An older and very accomplished journalist once wrote to me that the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, where he went, is “a jealous god.” And sometimes, I think, so am I. Let’s say “demigod.”
That accursed Wes Anderson. He is so good, our sensibilities are so complimentary, I would love to make the movies he makes–I have no choice but envy and resentment.
I’ll spare you the exegesis on Anderson’s films for now, on their strengths and sometimes quite significant weaknesses, the value they place on guileless wonderment, their sense of race and class, their use of art as both a vehicle for storytelling and object of contemplation, their critiques of the media, their consideration of ambition and success, their emphasis on decency and strangeness, their existentialism, their music. Instead, here is this, it’s so commercial, but well done, indeed. Two minutes:
If you are interested in a recent movie about making movies and the complications of literature, one with a slightly similar sensibility as Anderson’s, though rather more realistic and less precious, I recommend Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story. It’s difficult to explain.