Wes Anderson is one of those directors who, love him or hate him, has been remarkably consistent. Each film, from “Rushmore” right on down, is an artfully constructed and totally hermetic world unto itself, with flawed or absent father-figures, a closet’s worth of funky-yet-chic pop-culture knickknacks and a saucerful of heartbreak.
And yet, each work is a very delicate balancing act: His films can become rather precious, with the emphasis on style often distancing one from the emotions, and characters who appear to be speaking in quote marks. Then again, such charges of style vs. substance were leveled against the original cinema du look progenitors like Jean-Jacques Beineix and Leos Carax back in the 1980s, yet their films have clearly stood the test of time.
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