These pamphlets in Wes Anderson’s Criterion Collections are worth the price of admission. They’re filled with drawings, interviews, and behind- the-scenes insights. An analog version of a blu-ray’s bonus features.
Here Wes shares a glimpse of his process:
When I’m writing, I keep notebooks of my ideas for sets, props, and clothes. I incorporate some of these ideas into the script, but I set the majority of them aside to give privately to the different department heads during preproduction. In the past, I have occasionally forgotten some of my favorite ideas until it was too late – – for example, after the movie is out on video. To prevent this from happening on THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS (which contains more perhaps unnecessary visual detail than both my previous films combined), about three months before we started shooting, I asked my brother Eric, a skilled illustrator, to help me create a set of drawings that would include much of the information I wanted to communicate to the crew — and that would also suggest the overall look and feeling of the movie.
We had already found the house where I wanted to film (in the Hamilton Heights section of Harlem), and our production designer, David Wasco, had provided us with a set of blueprints, so I was able to very specifically plan the contents and arrangements of each of the rooms, and Eric was able to meticulously render them. Eric was, in fact, so meticulous that many of the sets had already been constructed by the time he finished the drawings. Eventually, however, his illustrations became the standard equipment on the walls of the production offices and art department and in the notebooks of everyone on the crew — a sort of manual to keep next to your script. We include a copy here for you.
— Wes Anderson
Criterion Collection Pamphlet. The Royal Tenenbaums
Is Wes Anderson the filmmaker with the highest percentage of his movies in the Criterion Collection? 9 from 10? I’m sure the French Dispatch is lurking at the door.
JEAN JULLIEN: Can you remember when I first started to draw?
SYLVIE JULLIEN: As far as I’m concerned, you’ve always drawn. You’ve been doing it ever since you were able to pick up a pencil. You didn’t “learn”
BRUNO JULLIEN: You drew all the time, even on tablecloths when we were out at restaurants. It was your way of expressing yourself, of describing the tiniest routine events. You did this in sketchbooks that you would carry around with you, the ones we would offer you regularly. It was a ritual.
JJ: Yes, you gave me my first sketchbook. When I was at school in Quimper (a city in northwest France), my teacher Jacques Vincent encouraged us to keep a journal. There wasn’t much in the way of rules; the idea was to get us to draw and draw and draw so that we developed a visual language. And what better way to do that than to look for inspiration in what is around you? I think that my practice of drawing every day and my interest in everyday life come from that exercise.
Jullien, Jean. Jean Jullien. New York: Phaidon Press Inc, 2022. (see page 35)
Having Jean Jullien’s parents share his drawing origin story is a wonderful approach. Our origin stories must look different to our parents, who if they were around, watched them manifest in real time.
The idea of keeping a drawing journal seems beneficial for developing your own visual language. Your own style.
Found this one late. Will add to the original list of seven.
The decay of the body is irreversible. Death is non-negotiable. After that, what’s left? Stories. But not just the stories as the story tellers remember them and then recounted them to others. The stories that people adapt from other people’s stories which then are retold, remade, and handed down until only their essence remains.
Almost two decades after the production of Bottle Rocket he (Wes) speaks of the movie with great affection, as well he should. It’s a special movie. Audacious yet gentle. It’s got a loping rhythm that reminds me of what it’s like to stroll around Dallas in the early summer at dusk. Everything is kind of turning all blue. You can hear the cicadas whirring.
There are few perfect movies. This is one of them.
– Matt Zoller Seitz
The Royal Tenebaums works because as hilarious as it sometimes is, in its heart it’s a drama rather than a comedy. And it’s not remotely kidding about the traumas that it shows us. There is a very specific darkness at the heart of this film, divorce. The bomb that detonates in the prologue.
– Matt Zoller Seitz
It feels lived in. Why? Maybe because it treats all of its characters as if they were real people. People whos dreams and fears actually matter.
– Matt Zoller Seitz
It was in the reign of George III that the the aforesaid personages lived and quarreled; good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now
In all of these moments you’re aware that you’re seeing something that was made by people, and the movie is ok with that. It not trying to fool you. There’s nothing smooth about these stop motion animals. Wes is not taking his cues from Pixar here. He takes his cues from Willis O’Brien the stop motion animator who created King Kong. He takes his cues from Ray Harryhausen, who followed in Willis O’Brien’s footsteps. Jason and the Argonauts were a big one for Wes growing up.
