Going Deep With Wes Anderson

“Whenever one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself.”—Jacques Yves Cousteau
- Diving for Sunken Treasure (As inscribed by the late Edward Appleby in Rushmore)

Rhinestone Blue Fin, “Life on Mars,” Lord Mandrake, Viet Cong Man O’ Wars, “Rebel, Rebel,” Air Kentucky, Sugar Crabs, Campari Liquor, “Changes,” Daydream Johnny, Jack Whales, Belafonte and the elusive Jaguar Shark. This is what I read on my notepad when the lights come up in the closet-sized Disney screening room on 59th and Park. With synapses firing in overdrive, I scan the 10 other people in attendance as they wiggle out, dilated eyes blinking like overstimulated tadpoles released from the captivity of Wes Anderson’s newest cinematic laboratory, The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.

The only discernable utterance from the murmuring gaggle emerges from the clearly internal monologue of a head-scratching flack: “Simply twisted.” I counter with, “Deliciously warped.” Still absorbed, he absently nods in my direction before being engulfed by the Manhattan night.

Careening 40 blocks downtown in a cab, I dissect my surroundings for an indication that reality still exists as it did before I entered the screening. This is what Anderson’s films do to minds ensnared in quotidian monotony—they are watercolor invitations to see the world afresh and askew. Like a freelance casting agent on the prowl, I note the pizza delivery guy riding a unicycle, the woman walking a cat on a leash, and my incessantly whistling cab driver of unknown ethnic origin, and wonder if they could exist in an Anderson production.

Later, while dining with a group of New York’s jaded creative class I finally begin to digest what I’ve seen and heard. My dinner acquaintances have pointed issues with the filmmaker. Complaints of megalomania, anal retentiveness and compulsive repetition mingle with the disappointment of Yankees fans at the bar. It’s a chorus many critics may echo because they exhausted their quiver of superlatives and laudable blurbs after Anderson’s first three films, Bottle Rocket, Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums—just the nature of the business. We can’t like all his movies, can we? Once is a fluke; twice, he’s on to something; three times a charm, but what is four … in a row? It’s like adding the fourth Stooge or Musketeer to a holy trinity. It’s always a letdown.

Whatever the media is prepared for, ultimately the audience will decide. But, unlike the chalk demarcation drawn by Bill Murray’s Steve Zissou aboard the Belafonte, to separate the mutinous from the believers, the choice is not always so clear. Anderson is now fully engrained into cinema’s fabric; he’s no longer the secret you can whisper to your friends. Yet, with the increasing industry clout and expanding budgets comes a choice for every director—expand your audience and scope by going mainstream like Ang Lee (Ice Storm to Hulk) and Doug Liman (Swingers to Bourne Identity) or maintain a singular vision and voice, hoping the mainstream will flow your way. After I saw The Life Aquatic and spent the subsequent afternoon with the director, it was clear Anderson is still plotting his own course through uncharted—or as Team Zissou would say—“unprotected” waters.

Looking like his own Richie Tenenbaum in a tan corduroy suit and long hair (sans headband), Anderson exudes geek chic as he settles at the table and orders water from the server who’s obviously waited on him many times before. He chose this outdoor café in the West Village, and looking around, it dawns on me that we could be on one of his sets; everything seems immaculately calculated-from the waiters’ various accents and the exuberant dog walker across the street to the autumn foliage and friscalating slant-light, pouring through the prism base of the salt shaker onto the pink stucco walls. I suddenly feel like Owen Wilson’s Eli Cash to Anderson’s Tenenbaum. To stop myself from tumbling further into character, I admit to Anderson that in my personal and professional life, I’m surrounded by “quoters” who wield their ability to converse solely in lines from his films as a badge of honor. He nods understandingly. “Ah, ‘quoters.’ I’m a movie quoter as well, so I know the type. Quoters try to engage me on the street all the time, but most of the time I don’t even know what the quote is, even though I wrote it. Especially if it’s from early on like Bottle Rocket. Who knows, maybe they’re not even quoting?” Knowing the lengths to which his audience will go with each offering, I ask him what master he’s ultimately trying to serve with his newest emprise—his fanatical constituency, broader appeal or simply himself.