiac pathos usually reserved for James L. Brooks or Mike
Nichols.
However much Anderson’s fingerprints are on the film and its success,
the performances of the actors cannot be overlooked or underestimated.
Gene Hackman is completely remarkable, easing into a part written especially
for him with a grace and comfort amazing even for a veteran. Anjelica Houston
and Danny Glover are also outstanding. Among the kids, Paltrow, Stiller,
and Wilson not only shine in their respective roles, but gel convincingly
as a family. Owen Wilson almost steals the show as the pompous, yet sweet
Eli. The cinematography, editing, and especially soundtrack (featuring
songs by Nico, The Ramones, and Nick Drake) are all wonderful, and, if
anything, are even more ambitious and epic than those of Rushmore.
The Royal Tenenbaums, like Mulholland Drive, is unlike
any other movie out there. And like Lynch, Anderson has a trademark style
that no one even comes close to mimicking. We are lucky, too, because
I have a feeling Anderson, now only 32, is going to get better.
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