A number of earlier commenters say they feel viewers have to take Anderson's films, technique, values, and all, as they come: He's found his groove, enjoy it or not. For me, Darjeeling Limited seems to show a filmmaker struggling to get OUT of his groove, while not abandoning the comforts of home.
Among the latter: the utter irrelevance of money to his main characters; to call them "privileged" is wildly understated. They are so free of money worries that it becomes one of the main burdens they lash out against, without ever giving up one iota of the benefits offered. And not just money: Jack (co-writer Jason Schwartzman) is a "writer" whose Paris pied-a-terre is a luxury hotel suite, where he's supposed to be hiding out from "an ex-girl friend" (Natalie Portman, for God's sake: How privileged can you GET?) who flies in just to bed him.
As always, Anderson's theme is finding meaning in a world where there are no limits to one's will, where you can only distinguish yourself from your velvet-plush background by wearing too much eyeshadow or running around the plains of India barefoot in a Briony suit. But unlike other Anderson films I've seen, here not only the characters but the film itself seems to be hurling itself (decorously, of course) against the walls of the doll-house. There's something scary about the joyful way the brothers throw their travel plans aside when they're invited to attend the funeral of the Indian child they failed to save from drowning: Whoopee, they seem to say, a chance at last to encounter Real Life, maybe we'll finally FEEL something! (This is not a criticism of Anderson or his film; I admire the cold honesty required to let this scene happen.) India, with all its turmoil and color, doesn't let film or filmmaker out of the doll-house. There's a truly eerie (studio) tracking shot late in the film in which most of the cast are seen, each in their own little candy-box train compartment, while the real Indian countryside scrolls by outside the windows. Anderson's not outside the box yet, but his awareness of the box is more than ever what his film is about.
Among the latter: the utter irrelevance of money to his main characters; to call them "privileged" is wildly understated. They are so free of money worries that it becomes one of the main burdens they lash out against, without ever giving up one iota of the benefits offered. And not just money: Jack (co-writer Jason Schwartzman) is a "writer" whose Paris pied-a-terre is a luxury hotel suite, where he's supposed to be hiding out from "an ex-girl friend" (Natalie Portman, for God's sake: How privileged can you GET?) who flies in just to bed him.
As always, Anderson's theme is finding meaning in a world where there are no limits to one's will, where you can only distinguish yourself from your velvet-plush background by wearing too much eyeshadow or running around the plains of India barefoot in a Briony suit. But unlike other Anderson films I've seen, here not only the characters but the film itself seems to be hurling itself (decorously, of course) against the walls of the doll-house. There's something scary about the joyful way the brothers throw their travel plans aside when they're invited to attend the funeral of the Indian child they failed to save from drowning: Whoopee, they seem to say, a chance at last to encounter Real Life, maybe we'll finally FEEL something! (This is not a criticism of Anderson or his film; I admire the cold honesty required to let this scene happen.) India, with all its turmoil and color, doesn't let film or filmmaker out of the doll-house. There's a truly eerie (studio) tracking shot late in the film in which most of the cast are seen, each in their own little candy-box train compartment, while the real Indian countryside scrolls by outside the windows. Anderson's not outside the box yet, but his awareness of the box is more than ever what his film is about.