The movie carries itself as a knockabout comedy-romance, a mere diversion, but it lingers in the mind, by communicating that the right choice is one based on empathy and attention and understanding. Not mindless obedience to ritual or an ostrich like evasion of unpleasant truths. The relationship between tradition and innovation. The old guard and the new. Is ongoing, never fully settled. Sam and Suzy’s ardor is funny because they aren’t fully grown yet, but it’s powerful because they’re doing almost everything else right. Each one is headstrong but not averse to bending if it will make the other person happy. It can be likened to a negotiation, or better yet a dance.
Matt Zoller Seitz
The decay of the body is irreversible. Death is non-negotiable. After that, what’s left? Stories. But not just the stories as the story tellers remember them and then recounted them to others. The stories that people adapt from other people’s stories which then are retold, remade, and handed down until only their essence remains.
DB: what or who has had the biggest influence on your work? ECA: my family certainly was a big influence on me. my father was a geologist and draftsman for a texas oil company in the early 60s, and I got my love of tiny, neat writing and labeling things from him, as well as an affinity for maps. my mother was a painter whose oil portraits were all around me growing up. of course both of my older brothers influenced the stories and kinds of imaginary experiences I was exposed to and liked.
but my biggest influence as an illustrator and storyteller is walt disney. he is if anything in my book, an underrated storyteller/artist. to me, he’s focused completely on impact. all he cares about is how is this going to work on the viewer? his philosophy and mission is to be the stand-in for the viewer before a thing is made. so he’s focused on clarity and emotion and speed and pleasure and the whole symphonic experience of the story. as opposed to, say, making a totally faithful adaptation of kipling. this is what a storyteller should be like, a kind of advance team for the viewer/reader.
during the period in my early twenties when I was starting to do more writing (at the same time when I re-captured my love of maps in stories) I also started watching the movies I’d loved as a kid again. I’d sort of forgotten most of them. it was good timing, because I was finally out of the educational system, free from critique and judgment. I was just immersing myself in the works, free to embrace and love them on their own and to scrutinize what it was they were doing, how they were made, and why they worked. re-visiting the great works of your childhood is maybe a good thing for anyone to do who’s interested in stories and illustrating.
Fascinating how Eric’s father was a geologist and draftsman, and his mother a painter of oil portraits.
Eric’s work appears to combine each of his parent’s professions. The colored pencils, the portraits, the maps, the neat small writing, the labeling. The influences are there from both sides.
We all know Wes Anderson. But Wes’s younger brother, — Eric Chase Anderson, is way underrated. He’s an illustrator, documentarian, and novelist. He also played the voice of Kristofferson in the Fantastic Mr. Fox.
In this excerpt from The Life Aquaticwith Steve Zissou Criterion Collection edition collectors pamphlet, Eric and Wes share their drawing origin stories and how Eric’s drawings influence Wes’s movies.
It begins with little drawings. Little drawings lead to the set and character details that show up on film:
WES ANDERSON: In a review of somebody else’s movie in the paper the other day, a critic referred to me as a miniaturist or something like that. I guess because I put in a lot of physical details, and I like cooking up extra ideas to add to the sets and costumes, and inventing an imaginary world. But what I’m more inspired by is something that happened to me or someone in my life who had a strong effect on me, or a novel, short story, play, or a movie where the characters moved me, or where I was swept up in it. I do like little drawings, however. We do have stuff in the movies that is tiny, you know? A Swiss Army Knife, a punctuality award pin, something written in the margin of a book.
CRITERION: What’s a little thing in The Life Aquatic?
WA: The Kentucky Zissou fly.
Here they describe how their father’s work notebooks act as inspiration and source material:
ERIC CHASE ANDERSON: Which is one of two pieces of artwork I did for The Life Aquatic. The second is when they get to the bottom of the ocean and Bill Murray takes out a notebook and looks at it.
WA: This notebook is not exactly a crucial element of the story, or a crucial element of anything at all, but it’s personal because to me it’s really inspired by our father’s work notebooks.
ECA: Oh, yeah, right. Exactly.
WA: The way he organizes his stuff is very much, like, this points to that, and the little note indicates this over here, with lots of arrows. His brain is kind of graphic.
