Wes Anderson has cozied himself into a little niche of pop culture and the film industry as a filmmaker of hipsterfied auteur films that the general public seems to connect with. His mix of bone-dry comedic dialogue, distinct and perfectly symmetrical cinematography, and consistently memorable characters makes his movies feel distinctly his own. Quirky is probably the best word to describe his style, which became well-known after The Royal Tenenbaums.
Anderson’s distinct visuals and dialogue are so intertwined with what people conceive of his language of film that it’s hard to believe that it wasn’t always how he made them. When you think of other modern filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino, Christopher Nolan, or Robert Rodriguez who have a style that feels distinctly their own, but have been that way since their early, no-budget days, Anderson seemed to discover his style as he went along, and it didn’t fully take shape until his third film, The Royal Tenenbaums.
If you’ve seen his earlier films, Bottle Rocket and Rushmore, you’ll know that he shot them in a relatively standard way, with little flourishes of what would grow into the more distinct look his movies became known for, like the transitionary curtains in Rushmore or the heist plans written in marker on a notebook in Bottle Rocket. Stuff like that would be standard fare in his later work, but they’re played as cute little touches in the early films. He came up in the mid-90s, which was the boom of the independent scene, with Bottle Rocket coming out a few years after Clerks, Reservoir Dogs, and El Mariachi, and his early work feels right in line with that era of independent filmmaking.
The Royal Tenenbaums is where he properly immersed himself in his Andersonian-isms. People usually gravitate towards The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou when discussing where Anderson hit the point of no return for how he makes his movies—he perfected it in The Grand Budapest Hotel —however, The Royal Tenenbaums set the groundwork of where the rest of his filmography would follow. Not just the unmistakable hallmarks, as previously mentioned, but also the themes of familial dysfunction, specifically with father figures, the inclusion of ensemble casts, and it solidified that he would include Bill Murray in every movie he'll ever make from now until always… except for Asteroid City. He was sick that week, but he plays God in The Phoenician Scheme, which is nearly as ingenious a casting choice as Morgan Freeman, so it makes up for it.
If you need a visual example of why Anderson’s movies are so great, just watch the first twenty seconds of The Royal Tenenbaums. Never has the simple idea of a library book being checked out ever been so efficient and satisfying to watch. It’s an early indicator on whether you’ll like the movie or not, and the ensuing prologue where you learn about all of the key members of the family—followed by the roll call opening credits and the “Where Are They Now?” montage—demonstrates the dry and slightly off-kilter sense of humor of the story and characters. Not to mention Anderson's evident relish in world-building and tiny details.
If somewhere Anderson has a massive handwritten leather-bound book that has the backstory of every character, organization, and piece of pop culture across his entire filmography, it wouldn’t be surprising. The absurd amount of effort he puts into throwaway details that are only on screen for moments at a time is probably more than some filmmakers put into whole movies. If you don’t believe that, Bill Murray’s character Raleigh wrote a book called “The Peculiar Neurodegenerative Inhabitants of the Kazaa Atoll,” and you practically have to pause the movie because it goes so quickly there’s barely enough time to read it. Nobody forced Mr. Anderson to do that, but he did it anyway.
This juncture is also where his weird proclivity for casual cruelty to fictional animals started. In the same way Tarantino loves killing characters named Marvin—when they’re not played by Al Pacino—Anderson takes bizarre joy in killing pets in the most passive ways. Buckley the beagle was his first victim.
Not only did Buckley's death start the trend, but it also showed that Anderson isn’t afraid to make it darkly comedic, similar to Tarantino. To recap, Buckley gets lodged underneath the car of a doped-up and partially shoeless Owen Wilson—tastefully off-screen—and all the characters are jarringly accepting of it. Even Ari and Uzi, who are, at best, bummed out appear unaffected. It’s so cold and detached, it makes it oddly comedic. This trend ramps up when Willem Dafoe throws Jeff Goldblum’s Persian cat out of a multi-story window in The Grand Budapest Hotel. While that admittedly sounds horrible, in context, it’s so jarring, you can’t help but laugh at the scenario out of shock. Besides, the cat is the least of Goldblum's worries in that movie.
The thing that makes Anderson’s visual style blend so well with his writing style is that because of the storybook and impressionistic aesthetic, it allows for a heightened reality and the odd behavior and dialogue of the characters matches the environment around them. On paper, many of his characters should be unlikable, and the dialogue should sound stilted and unnatural. Gene Hackman’s Royal is selfish, randomly bigoted when it suits him, aggressively manipulative, and also…possibly the most charming and funny character in the movie. Gwyneth Paltrow’s Margot is closed-off and a serial adulterer, Ben Stiller’s Chas is emotionally unstable, Luke Wilson’s Richie is in love with his sister—those two aren't related. And, as weird as all these characters are, you’re still rooting for them and want them to make it out okay.
Compare them to Jason Schwartzman’s character Max in Rushmore, who, while well-written and a great performance, is pretty unlikable, and the other characters respond to him accordingly since he's an eccentric character in an otherwise plausible reality. In truth, a lot of Anderson’s characters, as written, should be unlikable. Steve Zissou, Zsa-Zsa Korda, Royal Tenenbaum, and Mr. Fox, just to name a few, are all selfish in their own ways. They’re also all dads, so what’s the subtext there? But they’re charismatic and fun to watch, and you want to see them get through whatever obstacles they have to overcome and grow by the end. The only reason it works like that is because of the reality Anderson creates for them to live and roam around in. After Rushmore, if he stayed the course and continued making movies with his previous technical sensibilities, he would still probably be a known and well-liked filmmaker, but because he experimented with his tertiary outing, he laid the groundwork for what would make his movies consistently beloved by both fans and critics.