Nearly any Anderson review you’ll ever read probably makes a point to mention that “[it] doesn’t even come close to the brilliance behind 1998’s Rushmore”, or the ever so popular, “well at the very least, thank God it’s not The Life Aquatic”. Oh, and they’ll mention the latter at least three times.

To me, this is extremely pretentious, which, coincidentally, is how they view Anderson’s target audience. And while I can’t speak for the general populace, I can most assuredly speak for myself; in this situation, I declare this statement false – that is, coming from a fan of his collective body of work. I mean, really, these are the same people who title their reviews with the shittiest, goofiest puns imaginable.

“Anderson derails viewers with The Darjeeling Limited”

“The Life Aquatic dead in the water”

“The Life Aquatic isn’t Rushmore”

Yes, Rushmore was brilliant – so too was The Royal Tenenbaums – and, so help me, fuck critics and movie-goers alike who queried, “What the hell is this movie even about, red hats and sharks or something?” – The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou was a damn good movie, too.

The Life Aquatic disappointed a whole hell of a lot of people, and given Darjeeling’s limited release and trailers which omit, “From the director of The Life Aquatic” in place of Rushmore, it’s not that hard to see. Despite the distancing from his previous, universally-panned underwater romp, The Darjeeling Limited echoes the sharp aesthetic and design elements that Anderson is so loved for. I guess to your average movie-goer, the blue and yellow color scheme and use of a Futura-esque typeface found on nearly every poster is a testament to their decision not to see it. After all, it might be like The Life Aquatic.

Those waiting in anticipation for Anderson’s fabled reinvention will be completely underwhelmed by Darjeeling. This is not so much a mark against the film as it is a welcomed addition to “movies created by Wes Anderson.” The Darjeeling Limited feels both new and warmly familiar at the very same time; a peculiar circumstance, yet one feels completely immersed and at home within the confines of the brightly-colored train. It’s like, I don’t know, revisiting an old friend after cosmetic surgery.

The Darjeeling Limited, as I mentioned above, is both inclusive and inviting; it is a brilliant blend of new and old. Sure, it has all the ingredients of a Wes Anderson movie: Owen Wilson, wide-angle shots, vibrant colors embodying nearly ever scene, slow motion for dramatic emphasis, dead-pan humor, and a soundtrack composed of the forerunners of the 60s British invasion. Yeah, it’s all there, don’t worry.

The inhabitants of said train are, essentially, Wes Anderson’s friends.

Francis (Wilson), Peter (Brody) and Jack Whitman (Schwartzman) are three brothers who are no longer in touch – that is, ever since the death of their father; in an attempt to reestablish their long-withered bond, Francis coerces Peter and Jack into a spiritual journey through India via choice wording.

Francis, though, is an overbearing control freak keen on regimented organization. Behind his bandages and gauze and through swollen, bruised eyes (due to a near-death experience involving a motorcycle), he herds his brothers together with the earnest hope of reaffirming his love for his little brothers. Peter, the middle child, resents his older brother perhaps more than anyone else; after embarking on the journey in avoidance of his pregnant wife, he is a staunch and mournful sort of fellow. Still clinging to the last remnants of his father’s possessions, he reluctantly accompanies Francis and his younger brother, Jack – a barefoot, mustached writer who has just spent a year-long, self-induced exile in France to escape his ex-girlfriend, whom he still hasn’t gotten over.

Yeah, that’s right – three brothers in fine, tailored suits tour the ins and outs of India, high on non-prescription pain killers in search of spiritual enlightenment and togetherness. If that doesn’t sound like a wonderful sentence-length treatment, I don’t know what is. What’s more, even, is that two of those brothers happen to be Adrien Brody and Jason Schwartzman. Brody is a welcome addition to the Anderson fold; his melancholy glaze and nasally, boyish tone work wonderfully throughout the film. Strangely enough, he doesn’t wear pants for at least a third of the movie – his pink boxers an Anderson quirk, I’ve no doubt. After all, Anderson dresses his characters as if they were cartoon characters; they wear the same clothes and styles consistently. And about Schwartzman, well, we’ve been waiting for him to make a reappearance in an Anderson flick for almost ten years now. Max Fischer is all grown up.

Free from the constrictions of Rushmore academy, 111 Archer Avenue and the deck of the Belafonte, the three brothers traverse the decidedly brown Indian landscape visiting towns and shrines mapped out in Francis’ (laminated) itinerary. Of course, these scheduled pit stops are completely in vain and devoid of any potential spiritual weight. Jack, kneeling with eyes closed on the floor of a shrine, questions, “Is it working? Do you feel anything?” Accompanying them is the less-than-obvious visual metaphor of the eleven suitcases inherited from their father; in other words, baggage.

The brothers Whitman are filled with phobias and insecurities – Jack unable to cope with his ex-girlfriend, Peter fearing his impending fatherhood, and Francis’ last-ditch effort to escape his loneliness; the only thing that they really share outside of blood is the collective mourning of their deceased father. And despite the rosy reunion Francis had forcibly envisioned, their attempts at bonding only initiate friction and the opening of old wounds. In a classic display of Anderson storytelling, it is only when his characters are not seeking happiness do they truly find it.

It is, indeed, a long road to happiness – a hell of a road at that. The beautiful revelation behind uncovering the purpose of the movie is that there isn’t really a purpose at all. All we’re told – and all Jack and Peter are told as well – is that they’re on a spiritual journey to, as Francis remarks ten minutes in, “become brothers again like we used to be.” That’s it! That’s one hell of story, really. You don’t really mind where they’re going or why – this is overshooting the purpose entirely. Surprisingly, when we find the brothers stranded in the barren land under nightfall, high on muscle relaxants and cough syrup, we’re just as oblivious as they are.

