Wes Anderson’s breakout picture centers on Max Fischer (Jason Schwartzman), a sort-of prodigy, son of a barber on scholarship at the tony Rushmore Academy. Rushmore is Fischer’s domain. Not academically but in every extracurricular activity (he is President, Model UN; Founder, Bombardment
Society; Founder, Rushmore Beekeepers; Founder, Max Fischer Players; and Director, Piper Cub Club – 4.5 hours logged, to name a few).

It is natural that Max would claim the winning new teacher (Olivia Williams) as his first love. Fischer, however, finds himself in competition for her affections, first with the rich, dissolute father of
two bratty classmates, Herman Blume (Bill Murray) and then with the ghost of Wiiliams’s dead husband. Max can defeat neither, finds himself expelled, and must rise anew to atone for his selfishness and stupidity.

Following up on the promise of his debut (Bottle Rocket), Anderson made a picture quite unlike anything before it, a blend of the fables of boyhood, the adult cynicism that follows, a beautiful romance, and the tragedy of loss (Williams’ has lost a husband, Fischer his mother), all scored by
British invasion B sides. As with this year’s Moonrise Kingdom, Anderson revels in the adult as child and vice versa. The result is charming and wistful, but also heartfelt. There is something both clever and moving in exchanges where Max is earnest and Blume dry:

Max Fischer: So you were in Vietnam?

Herman Blume: Yeah.

Max Fischer: Were you in the shit?

Herman Blume: Yeah, I was in the shit.

There are numerous bravura scenes, all sharply written (the screenplay was the work of Anderson and Owen Wilson).  Fischer’s first “date” with Williams (he invites Murray as cover and Williams actually brings a real date, Luke Wilson) is an exemplar of Anderson’s melding of the comic and pathos.

Murray’s brief speech to the students of Rushmore is also noteworthy.

You guys have it real easy. I never had it like this where I grew up. But I send my kids here because the fact is you go to one of the best schools in the country: Rushmore. Now, for some of you it doesn’t matter. You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich. But here’s my advice to the rest of you: Take dead aim on the rich boys. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything but they can’t buy backbone. Don’t let them forget it. Thank you.

I also don’t think I’ve ever seen a better-scored film (Scorsese’s Casino, with the extended “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” is close). Anderson originally wanted the entire soundtrack comprised of Kinks songs, but Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo chose a variety of classic-sounding, if not classic,
tunes. The effect is nostalgiac but a little unfamiliar, which tracks nicely with the whimsical, sometime sad story. “I Am Waiting” by The Rolling Stones is an example of an early, lesser know track where Jagger’s vocals are not confrontational and modern, but almost earlier century chamber music ala’ “Lady Jane.”  Anderson uses this track in a brilliant changing of seasons montage.  “A Summer Song” by Chad & Jeremy, “The Wind” by Cat Stevens, and “Oh Yoko!” by John Lennon are used in similar, successful fashion.

It’s may seem strange to call this an important film, but it really is.  With it, Anderson emerged on the scene as a unique storyteller.  When he showed the film to Pauline Kael, she loved it but told him, “I genuinely don’t know what to make of this movie” which strikes me as the highest of praise.  It is one of my favorite films.

A group of friends gets together to mourn the suicide of a contemporary. What is really being mourned, however, is their youth, which occurred during the 1960’s when they matriculated at college together.  What follows is a miasma of nostalgia, sound-tracked ironically by Motown (there is not a black, brown of tan face among them), as a group of super-successful people (even the drug dealer has a Porsche!) lament their transformation from their fantasy selves of the past (idealistic, war protesting, caring, would-be world changers) to what they have become (affluent, whiny, navel-gazing malcontents who rue their upper-tax brackets, nice homes and cars, and cushy lives).

Some offerings on their current state:

“Wise up folks. We’re all alone out there and tomorrow we’re going out there again.”

“It’s a cold world out there. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting a little frosty myself.”

“I’m sure we all think there’s a lot of good left in us.”

Only one character resonates, and then, but for a moment.  The drug dealer, William Hurt, eventually succumbs to the feel-good ooze and affirmation, but early on, as the unctuous Kevin Kline tries to connect, Hurt says one of the few adult things in the movie:

“a long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time; you don’t know anything about me. It was easy back then. No one had a cushier berth than we did. It’s not surprising our friendship could survive that.”

This moment of lucidity is soon overwhelmed by gloppy, poofty, self-congratulatory schmaltz, forever to be prefaced by “the soundtrack for a generation.”

Peace and love is easy to dispense in a gorgeous, multi-million dollar mansion, owned by Kline and his angelic wife Glenn Close.  So, in the ultimate sacrifice of a suburban queen, she offers Kline’s sperm to her college buddy, Mary Kay Place, who is desperate to get pregnant.  Said sperm is to be delivered by Kline in the natural act, who is dispatched in Dick Van Dyke’s pajamas to inseminate.

Close even stands in the hallway after delivering her gift, so proud of her selflessness she positively beams.

My kingdom for sounds of hard, headboard pounding sex emanating from the bedroom (“You like that?” followed by “Oh daddy, give it to me”).  Or Kline coming out into the hallway and saying to Close, “Do you mind?  We’re fu*&ing in here.”

And then Close the Good becomes the Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction, killing everyone in the house.

Alas, it was not to be.

The movie makes a virtue of overt explication of what every character is thinking.  The audience cannot be trusted to intuit their banal, narcissistic whining masquerading as some kind of higher truth.  They must be told!

The Big Chill is made worse by the fact that it isn’t even original, but rather, Lawrence Kasdan’s big-budget version of John Sayles’s The Return of the Secaucus Seven.  The picture spawned a worse copycat, even more cloying and self-satisfied, Peter’s Friends.  If you wondered what The Big Chill would be like with Brits, wonder no longer.