It probably shouldn’t be the case that one of the most likable and empathetic characters of Wes Anderson’s expansive universe is someone so callow as Richie Tenenbaum (Luke Wilson, in his best role–sorry to those of you trying to argue it’s Bongwater). And yet, Richie is possibly among the most memorable and accessible of Anderson’s many main characters. His obsession with an adopted sister who he can never be with, Margot Tenenbaum (Gwyneth Paltrow, who, if nothing else, will always have this rendering to cushion her defense against having started Goop), as well as his tender affection for a wounded bird he keeps on the rooftop of the Tenenbaum home are just some of the odd and unlikely things that make him so relatable.
Though the quirks of Richie’s life don’t necessarily scream, “Identifiable!” overtly, there are many parallels that the brooding and suicidal Tenenbaum has in common with us all. Let us take, for example, his failed career as a tennis star. Giving it all up–the fame, fortune and fatherly approval–Richie succumbs to his depression in a manner that many of us, if we are to call ourselves human, have fallen prey to at one point or another. Rather than embracing our talents and using our strengths to triumph over the ills that befall us, we frequently choose self-destructive behavior that amounts to “giving up” as a means of coping. That is to say, coping by not coping.
The comfortable ease that one feels in sliding into the warm and effortless cocoon of what Abraham Lincoln would somewhat ironically refer to as his “dark friend” (vaguely grafted by Simon and Garfunkel for the lyric, “Hello darkness, my old friend”), is something that Richie perfectly embodies. What’s most salient of all is that he capitulates to it as a result of his tormented obsession with not what he can’t have, but the one he can’t have. And again, if anyone reading this still remains of the human variety–possessing sexual desire, amorous sentiment, etc. (mind you, I’m aware that’s hard to come by these days)–Richie’s plight is nothing if not endlessly resonant, Greek and therefore old as time.
While some more automaton types would call Richie’s frailty pathetic and not at all engaging, others willing to admit that to be of flesh and blood is to lust for that which you can never have would describe the wayward character as Anderson’s masterpiece–the perfect prototype for what it means to be forever tormented in a world that seems solely to get off on flagellating you by keeping what you want forever out of your grasp. And while Margot might eventually admit to reciprocating his feelings, the assurance, “I think we’re just gonna to have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that, Richie,” is hardly much consolation when all Richie wants is the feel of his adopted sister in his arms for more than just a night.
Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s only acceptable in some Southern states, but it’s what he wants. In the end, however, the entire purpose served by Richie in the Anderson canon of themes resting heavily on borrowing motifs from 60s songs is that you can’t always get what you want. And a lot of times, not even what you need. But if you’re willing, you can overcome your suicidal tendencies by briefly catching a glimpse of the other side and realizing that it’s not much better over there either. Perhaps just as lonely. For, as he describes his own father’s state, “I think he’s very lonely. Lonelier than he lets on. Maybe lonelier than he even realizes,” it’s clear that Richie is speaking of the entire human race, each of us searching so desperately for someone to see us, instead of past us. In this way, Richie is the ultimate creation of Anderson’s, a patron saint of humanity that will forever remain so no matter how many condemnations against the white maleness of the auteur’s films come to pass in the future.
