“I’m so fucking sick of those dolphins,” groans Capt. Steve Zissou in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou as he embarks on an ironically Jacques Cousteau-like mission to get revenge on the jaguar shark who killed his best friend, by blowing him up “probably with dynamite.”
However, his ship, the Belafonte, is little more than a rusty hull full of stolen equipment and pinball machines manned by an oddball crew of red-capped adventurers and much-exploited interns. Throw into the chaos a needy Ned Plimpton (Owen Wilson) who may or may not be Zissou’s illegitimate son, and you have the makings of a screwball multi-layered underwater journey.
Bill Murray takes the helm as Zissou, the washed-up marine documentary filmmaker who is taking one last stab at glory and failing miserably. Murray’s deadpan delivery of Zissou’s showboat bravado masking obvious idiocy is hilarious but still heartfelt. One can’t help but be endeared to his scruffy pot-smoking ways. The rest of the ensemble is also impressive, with Angelica Houston, Cate Blanchett, and Willem Dafoe in one of his few comic roles (who almost outshines Murray himself as Klaus, the deeply insecure German second-in-command).
The fourth time cult auteur Wes Anderson’s has undertaken a dual role as writer-director (Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums), and this film indelibly bears his signature of poker-faced humour and eccentric characters. His biggest production to date, this is by far Anderson’s most visually striking film, full of rich colours, tropical locations, and whimsical Claymation underwater creatures.
But it’s the small quirky touches that make this film so aptly ‘Anderson,’ like the Siamese cats that stroll through the background of most shots, the sporadic power outages, and a huge killer whale that looms behind Zissou through his interviews. Using his patented static framing, awkward pauses, and deep focus, Anderson’s film looks just like a page ripped from a 1970s National Geographic.
But while The Life Aquatic is Anderson’s peak in terms of spectacle, the characterization feels a little tired, as one can’t help but notice that has-been Zissou is remarkably similar to Royal Tenenbaum of that eponymous film, and cold Eleanor Zissou is just like icy Margot Tenenbaum. Though the plot is still darkly hilarious, perhaps Anderson should have stuck with longtime co-writer Owen Wilson rather than relative newcomer Noah Baumbach.
Despite this weakness, Anderson’s offbeat comedy is a lyrical homage to explorer Jacques Cousteau, full of charmingly idiosyncratic characters, and stunning visuals and cinematography. Taking the traditional motif of the marine quest for adventure but seen through the eyes of an overweight, Speedo-clad deadbeat, this film is as funny as it is artful. Though many find his subtly erratic humour to be an acquired taste, this ranks as one of Anderson’s finest concoctions to date.
