MR. FOX
They say all foxes are slightly allergic to linoleum, but it’s cool to the paw – try it. They say my tail needs to be dry cleaned twice a month, but now it’s fully detachable – see? They say our tree may never grow back, but one day, something will. Yes, these crackles are made of synthetic goose and these giblets come from artificial squab and even these apples look fake – but at least they’ve got stars on them. I guess my point is, we’ll eat tonight, and we’ll eat together. And even in this not particularly flattering light, you are without a doubt the five and a half most wonderful wild animals I’ve ever met in my life. So let’s raise our boxes – to our survival.
Acceptance is a difficult thing for humans (or members of the canine species) to grasp. We barely accept each other, let alone ourselves, but we can often get close to it. We can see the other side of our grief and sometimes we reach a catharsis, which is just one step closer to acceptance. It’s difficult to get there, though. No matter where you start in the process, no matter how long you stay angry, or you bargain, or deny, or wallow in your grief, acceptance is where you have to end up. It isn’t always the end of a film though, especially not in the world of Wes Anderson.
Yes, there are those easy endings. Almost all of Anderson’s films pre-2012 have the same basic ending. There is often a pop song playing over a slow motion sequence.
Bottle Rocket ends at the prison with Dignan (Owen Wilson) slowly walking away and accepting that his sacrifice allows Anthony (Luke Wilson) and Bob (Robert Musgrave) to find some semblance of happiness.
Rushmore ends at the wrap party for Max’s (Jason Schwartzman) latest masterpiece of a play with Max apologizing in his own way and accepting that his life doesn’t need to be a lie for it to be fulfilling.
For The Royal Tenenbaums, the Tenenbaum extended family gather at Royal’s grave for a somber reflection showing that they actually liked Royal at the end because he finally accepted that he wasn’t a good father and tried to make up for it in genuine ways rather than with lip service.
The crew of the Belafonte join Steve Zissou (Bill Murray), who has overcome his grief, as they take a quick walk from the theater to the boat at the end of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.
The Whitman brothers release their metaphorical and literal baggage as they run for their train at the end of The Darjeeling LImited.
The extended Fox clan have their “little dance” in the aisles of the supermarket at the end of The Fantastic Mr. Fox.
The films post 2012 have more complicated, but no less satisfying endings.
Sam (Jared Gilman) and Suzy (Kara Hayward) live on the same island and get to see one another, with some guarded supervision, at the end of Moonrise Kingdom.
Each of the timelines of The Grand Budapest Hotel end in turn with M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) executed off screen, Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham) finishing his story, the writer (Tom Wilkinson) concluding his findings, and the student (Jella Niemann) finishing her book on the bench.
Each group and individual dog alike in Isle of Dogs gets a short wrap up scene, most contentedly living lives of comfort.
The writers of the French Dispatch gather at the end of The French Dispatch to collaborate on the obituary for their dearly departed editor, Arthur Horowitz, Jr. (Bill Murray).
All of Anderson’s films have this sort of ending. They end with a sort of hope or at least a finality and resolution. Everything is tied in a bow whether easily or by reaching far across the story to do so. Those are forms of acceptance, but often those acceptances are on our part. We’re accepting the contract that the film is over and we may now leave the theater or turn off our home viewing devices. Yet, those aren’t always the true moments of acceptance for the characters’ grief, even if they present those endings as a solution to the grief.
Take The Darjeeling Limited for example. It has a standard Andersonian ending with a slow motion sequence set to The Kinks’ “Powerman.” It’s a neat and tidy ending, but it isn’t the period of acceptance for these characters. It’s just the last step on their journey. The period of acceptance for each of them comes as they go to the funeral for the boy they couldn’t save in the river. As the Whitmans sit in the pedicab, the scene shifts to an identically positioned Jack (Jason Schwartzman), Francis (Owen Wilson) and Peter (Adrien Brody) in the back of a limo heading to their father’s funeral.
In that flashback we see where the Whitmans’ collective neuroses are manifest. Not only that, but we learn that their father died in Peter’s arms, much like the boy he couldn’t save from the river. The Whitman brothers, trespassers at a sacred rite, who have made light of many of the things they’ve seen while in India, see their own grief in another person. They recognize their hurt and that they haven’t fully grieved their father.
It’s here that the Whitmans can finally come to understand their grief. The rest of the film is that catharsis. It’s lighter and the men feel more for each other. They find it in themselves to be honest about where they’re at in their lives and take care of some unfinished business. It makes the final scenes of the brothers running for that train more meaningful knowing they’ve already reached this point where they knew they no longer needed to hold onto something that can’t hold sway over them any more.
Similarly, Isle of Dogs has an ending that nicely encapsulates the story. The refrain of “I Won’t Hurt You” by The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band is heard again and all is well. There’s a big step before that, though. There’s a beautifully captured scene that caps off Chief’s (Bryan Cranston) grief. It comes on the boat just as the dogs have banded together to escape the island and take back their homes from the evil cat cabal ruling Megasaki. Atari (Koyu Rankin), Spots (Liev Schreiber), and Chief stand in a ceremony of sorts. It’s a passing of the guard… dog. In this moment, Chief in a few words finds what he’s always said he hasn’t wanted. He finds someone to love and care for and in that way he lets go. He lets go of his past and he looks forward to his future with Atari and as a dog who knows love. The ending is lovely, but it’s this scene that captures the acceptance Chief has never allowed himself to come near.
The most cathartic example comes from the hardest of Anderson’s films to like. The audience spends the entirety of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou listening to a boorish, insecure lout push away anyone and everyone who tries to implore him to see reason about the death of his mentor and father figure. His negligence even costs him the life of a man he thinks could be his son. Yet, when Steve and his crew get into the submersible for a look at the jaguar shark that started their crazy expedition, something ethereal happens.
The crew holds their breath as the pink school of fish swims around them. The music, “Starálfur” by Sigur Rós, begins and we see the shark that ate Esteban (Seymour Cassel) as it swims into view. There are a few moments of levity before the song swells and Steve finally breaks down as he remembers. He remembers his love of the sea, his love of Esteban, and his strong affection for Ned (Owen Wilson). He wants to be remembered, too, but he knows that if he’s remembered as he is now, he’ll only be seen as a has been. Seeing the shark again, accepting that he must change to be the man Esteban and Ned saw, is what spursSteve beyond his grief and gives him new energy to complete his life’s work.
The ending of Steve and his crew marching to the Belafonte to the sounds of “Queen Bitch” by David Bowie is hopeful. It’s a renewed purpose toward being the man he needs to be in the world. As they arrive, you can see a figure, smoking a pipe, dressed in a pilot’s uniform, the spirit of Steve’s conscience guiding the crew on their path toward immortality. This tremendously insensitive jackass can change and he will change.
Acceptance is often hard earned. It comes with a sacrifice of sorts, a letting go of something that we think we need. With grief it’s the step we fear. We think if we let go then we can’t remember. If we let go then what we no longer have won’t have the meaning it once did. What Wes Anderson’s films expound upon, though, is that acceptance is more than letting go, it’s letting something else be born in its place. We don’t have this one thing we used to, but now we have something else. The concrete nature of that is soothing, loss is bearable, and when it’s necessary to feel that loss again, we can navigate back to the main menu and hit play. That, or wait for Anderson’s next film to see how he weaves grief into his next intricate and idiosyncratic world because he will always play in this sandbox. He’ll always return to that most universal of human (and canine) experiences.
