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An Ok Oh Movie Review: THE FANTASTIC MR.FOX
The tricky thing about a Wes Anderson film is that each film by Wes Anderson falls squarely into a timeline of Wes Anderson films. I don't recall ever hearing anyone talk about a particular Wes Anderson film without mentioning one, or all, of his other attempts. This is no rare thing in any artistic calculation but this process seems to find often unfairly definitive purchase in the Anderson oeuvre. I loved Bottle Rocket, but Life Aquatic was a mess. Rushmore was so inventive, but the only thing great about Darjeeling was Natalie Portman's ass. Never mind that Natalie Portman's bare bum was in another film altogether. It is into this quagmire of cinematic redactive criticism that one approaches any Wes Anderson joint, and often enough it does his movies no preemptive favors. It is simply too easy to sit back into a cozy dismissal of Mr. Anderson's "quirky" sensibility as narrative crutch. And so it is with said baggage in hand that I attended the New York premiere of the new Wes Anderson film The Fantastic Mr. Fox last night. Now I ought to say, in a spasm of faux journalistic integrity, that my baggage was light. I've never not enjoyed a Wes Anderson film. I don't approach them with the same painted sneer to which some friends readily admit. To me, Wes Anderson has opened his throat, the awkward goat has slipped in, and he has regurgitated, with some subtle mastication, an experience of the outside world turned inner. The raw psychological moment turned ridiculous, then magically essential, by way of obviation. To some, it is the fluttering of a feeble hand. To me, it is an enjoyable assessment. The Fantastic Mr. Fox has all of the expected hallmarks of a Wes Anderson film: slight, punctilious verbal sparring with coolly dismissive asides, theatrically trampoline-like pacing and a squarely consistent frame which settles the incessant back and forth. With such easily identifiable components, it seems like a foray into animation would be simply an indifferent practice in simply another medium, but it is the fact that all of these trademarks have been so well integrated so seamlessly into the time-consuming production of stop-motion animation that, in part, makes the movie so astounding. The storytelling, which starts out worryingly slow and halting, finds a sweet spot about a quarter of the way through and never lets up. A little bit like scrambling up a grassy knoll then tumbling down. The movie might be too long if not for yo-yo reparte provided by Roald Dahl's original story. In fact, I didn't overly need it to end. It is possible that seeing the film in the movie theater amidst the festivities of the premiere gave it an extra veneer of anticipatory watchability. I'll admit I am readily given to swooning at the exact moment someone has manufactured the opportunity, last night being that occasion, but I can't say I've enjoyed a Wes Anderson film more. Since Bottle Rocket, of course.