ECA: The source material is deeply embedded in our minds.
The Anderson brother’s drawing origin story:
C: Who started drawing first?
WA: Well, I started drawing first, because I had a four-year jump. I’m older.
ECA: I didn’t start drawing until I was in my midtwenties.
C: Really?
ECA: Yeah. I wasn’t necessarily good at it. I had to draw once in college. I had to design a poster for a play I directed. It looks just like my drawings now, except it was a cutout of an ant—like an old Saul Bass cutout—and I labeled the legs of the ant with things from the movie: mystery, car crash, dead brother.
WA: I had three types of drawings that I would obsessively draw. One was trees. Giant trees that people lived in, with people doing motorcycle jumps on one branch, a swimming pool built on another branch, elevators in the trunk, and a helipad.
C: Tree cities?
WA: Tree cities, basically. Then I had imaginary mansions. Then I had giant drum sets that would fill five pages taped together, with a guy in the middle and about two thousand drums.
This is obvious, but drawings make excellent gifts:
ECA: I made a Christmas present for Wes that was a map of this famous country house where I house-sat in Virginia. I didn’t know much about paints. It was something I was doing without really thinking about it. I gave it to Wes, and a year went by. The next Christmas, I made a couple more maps: a house map of where we grew up, with different things that we had experienced as kids, like escape routes from the second floor, you know, a loose floorboard, or where a pencil sharpener was, a strange angle in the bathroom. Wes and I had been collaborating on a Christmas present for my sister, which was a map of a minivan. We talked about it, and we both came up with the text that each of the four kids would have in relation to the van, Then overnight, Christmas Eve, I drew it. It was a good Christmas present.
WA: It was the process of him segueing from the maps being something that represent a space to telling stories—although even the first one that you did had an element of that.
ECA: Wes had an idea that I should make a map for the people at St. John’s, where we shot Rushmore. I sent it to Wes, but I didn’t package it well. It arrived spindled via FedEx, with a hole punched through it. He said, “It’s really good, but I think there’s a couple of changes you can make, and you can do it one more time.” That was fine, because the next time I did it, many more of the ideas were in much better shape to be presentable. Wes liked it so much he said, “There’s no way I’m giving it to St. John’s.”
WA: I made a good dupe for them.
And the process of how Eric’s drawings will influence Wes’s movie’s directly:
C: So, turning to The Royal Tenenbaums—now the drawings precede the making of the film.
ECA: I made wall paper for Richie’s room. First, I made drawings at home really small. Then those went to a warehouse, I think in Queens, where they used blueprint machines to blow up each little tiny drawing. Then they used a stencil to punch through and leave a charcoal line. Then they finished the outlines with a Sharpie.
WA: What it’s supposed to be is, the walls were painted on by Richie Tenenbaum, and they’re his record of the family’s memories. So for Tenebaums, Eric made, one, a set of drawings of all the sets I asked him to do; two, Richie’s drawings on his walls; three, a series of portraits of his sister; and four, the DVD itself— which has, I think, the best cover.
ECA: I have a memory of sitting in a coffee shop in Houston. I was there with Wes, and he was figuring out how to tell the beginning of The Royal Tenenbaums through a tour of the house and how to introduce all this information. He was thinking out loud, and I was kind of following him. It might have been one of those Christmastimes when mapmaking was in the air. I remember him saying, “It’s a map, but it’s not a map on paper. It’s a map in movie style. We have eight minutes of movie map.”
C: How much of this material comes from your shared experiences?
WA: Well, there’s always some inspiration from real life or from my personal experience. Some characters are inspired by a couple of my friends rolled together, and some come from two lines of a play I saw, and some come out of nowhere. There are a few drawings on Richie’s walls, for instance—an image of an archaeological excavation with the mother—which refer to our own past. There’s one thing on Richie’s wall that I didn’t suggest—an image of a day a tiger escaped from the zoo near their house. Well, that’s not in the movie or referred to anywhere. That was something Eric made up. Only now, at this moment, I realize, we should have added that into the movie. That would have been good for that beginning-of-the-movie section where it refers to different things in the family’s history. You can hear Alec Baldwin say . . .
ECA: “One day, a Bengal tiger walked down Archer Avenue.” The kids would be inside the basement, looking out the window through the burglar bars.