“Uh, the train’s gone – I thought this movie was about them being on a train. It’s the title of the damn movie.”

Indeed, there are many fake-out endings that make you question just how long you’ve been sitting in a chair watching the film. “No way, it’s only been 45 minutes,” dawned on me several times, albeit at different elapsed times, obviously.

The development and reestablishing of their brotherhood would not have taken place had the entire story revolved around the train. While beautifully colored and compulsively designed though the interior and exterior may be, it is when Francis, Peter and Jack join forces (and not forced to sightsee) do they truly become brothers again. It’s not until later that we discover that the entire trip was masterminded by Francis as a means of tracking their estranged mother down – much to the buckling and disenchantment of his brothers.

The second act is perhaps that of an intimate and highly stylized endeavor. It is beautiful, really. It’s touching. It’s, well, brilliant. Just as when Anderson psyched us out in the beginning, giving us just a little time with Bill Murray, so too does the second half leave you bewildered in amazement. Without saying too much, the little Andersonisms in a particular riverside scene are enthralling as much as they are masterly penned and executed. By this time we’ve realized that The Kinks = badass cinematic moment, and that’s perfectly all right. Every movie has a scene that defines the film as a whole – Anderson must have planned this one around that notion. I don’t doubt it, either; while it is generally known that his films are meticulously framed and detailed, there is a sort of drought preceding the second act. The only remnants of the trademark Anderson detail being that of the luggage and wardrobe – the train itself is long gone (although, in its own right, beautifully decorated). This is not a demerit whatsoever; there really isn’t a whole lot Wes Anderson could do to make India any more beautiful than it already is.

“I didn’t save mine.”

By the time Francis, Peter and Jack find themselves hurriedly approaching the back of a moving train, luggage hanging from every arm, they have discovered themselves and each other. One by one, they drop literal and metaphorical baggage that they’ve been toting since the death of their father a year prior. Sure, it’s not the deepest visual cue in the world, but it’s effective and heartwarming. The characters, while a tad thin from the get-go, are a joy to discover over the course of an hour and thirty-one minutes. By this time, we’re not ready to let go of them. It’s a shame, even, that only we’ve become comfortable and accustomed to the three brothers, they depart from the screen; the movie is ending.

When the yellow credits creep up from the bottom of the screen, you think, “Wow, this isn’t in slow motion,” (an Anderson first!). Man, this guy is pulling out all the stops with this one.

And then you soak it all in. This is a horribly pretentious statement, but I’m going to make it any way: all Anderson movies require another go-around. When Darjeeling is viewed for the second time, you pick up on clever little production values that, while trivial on their own, are particularly brilliant when viewed as a whole. If you ever find yourself accustomed to analyzing a director’s work, rather than just watching a film for its characters and story, you’ll innately discover strange little consistencies that will make you smile.

When Jack is reading Francis’ itinerary in the beginning of the movie, there, in the upper-left corner is a small logo with the words “Francis Whitman Industries” written beside it. Later, you notice the same logo on Francis’ assistant’s polo shirt.

During a particular scene I shall not spoil here (which lies within the second act), Francis, Peter and Jack squeeze into a strange, tiny little car that must be commonplace in India as they’re seen throughout much of the film. There is a flashback segment shortly after, during which Francis puts his arm around his little brother, Jack. When the flashback ends and our attention is focused again on the present, the brothers remain in the same ordered positions, even with Francis’ arm around Jack.

Jack offers to let his brothers read his newest short story, and we are given a glimpse of the paper he typed it on for just a moment – a split-second, even. But those with a keen eye will find their eyes resting on the words “Hotel Chevalier” in the left corner – if you’ve been paying attention, this is the Paris hotel Jack lived in as depicted in Hotel Chevalier – a 12-minute short that precedes the events of the film. More obvious, though, is the fact that he wears the Hotel Chevalier robe during the night shots. Later on you’ll discover the reasoning behind Jack’s short story – pay close attention to the title in particular or you just might miss it. (It is worth noting here that viewing Hotel Chevalier prior to watching Darjeeling isn’t a necessary experience – rather, it is just a small, enriching experience that makes sense out of seemingly minute details cleverly weaved within various parts of the script. You’ll probably end up smiling just a little more if you watch it, and feel attentive and thorough when you do pick up on the subtleties.)

It has been a cruel three years since we last felt the inviting and warm presence of an Anderson flick, and I can safely admit that he has successfully sated his audience with his newest movie about brothers, drugs and trains. The nods to long-time collaborators Bill Murray and Kumar Pallana (Pagoda from The Royal Tenenbaums – if that doesn’t make sense to you, just visualize a little old Indian man who is just cute as a button) were well appreciated. And oh goodness gracious, the soundtrack, but more on that in a separate review.

Many have wondered when Anderson is going to evolve. Personally, I don’t really mind the current state of affairs. Anderson helms a distinctive tone and infuses life and personality in his films; Darjeeling is no exception. The formula works, simple as that. The Darjeeling Limited is a wonderfully original, sometimes witty, sometimes sad little movie. And as many times as I’ve used this adjective throughout this review, I’ll use it again: it’s subtlety brilliant and always fascinating. But really, although the movie is seeing an extremely limited release, do yourself a favor and drive to the nearest big city, grab a lil’ bucket of popcorn and prepare to be derailed by Anderson’s newest melancomedy.

Here’s hoping that The Fantastic Mr. Fox turns out to be a strange little masterpiece. I highly doubt it, though. After all, he hasn’t made a single decent film since 1998’s Rushmore; though, hell, by no means could it ever be as awful as that Life Aquatic bullshit.