As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. (Gal 3:27)
Wes Anderson has a new film, Asteroid City, coming out this today. And, like the rest of his oeuvre, this one features the style for which Mr. Anderson has become famous. Truthfully, though, infamous might be a better word to describe Anderson’s style. Either you love the vibe of his films, or you think it’s precocious to the point of distraction.
If you’re not already familiar, the hallmarks of a Wes Anderson film are an impressive ensemble cast, fastidious attention to framing, meticulous costuming, and extremely orchestrated dialogue. If all this sounds suffocating, you’re beginning to understand the natural aversion many feel to Anderson’s film. And if all that sounds great, well, you should plan to see the new one! Regardless, this attention to even the slightest of details belies an even deeper preoccupation.
Most characters in a Wes Anderson film embody the tone of the film. In other words, like the movies, everyone dresses and conducts themselves just so. The tension, though, is that barely visible underneath each character’s affectations is an existence coming apart at the seams. For instance, a fairy-tale Jacque Cousteau type, past his prime and trying to mount a comeback. And this tension between aspiration and reality is something every viewer, whether a member of the Zissou Society or not, can relate to.
We all employ techniques to try and maintain a semblance of control in our lives, and it doesn’t matter if your wardrobe is refined or slapdash. Most of us, though, prefer to keep our methods hidden. But in a Wes Anderson film, the techniques are front and center. And the reason for this is simply because decorum and dress are the characters’ preferred mode of holding their world together, like the boy who still wears his private school uniform even though he now must attend a public school.
But, like the once-grand hotel destined for eventual demolition, all our schemes are doomed, too. Chaos, death, and malevolence run roughshod over the most well-tailored ensembles, to say nothing of the people wearing them. Yes, Anderson may depict holding to custom as noble, but it’s always a comedic attempt. And, like good comedy, the humor simply masks a deeper tragedy.
The polish of a Wes Anderson film only appears to keep the viewer at a distance. The nitpicking simply serves to depict how we, the viewers, handle our own anxieties. Sure, Wes can portray fussiness at its most overwhelming. But his movies are nothing compared to the incessant humming that dominates a worried mind.
At the end of the book about Wes’ 2014 movie, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes’ interlocutor asks him if there’s a God in his filmic universe and whether this God stands aloof or intervenes. After a long pause, Wes simply replies, “God Intervenes.”
This god, of course, is the deus absconditus, the hidden god. Despite how explicitly the characters cry out for redemption, Jesus Christ himself never makes a cameo in Wes’ films. Unsurprisingly, God always intervenes in Wes’ film in a force that’s beyond control, like the enigmatic tiger shark that slides indifferently past the submarine.
In Wes’ films, like life, characters cling to their preferred methods of governing their lives. And they do so even as those methods keep them from really living. In that sort of bind, chaos will always bring a sigh of relief in tow. But not at first. At first, the characters must spin their wheels, attempting to regain their composure.
When that fails, as it always does, the characters recognize they must embrace reality in all its untidiness. And that’s where the movies get really good, like that scene when the brothers ditch their matching luggage set to catch the train that will carry them home. But in Wes’ movies, that’s all there is.
Yes, the deus absconditus shows up. And yes, the divine intervention offers a newfound lease on life. But that’s as good as it gets.
The god of chaos is just chaos in all its indifference. The characters may have been set on a better path, but that’s only this time. And that’s no guarantee for the next one. And sure, that may mirror life, but it’s a pretty dim mirroring.
In Jesus Christ, God has stepped out from behind the curtain. And, in Jesus Christ, God has shown how chaos serves God’s purposes. And it’s not simply to break us out of our ruts, either. Although, chaos can do that, too.
No, chaos serves God’s purposes because God has brought the beast to heel. The first happened on the very first day of creation when God spoke over the tohu v’vohu of waste and void to create the light that shines in the darkness. And then, God did it all over again when Jesus, the light of the world, calmed the waves of the storm. Finally, though, the trilogy was completed that first Easter when Jesus stepped out tomb resurrected.
At the cross, it appeared as if every last word of Jesus’ well-crafted sermons were coming undone. What was really happening, though, was that Jesus was proving their every last jot and tittle. On that first Good Friday, Jesus let his life slip out of his hands. And he did so to forever hold ours safe and secure in his wounded palms.
Three days after the crucifixion, Christ rose again. On Easter, Christ stepped out of the tomb and onto the red carpet of the resurrection. His gown was immortality itself. And unexpectedly, it was woven out of the very threads of chaos, Sin and Death.
Like the characters in a Wes Anderson film, we all desire to exert control over our lives. And, like the “khaki scout” who attempts to forge a piece of paradise out of an island cove, we do so with how we conduct ourselves. But, like that inlet destined for flooding, our efforts aren’t working.
Unlike the characters in Wes’ films, though, we’re not left to the god of chaos. No, instead, through baptism we are clothed with Christ[1]. And what this means is there’s not a second of happenstance that Christ isn’t ready to knit ever so perfectly into your bespoke garment of redemption.
Yes, on this side of eternity’s curtain, this often isn’t much to look at. But, when Christ raises the (torn) curtain on eternity and calls you to take a bow with him, you’ll look even better than Tom Hanks (somehow) perfectly sporting mid-century modern summer wear.
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[…] option it appears Anderson has chosen to display. Mockingbird contributor, Ryan Cosgrove, recently wrote about Anderson’s characters and films, pointing out that “God always intervenes in Wes’ film […]