WA: What would be the thing he would say after that? There would be a cut to the front page, a tiger in the snow — we would have to make up the newspaper — “The Morning Sun reported that it was killed after eating three dogs and a Siamese.”
ECA: But the drawings sometimes have little bits of echoes of stories that we liked as kids — even if they didn’t really happen to us — because we all traded books and things. Imaginary events can be shared experiences too.
WA: That’s good. That’s what books and movies are. Imaginary events can be shared experiences too.
I find Eric Chase Anderson is similar to the late Jason Polan, in that whenever you see his illustrations, it compels you to pick up a pencil and draw.
Here me out. Doesn’t this description of Hendrik Anderson’s World City remind you of Walt Disney’s Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow?
Under Andersen’s direction, Hèbrard began work on developing the architectural drawings for the World City. They imagined it as a three-mile-long rectangular settlement, three miles long and a half-mile wide, featuring a downtown district marked by broad avenues and monumental edifices. It would include administrative buildings, a bank, and various “temples” (palais) devoted to the pursuit of art, music, drama, and other cultural endeavors. There would be a world zoo, botanical gardens, and a sports center designed to host the Olympics, featuring a large stadium and colossal swimming pool (or “natatorium”). The area between the stadium and the Grand Canal would feature a recreation area, with a ball club, skating club, tennis club, and kindergarten. At the base of the grand avenue lined by the palaces of nation there would be a great circle ringed with the institutions of the new world government: an international court; ministries of industry, agricultural, medicine, and science; as well as the great library and a palace of religions. They all fanned out from the great circle, forming a kind of lopsided mandala around a central Eiffel Tower-like Tower of Progress, a symbolic center for scientific research that doubled as a radio tower to send and receive wireless signals from all over the world.
Wright, Alex. Cataloging the World: Paul Otlet and the Birth of the Information Age. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. See pg 130
At first, I thought there would be many similarities between Walt Disney’s E.P.C.O.T. and Hendrik Anderson’s World City. But turns out they’re more different than alike.
Design and Layout
E.P.C.O.T.’s design was radial. The “radial” plan it’s called. Think of a wheel. There’s a central hub, and then the spokes flare out to low density housing.
The World City had a radial element to its design too, but its main layout was rectangular.
Both cities had different central themes
E.P.C.O.T. represented the ingenuity of American enterprise and the free market. Shops, restaurants, corporate offices, and low and high density housing were the fundamental infrastructure features of E.P.C.O.T.
E.P.C.O.T.’s centerpiece was a hotel.
The World City’s central theme was sharing cultural ideas, and its grandest ambition – world peace.
Zoos, “temples” dedicated to the arts, botanical gardens, a center of sports, ministries of industry were the key components of her infrastructure.
It’s centerpiece was a communications tower called “The Tower of Progress”.
Local vs Global Perspectives
Walt hoped E.P.C.O.T. would be an example for city design across the globe. But it’s focus was local. It’s central Florida location was chosen to make travel to E.P.C.O.T. easier for American tourists and Florida residents. E.P.C.O.T. also emphasized its capacity for high and low density housing. Work and home life being close together.
As it’s namesake suggests, the World City was intended to be a beacon to the world.
The World City design doesn’t mention plans for residences. Instead it calls for institutions: places of worship, structures for a new “world” government, a “great” library, etc. The hope being, these institutions would foster communication between human beings, and promote world peace.
Wrapping Up
While their urban visions differed, the brilliant similarity between Walt Disney and Hendrik Anderson was courage they possessed to imagine cities in a new way.
A father never knows how his career will impact his children. Simon Winchester’s opens his book The Perfectionists with memories of his father’s career:
My father was for all his working life a precision engineer. In the closing years of his career, he designed and made minute electric motors for the guidance systems of torpedoes. Most of this work was secret, but once in a while he would smuggle me into one of his factories and I would gaze in either admiration or puzzlement at machines that cut and notched the teeth for tiny brass gearwheels, or that polished steel spindles that seemed no thicker than a human hair, or that wound copper coils around magnets that seemed no bigger than the head of a pipe smoker’s vesta.
