The more Francis, survivor of a near-death accident, asks his brothers to say yes to new experiences, the more they say no no no no no. The more Francis extends himself, the more his siblings shrink from his grasping hugs. The more Francis micromanages the brothers' spiritual quest, the more the heavens (and the audience) laugh at his presumption. Imagine the Marx Brothers on a religious pilgrimage, the Three Stooges slam-dancing to classic Kinks songs.
I admit that prior to Darjeeling, I have more admired than enjoyed Anderson's films. Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, and The Life Aquatic struck me as hermetically sealed excursions into the angst and milieus of privileged kids and their parents, elegantly designed as rooms in a fancy dollhouse.
Darjeeling, cowritten by Anderson and cousins Schwartzman and Roman Coppola, opens the window and lets in sun, oxygen, and the "spicy" smell that Peter identifies as India's particular scent. Through the character of Francis, Anderson, control-freak director, lets the unplanned and unmanaged tumble on the screen.
The brothers travel across Rajasthan, in India's north, with an Everest of luggage and a pharmacopeia of over-the-counter treatments. They self-medicate so as not to feel.
Francis clearly has trouble (his "accident" may have been a botched suicide, a plot development uncomfortably close to Wilson's recent real-life suicide attempt); his brothers have women troubles.
As they hurtle past the spectacular Thar Desert, they rub salt, and masala, too, in wounds still raw from childhood, and the fresher ones of Dad's demise. It's the classic sibling drama: The eldest bosses the others around; the middle one rebels, and the youngest emotionally detaches.
