Anonymous
07-23-2002, 11:51 AM
The Royal Tenenbaums
Wes Anderson's obsessions come to DVD.
By Bryan Curtis
Posted Tuesday, July 23, 2002, at 8:26 AM PT
This is the first installment in a new series that will take stock of the
bonus features on newly issued DVDs. Future columns will assess
disks like Lord of the Rings (due Aug. 6) and Singin' in the Rain (due
Sept. 24).
Wes Anderson, the director of The Royal Tenenbaums, has a seriously
unhealthy obsession with sets and props. The initial reviews of his third film
hinted at this, but the two-disk Tenenbaums DVD—assembled by
Anderson and issued this month by the Criterion Collection—proves it.
Among the many hours of bonus footage, you can watch as the director
tromps endlessly around his New York set, mooning over the carpet and
the paint and the fixtures and the wallpaper. "When the actors come into
this house, what we've created," he gushes, "it couldn't help them more."
By contrast, we see him directing real, live actors only twice.
The Tenenbaums DVD has all the basics: director's commentary, a
behind-the-scenes documentary, interviews with the actors. But it's worth
buying primarily for its enormous dose of Andersonian weirdness: a
browsing feature that lets you examine the director's favorite sight gags, an
episode-length parody of Charlie Rose, and footage of one of the film's
minor characters entertaining the crew by twirling plates. Good DVDs are
like appendages of their films. The Tenenbaums DVD is so awash in the
director's oddities that it could almost serve as the film's last reel.
Take, for instance, Anderson's poke at
the New York Times Magazine. In the
film, the character Eli Cash, a gonzo
cowboy novelist, appears on the cover
of something called the Sunday
Magazine Section—but it's the Times
all the way, from the title font to the
black-and-white cover photo. The
magazine appears for only a second or
two in the movie—one character is
paging through it—and you almost skip
over it. But the longer look you get on the DVD reveals that it's a withering
parody. Cash is pictured bare-chested and clutching a headless snake in
each hand, as the Timesian headline proclaims him the "James Joyce of the
West."
On the second disk, Anderson also
provides a full episode of The Peter
Bradley Show, his in-film parody of
Charlie Rose. In the movie it's a
throwaway gag, seen playing in the
background of a single scene. But the
Bradley character—as played by
actor Larry Pine—has Rose's
mannerisms down so cold that it's
worth the DVD-only episode here.
Note Bradley's Roseian slouch, the
windy intro, and the way he mangles
the name of Anderson's first feature,
Bottle Rocket.
The disks don't just display Anderson's strange gags, they also explain
them. In the commentary track, Anderson ticks off the films and TV shows
that inspired scenes in Tenenbaums. The list includes The Magnificent
Ambersons, Les Enfants Terrible, Witness, and The Rockford Files. The
second disk lets us scroll through some of the original pages of the
Tenenbaums script, co-written by Anderson and actor Owen Wilson.
Anderson's doodle-pictures—his early attempts at designing his intricate
sets—lurk in the margin.
There's also plenty of revealing behind-the-scenes footage. In an
Independent Film Channel documentary, included on the second disk,
Anderson tells one of his charges that he wants as many of the scenic
elements as possible made from scratch, to ensure that audiences will have
never seen them before on film. The assistant smiles weakly, perhaps
sensing long nights ahead. In another scene, Anderson attempts to
choreograph the performance of a hawk. In the film, the hawk is returning
to its owner after a long absence. Anderson wants the hawk to hover a
foot above the owner's outstretched arm, flap its wings majestically, then
land. The falconer looks at him like he's insane.
Other features are completely random
and, hence, completely Andersonian.
At various places on the disks, we
learn the story of Kumar Pallana, a
wizened Indian yoga teacher whom
Anderson has cast in all three of his
features. (The director confides that
Pallana's Tenenbaums performance,
in which he plays a manservant, is his
"most ambitious to date.") We also
find out that Pallana is a lifelong
entertainer, an accomplished magician
and juggler. To prove it, Anderson
includes grainy footage of Pallana
twirling plates—though it's almost hidden in one of the menus. I'm not sure
why it's there, but it's mesmerizing.
Criterion—which, including Tenenbaums, has produced 165 DVD
titles—has developed a cult following, even inspiring online rumor pages
where fans try to guess which titles the company will release next. Part of
this slavish devotion stems from Criterion's technical proficiency.
Tenenbaums, for example, gets a faultless anamorphic wide-screen
transfer—which means the picture will stretch to fill a digital TV. The disk
offers three different audio tracks for the film, and Anderson obviously
prepared well for his commentary track; there are none of the long,
awkward pauses you get with, say, a Robert Altman DVD.
But Criterion's real strength is that its disks fit snugly with its films. So
many major-studio DVDs—trimmed with trailers for other films and
useless video games—seem slapped together by studio marketing wizards.
The Tenenbaums DVD is at least authentic. If you don't like the film, you
can still appreciate the fact that it's Anderson, and not some anonymous
Disney apparatchik, who is trying to explain himself.
Related in Slate
David Edelstein panned The Royal Tenenbaums, calling it "an elegant,
witty frame that hasn't been filled in." Here's what the other critics thought.
Stephen Metcalf dubbed Wes Anderson, with his self-referential visual
touches, the "sequel" to Quentin Tarantino. Adam Baer praised
Tenenbaums' musical score.
