I'm at a party and Wes Anderson is sitting in a corner by himself. I walk up to him and we start talking about his latest film that has just opened in the cinemas, Darjeeling Limited.
Overall, I think it is better, slightly less emotionally detached, than his previous films. Less production geekiness.
Not a very convincing story arc, though. Two brothers are duped by their elder brother into a spiritual journey in India because he wishes to bridge the silence between them; they have been estranged from each other ever since their father's funeral. Somehow, I don't buy into the cathartic effect of their clumsy journey.
Anderson appears bored and looks elsewhere for a friend or nearby bar to save himself. I hammer on with my drunken commentary.
"And the colours of India, you just like the colours," I blurt out, but this isn't what I mean. I have to do some backtracking.
My listener is tiring of my diatribe, expecting me like any other to accuse him of exoticism. But his interest is piqued when I suggest that his portrayal of India is not one-dimensional. It doesn't do what Sofia's Lost In Translation does to Japan. In fact, he completely repackages his impressions of the country, so that it isn't even India that we are seeing. Not even a mythical India. Just colours.
I wonder if he is just enamoured with the colours of India, that's what I meant earlier. It's not offensive, it's just boring, I say.
I am sinking deeper into my own acidic nonsense.
"All your characters in all your movies are the same!" At this point, he tells me off by pointing out that Darjeeling Limited was written by three different people, so of course the characters can't all be identical, and walks off to someone who has offered to buy him a drink. I feel like a fool. I could've put it better.