The Impossibility of Being Wes Anderson or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate on The Life Aquatic

I’m slowly realizing that my review-posts aren’t reviews of the work but of the audience. So, let’s make that explicit. Today’s review is the Life Aquatic. Its audience gets two thumbs way down.

Why does everyone think it’s obvious that the Life Aquatic is not as good as Rushmore or the Tenenbaums? Is it an after-the-fact plot to shore up their previous overestimation of the good but (like all Anderson films) significantly flawed Rushmore? You recall, don’t you, that many people thought Tenenbaums was quite a disappointment compared to the all-holy Rushmore? These days, however, Tenenbaums seems to have been canonized. The Department of Information has declared that Everyone Has Always Loved the Tenenbaums.

I am willing to admit that it’s arguable that Life Aquatic is more flawed than its predecessors. But only arguable, and far from obvious. The principle flaws are sloppiness of structure, triteness of plot devices (especially the wish-I-had-a-real-Daddy fixation), and the occasionally excessive attention to the pleasing surfaces of things, a candycoatedness that distracts from the chewy center. That is to say: the exact same flaws that significantly marred Rushmore and Tenenbaums. (I think Bottle Rocket is his best precisely because these problems are significantly less noticeable, but that’s an argument for another day.)(Sidenote on the charges of candy-coated superficiality: this criticism is often greatly exaggerated. For example, the cross-sectioned Bellafonte is often referred to as evidence. But it demonstrates precisely the opposite trait: an interest in the inner working and structure of things, as opposed to their surfaces and appearences. It's the Pompidou of movie sets.)

I find it very hard to determine which of the major three Anderson films exhibits these problems to the highest degree, but they all exhibit them to such a degree that I think a comparative ranking of these films should leave these issues aside. Instead we should ask which film best demonstrates Anderson’s strengths. But that’s a job for someone else. I’m here to review the audience.

Why are Anderson fans 1) in almost universal agreement about the inferiority of this film and 2) so strangely certain and inflexible in their judgment about this film (especially in a world where the platitude that "taste is subjective" usually pops up in any and every discussion of artworks)?

To answer this question, we must carefully observe the cardinal rule (first formulated by Nietzsche) for interpreting human judgments on any matter: human beings always choose the verdict that is most pleasing to themselves. This might be the one most flattering to their self-image, or the most profitable in the immediate moment or in the long run, or the most satisfying, or whatever. But the mistake to avoid is paying attention to their professed reasons for their judgments. Reasons always come after the fact to justify judgments. (I am perfectly comfortable with the self-implicating nature of my cardinal rule, by the way.)

So, what’s so unpleasing about The Life Aquatic? I think its displeasure has to do with one of its greatest virtues. It does what any good work of art does: it bursts the bubble of self-serving illusions rather than shoring them up. (I’d add that this is one of the virtues of Bottle Rocket, in contrast to the Canonical Two, but again: argument for another day.)

The most irresistible thing about Anderson’s movies is the wish-fulfilling fantasy they present that smart, sensitive, awkward individuals can find a world where they will fit in and be happy. In other words: you can be a Wes Anderson kind of person and still live a happy, successful life. This fantasy works in various ways: the geek is promised that he might get the girl, or achieve professional or artistic success, or find a true father and family, or some variation thereof. In any case, the most pleasing thing about these films is that they say, "Hey, Kind-of-Person-Who-Watches-Wes-Anderson-Movies! Yeah, you! You’re really cool, and someday the world will recognize that!"

And we, The Kind of People Who Watch Wes Anderson Movies, are all, like: "Aw, shucks. Thanks. You're pretty neat, too."

Here’s the place where I would address the many forthcoming audience counterexamples in painstaking detail, but I’m feeling lazy, so let’s make it quick. No, Rushmore’s geek doesn’t get the girl he thought he wanted, but he was wrong about what he wanted, so he got the girl after all. (Besides, it's obvious that Murray's girl totally wants Max, but she's, you know, afraid of being arrested and stuff.) And true, the Tenenbaum’s smart, sensitive, awkward leads are forced to keep their forbidden love secret, but that’s part of the fantasy, too: we’ll be able to create our own little band of outsiders, a Bellafonte of our own, which will stay afloat despite the uncomprehending outside world. And so on.


So, in The Life Aquatic Wes Anderson has the gall to pop the beautiful shiny balloon he gave us in the last two movies. Okay, that’s pretty mean of him—-since he started the myth. But it doesn’t make it a lesser movie. It’s done particularly effectively. In Tenenbaums, Boy Wonder regains a quirky family, embodied in quirky father figure who brings the family back together which then heals all wounds. Of course he dies, wrapping things up with a lovely bow. In The Life Aquatic, Anderson brings boy wonder’s quirky father back, signifying the family he has found in the boatload of lovable outcasts and misfits that he winds up on. But this time Anderson doesn’t off the father, he offs the boy wonder. The fantasy shared by boy wonder, Anderson, and his audience ("Can I call you daddy, Bill Murray, huh, can I, please, hey?") dies with him. (In the most effectively painful and tramatic looking crash scene ever made, incidentally.)

You see where this is going, right? Boy wonder dies, along with his juvenile fantasy of carving out a quirky, happy, self-sustaining world populated by his true spiritual family, leaving us with jaded old man Murray, who has seen his lifelong attempt to live out that fantasy fall apart. In the final confrontation with his Moby Dick, despite being sardined in a tiny sub with the entire cast, Murray looks very, very alone.


Finally, we see the screening of Murray's own movie, the one that wraps up his lifelong project, another reminder that his life was a fantasy that failed to realize. (It’s just a movie, after all.) Cue new very young, wide-eyed, replacement boy wonder, who Murray longs to be.

So, in a strange self-fulfilling prophecy, Anderson says: "Sorry guys, smart, sensitive, awkward individuals don’t grow up to find happiness and success: they grow up to be sad, alone, and nostalgic for their lost naivety." Appropriately, at this moment, boy wonder Wes Anderson’s charmed career starts to take on water.