Wes Anderson's obsessions come to DVD.
By Bryan Curtis
Posted Tuesday, July 23, 2002, at 8:26 AM PT
This is the first installment in a new series that will take stock of the
bonus features on newly issued DVDs. Future columns will assess
disks like Lord of the Rings (due Aug. 6) and Singin' in the Rain (due
Sept. 24).
Wes Anderson, the director of The Royal Tenenbaums, has a seriously
unhealthy obsession with sets and props. The initial reviews of his third film
hinted at this, but the two-disk Tenenbaums DVD—assembled by
Anderson and issued this month by the Criterion Collection—proves it.
Among the many hours of bonus footage, you can watch as the director
tromps endlessly around his New York set, mooning over the carpet and
the paint and the fixtures and the wallpaper. "When the actors come into
this house, what we've created," he gushes, "it couldn't help them more."
By contrast, we see him directing real, live actors only twice.
The Tenenbaums DVD has all the basics: director's commentary, a
behind-the-scenes documentary, interviews with the actors. But it's worth
buying primarily for its enormous dose of Andersonian weirdness: a
browsing feature that lets you examine the director's favorite sight gags, an
episode-length parody of Charlie Rose, and footage of one of the film's
minor characters entertaining the crew by twirling plates. Good DVDs are
like appendages of their films. The Tenenbaums DVD is so awash in the
director's oddities that it could almost serve as the film's last reel.
Take, for instance, Anderson's poke at
the New York Times Magazine. In the
film, the character Eli Cash, a gonzo
cowboy novelist, appears on the cover
of something called the Sunday
Magazine Section—but it's the Times
all the way, from the title font to the
black-and-white cover photo. The
magazine appears for only a second or
two in the movie—one character is
paging through it—and you almost skip
over it. But the longer look you get on the DVD reveals that it's a withering
parody. Cash is pictured bare-chested and clutching a headless snake in
each hand, as the Timesian headline proclaims him the "James Joyce of the
West."
On the second disk, Anderson also
provides a full episode of The Peter
Bradley Show, his in-film parody of
Charlie Rose. In the movie it's a
throwaway gag, seen playing in the
background of a single scene. But the
Bradley character—as played by
actor Larry Pine—has Rose's
mannerisms down so cold that it's
worth the DVD-only episode here.
Note Bradley's Roseian slouch, the
windy intro, and the way he mangles
the name of Anderson's first feature,
Bottle Rocket.
The disks don't just display Anderson's strange gags, they also explain
them. In the commentary track, Anderson ticks off the films and TV shows
that inspired scenes in Tenenbaums. The list includes The Magnificent
Ambersons, Les Enfants Terrible, Witness, and The Rockford Files. The
second disk lets us scroll through some of the original pages of the
Tenenbaums script, co-written by Anderson and actor Owen Wilson.
Anderson's doodle-pictures—his early attempts at designing his intricate
sets—lurk in the margin.
There's also plenty of revealing behind-the-scenes footage. In an
Independent Film Channel documentary, included on the second disk,
Anderson tells one of his charges that he wants as many of the scenic
elements as possible made from scratch, to ensure that audiences will have
never seen them before on film. The assistant smiles weakly, perhaps
sensing long nights ahead. In another scene, Anderson attempts to
choreograph the performance of a hawk. In the film, the hawk is returning
to its owner after a long absence. Anderson wants the hawk to hover a
foot above the owner's outstretched arm, flap its wings majestically, then
land. The falconer looks at him like he's insane.
Other features are completely random
and, hence, completely Andersonian.
At various places on the disks, we
learn the story of Kumar Pallana, a
wizened Indian yoga teacher whom
Anderson has cast in all three of his
features. (The director confides that
Pallana's Tenenbaums performance,
in which he plays a manservant, is his
"most ambitious to date.") We also
find out that Pallana is a lifelong
entertainer, an accomplished magician
and juggler. To prove it, Anderson
includes grainy footage of Pallana
twirling plates—though it's almost hidden in one of the menus. I'm not sure
why it's there, but it's mesmerizing.
Criterion—which, including Tenenbaums, has produced 165 DVD
titles—has developed a cult following, even inspiring online rumor pages
where fans try to guess which titles the company will release next. Part of
this slavish devotion stems from Criterion's technical proficiency.
Tenenbaums, for example, gets a faultless anamorphic wide-screen
transfer—which means the picture will stretch to fill a digital TV. The disk
offers three different audio tracks for the film, and Anderson obviously
prepared well for his commentary track; there are none of the long,
awkward pauses you get with, say, a Robert Altman DVD.
But Criterion's real strength is that its disks fit snugly with its films. So
many major-studio DVDs—trimmed with trailers for other films and
useless video games—seem slapped together by studio marketing wizards.
The Tenenbaums DVD is at least authentic. If you don't like the film, you
can still appreciate the fact that it's Anderson, and not some anonymous
Disney apparatchik, who is trying to explain himself.
Related in Slate
David Edelstein panned The Royal Tenenbaums, calling it "an elegant,
witty frame that hasn't been filled in." Here's what the other critics thought.
Stephen Metcalf dubbed Wes Anderson, with his self-referential visual
touches, the "sequel" to Quentin Tarantino. Adam Baer praised
Tenenbaums' musical score.