We're all they have.
That's not enough.
Wes Anderson films have largely left me mildly bemused, to say the least, and occasionally amused, at best. Indeed, I've never been one to love his work; but I've always admired the style with which he paints his worlds and the compassion with which he tells his stories. So perhaps in an attempt to appeal to my lukewarm admiration, Anderson's latest journey into his trademark yellow-green pastiched world of quirky, confounded, and undeniably unique people unequivocally and unabashedly deals with, quite simply, love.
Moonrise Kingdom is dedicated to Jurman Malouf, Anderson's girlfriend. And it's easy to see why. It's a tale of young love, of beginning anew, of relishing the innocence that is so easily eroded with age. Indeed, while watching, I was reminded of the following Stanley Kubrick quote:
The very meaninglessness of life forces a man to create his own meaning. Children, of course, begin life with an untarnished sense of wonder, a capacity to experience total joy at something as simple as the greenness of a leaf; but as they grow older, the awareness of death and decay begins to impinge on their consciousness and subtly erode their joie de vivre, their idealism – and their assumption of immortality.
As a child matures, he sees death and pain everywhere about him, and begins to lose faith in the ultimate goodness of man. But if he’s reasonably strong – and lucky – he can emerge from this twilight of the soul into a rebirth of life’s élan.
Both because of and in spite of his awareness of the meaninglessness of life, he can forge a fresh sense of purpose and affirmation. He may not recapture the same pure sense of wonder he was born with, but he can shape something far more enduring and sustaining.
The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death – however mutable man may be able to make them – our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.It's uncanny how closely Kubrick's thoughts about art and life mirror the emotions at the core of Moonrise. They both deal with the naivety of youth, the joy of discovery, and the slow numbing of innocence. This is why Moonrise works. It places its emotional baggage on the tender shoulder of its two young stars - Jared Gilman as Sam and Kara Hayward as Suzy - and asks them to remind us all of a time before we were corrupted by prejudices, tainted by egos, and burdened with boredom. It asks Sam and Suzy to transport us back to when conviction and faith alone could convince us that anything would be possible. Anderson, also credited as co-writer here, wants to revisit that seemingly forgotten time in our lives when we not only hoped, but actually believed, that the what-could-be and the what-will-be were not mutually exclusive. Surely, in an adult's eyes, this is a childish notion. But damn it all, that's why we need whimsical escapism and that's why this film works so well.
In dealing with matters of the heart, faith tends to play a significant role. Love, after all, can no easier be scientifically proven as it can be physically defined. Indeed, the belief that lovers will stay together is bulletproof; it can't be belittled by society and it can't be diminished by distance, come hell or high water. This is where Moonrise's metaphoric narrative separates itself from other run-of-the-mill comedies. Sam first meets Suzy at the local Church's production of "Noye's Fludde" (i.e. Noah's Flood). Suzy's dressed as a raven and dozens of other children are dressed as duos of countless animals. They all await their turn to board the Ark, to be ferried away from the island.
In a parallel narrative, a narrator addresses the audience to warn us of an impending storm that's about to hit the fictional New England island. So as Sam and Suzy run through the wilderness, conspiring their escape from both family and nature's wraths, one can't help but see them as Noah's male and female humans chosen for the Ark. These young lovers are innocent, daring, and sincere. But their consecrated love provokes a scandal, forcing them to run from authority - parents, police, scout leaders, and social welfare workers - who see this affair as something indecent, immoral, and intolerable.
In Anderson's eyes, the young lovers' battle reaches beyond their New England hometown; they're battling the world's crueler and more repressive norms and prejudices. They're holding on to the purest beliefs in love before they can be corrupted by the indecency of adultery or insipidity of loneliness. They're fighting the good fight. So when the Noah-like flood finally hits the island, it seemed only poetically just that the jaded authority of the island would be met with such a cosmic repudiation, a warning that when true passion is thwarted, all hell - and heaven - will break loose against those who would dare keep this couple apart.