The work characters around a parent’s factory can be important influences. And Simon’s vivid descriptions of working machinery will take you back fifty years or so to a covert British plant:
I remember with great fondness spending time with one of my father’s favored workers, an elderly man in a brown lab coat who, like my father, clasped a pipe between his teeth, leaving it unlit all the time he worked. He wore a permanently incised frown as he sat before the business end of a special lathe—German, my father said; very expensive—watching the cutting edge of a notching toll as it whirled at invisible speed, cooled by a constant stream of a cream-like oil-and-water mixture. The machine hunted and pecked at a small brass dowel, skimming as it did so microscopic coils of yellow metal from its edges as the rod was slowly rotated. I watched intently as, by some curiously magical process, and array of newly cut tiny teeth steadily appeared incised into the metal’s outer margins.
Simon’s father took pride in both the prestigious and mundane objects his factory produced:
Just like his star employee, my father took singular pride in his profession. He regarded as profound and significant and worthy the business of turning shapeless slugs of hard metal into objects of beauty and utility, each of them finely tuned and neatly finished and fitted for purposes of all imaginable kinds, prosaic and exotic—for as well as weaponry, my father’s plants built devices that went into motorcars and heating fans and down mine shafts; motors that cut diamonds and crushed coffee beans and sat deep inside microscopes, barographs, cameras, and clocks. Not watches, he said ruefully, but table clocks and ships’ chronometers and long-case grandfather clocks, where his gearwheels kept patient time to the phases of the moon and displayed it on the clock dials high up in a thousand hallways.
No father-son bonding moment is genuine if it doesn’t put Mother on edge:
He would sometimes bring home pieces even more elaborate than but perhaps not quite as magical as the gauge blocks, with their ultra-flat, machined faces. He brought them primarily to amuse me, unveiling them at the dinner table, always to my mother’s chagrin, as they were invariably wrapped in only brown wax paper that marked the table cloth. Will you put that on a piece of newspaper? she’d cry, usually in vain, as by then the piece was out, shining in the dining room lights, its wheels ready to spin, its arms ready to be cranked. its glassware (for often there was a lens or two or a small mirror attached to the device) ready to be demonstrated.
While his father’s influence didn’t persuade Simon into the precision engineering profession, it must’ve sparked some ambition to write Perfectionists. A father’s enthusiasm and a curious email proved to be quite the fuel:
Though more than half a century has elapsed since those machine happy days of my childhood, the memory still exerts a pull—and never more so than one afternoon in the spring of 2011, when I received, quite unexpectedly, an e-mail from a complete stranger in the town of Clearwater, Florida. It was headed simply “A Suggestion,” and its first paragraph (of three) started without frill or demur: “Why not write a book on the History of Precision?”
My correspondent was a man named Colin Povey, whose principal career had been as a scientific glassblower. The argument he put forward was persuasive in its simplicity: precision, he said, is an essential component of the modern world, yet is invisible, hidden in plain sight.
Grandin, Temple. Calling All Minds: How To Think and Create Like an Inventor. New York: Philomel Books, 2018, pg 58
It’s a delight when your reading connects. Without realizing, Dr. Temple Grandin has slipped into my reading at various times over the years. It began with Robert Greens Mastery and continued in Tyler Cowen’s The Age of the Infovore. Temple made subtle appearances in theses books, but each appearance was memorable.
Reading Connects
In Mastery, Robert Green shares Temple Grandin’s journey before concluding with example she sets:
When you are faced with deficiencies instead of strengths and inclinations, this is the strategy you must assume: ignore your weaknesses and resist the temptation to be more like others. Instead, like Temple Grandin, direct yourself toward the small things you are good at. Do not dream or make grand plans for the future, but instead concentrate on becoming proficient at these simple and immediate skills. This will bring you confidence and become a base from which you can expand to other pursuits.
Green, Robert. Mastery. New York: Penguin Books, 2018. pg 45
In The Age of the Infovore, Tyler points out Dr. Grandin as an example of an autistic high achiever:
The best-known example of an autistic high achiever is Temple Grandin, a woman who has pioneered commonly used improvements in animal treatment and slaughterhouses; her unique cognitive perspective has helped her understand when animals are afraid and how they can be made to feel more secure.
It’s fascinating to see how one’s reading life connects over time. A book about mastery, flows to a book about ordering information into something helpful, which flows into a book about becoming an inventor. And within all three books, one thread, one person, Dr. Grandin connects them all.
Floodlights and Goalposts 