I have problems with the casting. Now I realize I will be the four-hundredth person to say this, but Bill Murray playing the same character as his last however many films—is getting old. Eh. But my other issue is that seeing Jeff Goldblum, Willem Defoe and Owen Wilson playing all these low-key roles just seems contrived—to me, at least. Whatever. Cate Blanchett? Is she really this bad (of an actress?) I had no idea. Perhaps I’m not being fair. Of course I’m not. Eh. You see what this film is doing to me? It’s making me say, “Eh.” Eh.

Two hours? Too long.

The film does have some decent, subtle humor. And Bowie. I would not not give Wes credit for using a lot of good, solid Bowie. But again, I can listen to that on my CD player. Eh.

And isn’t all of this just Ed Wood (Johnny Depp). Is one Ed Wood not enough?

Ennio Morricone? Wow. I think the bottom line is if you could be drunk or high, this film could be alright. But I’m not—so it’s not—I mean, it has melancholy—?—but this can be just as good (sometimes better) on cable, in a hotel room, late at night, alone. But in a theatre? Well. It’s academic now isn’t it.

Okay, now it’s months later. I still think Wes Anderson needs to stop. But I admit there definitely is a powerful melancholy to Anderson’s style. It is unique. It is distinct. And it does leave you with something. That all said. (My) life is too short. And the next Wes Anderson film I see, will definitely be on video.