Wes Anderson

“I aimed for whimsy, but landed on twee. It’s a fine line, people, it’s a fine line.”

This is something I can picture my imaginary 1940s screenwriter persona saying. Fed-up with the intensity of films noir, set in the mean streets of dimly-lit cities, she has turned her hand to some light comedy. It doesn’t work. She knows it hasn’t worked. It’s just – well, twee. Too sweet. Lacks bite.

And I wonder what she would think about Wes Anderson. Rachel in 2025 actively hunts down new films by the Texan born auteur. But her 1940s alternate ego, would probably find Anderson’s oeuvre a little baffling.

1940s Rachel would probably respond much like one of mine and Wes Anderson’s favourite critics – Pauline Kael. Anderson specifically sought her out to show her a preview of Rushmore (1998). At the end of the film she turns to the young filmmaker and says:

“I don’t know what you’ve got here. Did the people who gave you the money read the script?”

Ouch.

Having recently seen The Phoenician Scheme, I tried to explain to my alter ego why I watch his films.

“Look, I get it,” I said, “It can all seem a little weird. Like it’s style over content.”

And then I began my lengthy defence of Anderson.

The world Anderson produces is pretty, ordered, brightly coloured. But it often depicts dark narratives of loss, disorder and violence. The Phoenician Scheme, for example, centres a series of attempted assassinations. There are murders and suicides on screen. But it tells those stories with a simple dispassion.

It is possible to read the films as the inability to deal emotionally with trauma. Death in his films appears to leave little trace on the bereaved.

Most of the quirkiness and whimsy associated with his work comes from the visual. His films are instantly recognisable with the use of diorama displays, bold colour choices, carefully framed symmetrical shots, the aesthetic of clutter against vast spaces, and the occasional extreme close up of an actor. Sometimes, I watch his films like I’m at an art gallery. I take on the role of passive observer to another person’s vision. I revel in the imagery.

And it is only when I walk away from the work that I become aware of its impossibility, or its idiosyncrasy. Because the imagery has allowed me to enter a different world. A world I can both recognise and also feels a little alien. In particular, the alienation comes from his lack of popular culture references. There are no mobile phones, no social media, the technology is dated but also without time.

One of his big themes is inter-generational tension, considering the impossibility of childhood innocence in a world where adults don’t connect. And this is heightened by his lack of popular culture references. This allows him to avoid the tired tropes of slang, fashion or technology as proxy for the gaps between generations.

Anderson works in a visual medium, but he is also a writer. He has written or co-written most of his output. His writing has a distinctive voice with a deadpan humour, an understatement, a lack of histrionics or big speeches.

This gives me a sense of the character’s he chooses to put on screen. They are usually outsiders, with a hint of paranoia. They have peculiar and particular quests. They have schemes and plots that require them to bring order to their world. They talk in short, snappy sentences as if they don’t want to give too much away.

I finish by saying how I love the whimsy, that treads that fine line with the twee.

“I mean we just watched Tom Hanks playing basketball, what’s not to love?”

“So, now do you get it?”

I ask 1940s Rachel, a little too eagerly.

“Sure kid. I get that you sound a little pretentious.”

“But, but…” I say a little crestfallen, searching for another insight. Yet, I know it is hopeless. Wes Anderson is not a mainstream filmmaker. He is meant to be niche. And you either get him or you don’t. I can’t convince you if he’s not for you.

“It’s alright,” says the imaginary 1940s screenwriter. “Do you know what you need? A good slug of whiskey.”

She’s right, of course.

If you've enjoyed what you have read, consider subscribing to my writing on Vocal. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so by leaving a one-time tip or a regular pledge. Thank you.