Despite the fact that Aquatic is probably (assuredly) Anderson’s weakest film, it is by no means bad. It is still worlds above most films that are released. The story is at least fresh and wildly original—a Jacques-Cousteau meets Moby Dick sea epic that follows burnt-out oceanographer Steve Zissou as he seeks the shark that killed his first mate. The script is half-written by New York scribe Noah Baumbach, which may or may not contribute to its feeling of disconnect from traditional Anderson fare. Still, the Brady Bunch-gone-awry vibe of Tenenbaums is at least one sign that Anderson is still in control. Bill Murray’s Zissou is supported by a myriad of crewmates, documentary filmmakers, money-guys, interns, reporters, and family (dysfunctional as they are).
Casting is a strong point in Aquatic. The story would be slop if not for the talents of its players, who pump oddball lovability into their eccentric characters. Bill Murray is as good as ever in a role that is sometimes hard to read. Owen Wilson, sporting a questionable (purposefully?) southern accent as Ned Plimpton (the long-lost son of Zissou) is at his tragic and endearing best, and Angelica Huston works her typical stoic-queen magic as Zissou’s estranged wife Eleanor. It is the Wes-Anderson newcomers Cate Blanchett, Willem Dafoe and Jeff Goldblum, however, who steal the film. Each character is pathetic yet confident in their own little way, and though sometimes they seem implausible or just-short-of sympathetic, they are always fun to watch.
Though it is perhaps less successful as a singular movie, Aquatic is a wonderful addition to the corpus of Anderson’s work. Stylistically and thematically, it fits right in with the auteur’s growing oeuvre. Vibrant color (sky blue and yellow dominate this go-round), boxed-in misc-en-scene, smooth dolly shots, and obsessive attention to details make Aquatic look exactly as it should be: Wes Anderson through and through. It also sounds like Anderson, with anachronistic music (Zombies, Bowie, Devo) as well as perhaps the best (and only?) use of Icelandic post-rockers Sigur Ros in a movie.
Anderson explores the same sort of American-literary themes in Aquatic as in his other works. Hope, privilege, ambition, let down—having so much and looking for so much more. Zissou is a has-been of sorts, though widely known and respected. What is he looking for? He says it’s a shark, but we know (as he does) that it’s something less tangible. Like the characters of Fitzgerald, those in Aquatic (as in Tenenbaums) dream big but for goals that are abstract at best. Success seems boring and happiness elusive—always just a step ahead.
Like American literary greats Fitzgerald, Salinger—even Hawthorne and Melville—Anderson seeks in his art to capture or allude to what is truly American. His films never are explicit in their conclusions, though there are certain themes that are clear and consistent. One is the American idea of self-sufficiency and independence—that one can, through enough discipline, ambition, routine and practice—become something greater than the hand they were dealt. Of course this comes as a compensatory fulfillment of something deeper that is lost in the character—perhaps a familial separation or relational disappointment. Often this is embodied in one central character that is wounded but doesn’t show it, and builds up defenses by channeling energy into a wide variety of pursuits. For Steve Zissou it is being a beloved sea captain, oceanographer and shark-hunter. Everyone on the ship has a hole to fill as well—an elusive, transitory goal for which the only resolution is probably the recovery of lost emotions (love, dependency, vulnerability) through interpersonal relationships.
And that is the answer that Anderson seems to come back to: family (in the non-traditional sense of the word), love, reconciliation and peace with the existence you’ve been given. We are all so stubborn, prideful, individualistic and distant from each other; but essentially we are all members of the same sea-faring vessel in this aquatic life—looking for that unfathomable “shark” of happiness. And though we may never find it, at least we have each other on the journey.
[Brett McCracken is a nomadic, freelance collegian/media theorist who would much rather watch Wes Anderson at his worst than Wes Anderson wannabees at their best (can anyone say "Napolean Dynamite?")]
