About as good of a film that can come out of the two-quirks-and-a-mannerism school of character development, The Royal Tenenbaums works only because of its ubiquitous weirdness. Every incident in the film is set at a zenith: The Tenenbaums aren’t precocious; they’re uber-precocious. The Tenenbaums don’t have a demise; they have an uber-demise. (In his final match, the tennis prodigy commits something like 70 unforced errors and eventually serves underhand.) The Tenenbaums don’t have a game closet; they have an uber-game closet. The Tenenbaums don’t have romances; they have, um, a case of unrequited incestual feelings. (No film since [name of John Sayles film removed since it’s a big spoiler for that film, and he’s done enough films that one couldn’t just guess] has portrayed incest so sympathetically.) I didn’t care about any of the characters, and Gene Hackman’s performance seems very overrated - I preferred him in Heist, actually - but Wes Anderson certainly has an eye, and I’m a sucker for those "set at a zenith" films (see also Magnolia, Babe: Pig in the City). I’ve never seen a odder movie with a more famous cast; few mainstream movies could outlight the star power of Gwyneth Paltrow, Gene Hackman, Danny Glover, Bill Murray, Alec Baldwin, Ben Stiller, and (the verging on stardom) Owen Wilson.

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