The more pressing questions? Does the line "Are you a robot?" have the kind of hit ratio with the ladies this movie implies? Why didn't they just use a real old man instead of Guy Pearce? How can Jackass afford better old man makeup than Ridley Scott? Why do people keep taking their helmets off? Has any android survived an entire Alien film in one piece? Did this movie vacuum all of the joy out of the other Alien movies, or just most of it? Does it really take three dudes to pilot a spaceship? And most important of all, why did Moonrise Kingdom leave me so cold?
At its crummy, alien engineered heart, Prometheus is a story about the relationship between creator and creation. The "Engineers" make us, we aren't quite up to snuff--or maybe we're too awesome (hard to believe), so they decided to violently eradicate us. I mean, you hate that, but I admire the Engineers for a willingness to do the hardest thing a creator can do for its creation, viciously attack. Challenge themselves to make it better. Step outside their expectations. Approach their creation in an unorthodox way. And after his most well received film in years, it's time for Wes Anderson to launch the xenomorphs into his shoebox diorama world.
Currently there are few creators as closely identified with their creation as Wes Anderson. Oh! The kerfuffle and ruminations on the auteur when it's time for a new Anderson joint. But this is what struck me this go round: in regard to Prometheus, the conversation is about the movie. With Moonrise Kingdom, the conversation always goes back to Wes Anderson.
Wes Anderson has become more of an adjective than a person. What were once stylish touches have become an iron clad grasp on his Bill Murray rich environs. It's like the North Korea of vintage prep and obscure vinyl where people starve for emotional attachment instead of food. Wes Anderson-ness is a quantifiable trait to where it could have a scientific unit of measurement. (The cross-section of the boat in Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou is at least 225 Andersons.) Did you see the Wes Anderson Bingo card generator Slate put together? Oof.
Wes Anderson is an auteur. It's no condemnation, it's part of what distinguishes a great filmmaker. I think Anderson gets it harder than anyone else because it begins to feel like the auteur comes before the art. His slavish devotion to canon allows ritual to seep into artistic intent. Everything is so positioned and blocked and love worn, Anderson's films take on a detached quality. The singularity of voice, theme, and aesthetic have fused into a barrier behind which elements like story and character wilt.
Other auteurs do more to push the walls of their repertoire, and know when to leave fingerprints instead of ligature marks. Tarantino may have a certain milieu, but his exploitation film astral plain is littered with tonal shifts and creative dark matter. Speaking of, can you imagine when Tarantino does his b-movie sci-fi epic? I'd wager it's his first flop, but still...holy crackers. In space, no one can hear you chew scenery. Even Woody Allen has made films that are specifically not Woody Allen films. Match Point, a prime example, is the film I believe set the table for his current glory run. The Coen Brothers have even found ways to step outside their voice and make films still uniquely Coen. No Country for Old Men was finally just un-Coeny enough to win Oscars. PT Anderson may be the most sterling, recent example. He abandoned his signature LA born melodramas and built a quiet, vicious character piece in its place. Through this self imposed creative adversity, PT Anderson came out of the forge with the exceptional There Will be Blood--a film this dick with a blog thinks will echo in the annals of essential American cinema.
I wanted to like Moonrise Kingdom, I wanted to like it so hard. I went to my favorite theater, filled my belly with beers, felt my heart begin to open like the delicate fingers of a morning glory, and then the third act shattered to pieces. It was rushed, and a few critical moments were uncharacteristically ugly. The conflict resolution didn't stick to my bones, and all I could think about as I left the theatre was Wes Anderson. Kara Hayward and Jared Gilman are sublime as Sam and Suzy. New Penzance percolates with whimsy. The score captures the quirk and wonder of Anderson's fairy tale universe. And all the other same laudatory quotes heaped on Anderson for the last sixteen years. His films have become interchangeable, and as he is a rare kind of cinematic genius, that seems worse than making a bad film.
I'm not calling for an end to Andersonianism, or implying he's obligated to create in any voice but his own, but I love when an artist takes an irrational risk. Anderson has built a mountain of creative capital, and he is in a unique position to splurge it on anything he dares to dream. Sometimes it works, other times it doesn't, but the outcome is irrelevant unless an artist chooses to carry the weight of this ambitious task. To revisit David the Android's maxim, "In order to create, one must destroy," perhaps 'destroy' is the wrong way to look at it. I've heard a number of theories as to why the Engineers would undo such an impressive, if flawed creation. One notion in particular landed with some resonance, and it is something I hope a creator as skilled as Anderson would consider: this wasn't an attempt to destroy the creation, but to provoke its next step in evolution.
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