Wes Anderson’s films
always have a sense of perpetual autumn about them — bittersweet almost to a
fault. And while his fifth feature, “The Darjeeling Limited,” exists among
India’s visually lush landscapes, that creeping sense of browning leaves and
blustery nights seems to ever invade its countryside.

Perhaps this time
around, it has to do with the voyeurs whose eyes we tour through: the three
Whitman brothers, who find themselves on a spiritual journey — both by will and
by force — stemming from a proverbial how-to list of ways to avoid grieving
their dead father, who triggers surprisingly strong emotion from his oddball
offspring despite an obvious detachment from their upbringing.

So the Whitmans
gather aboard the titular train, not having spoken since the funeral. Eldest
brother Francis (Owen Wilson), scarred literally and figuratively by his own
control issues, organizes the sojourn; Peter (Adrien Brody), the middle child,
is only there to escape his impending fatherhood; while the youngest, tortured writer
Jack (Jason Schwartzman), sports a Sgt. Pepper’s moustache and tries constantly
to construct his own reality via iPod and a series of “fictional” short
stories. As they turn their trip into a drug-fueled bender, we realize the trio
is nothing more than half-cultured band of tourists.

Cramped in the
rickety train, Anderson’s signature dry wit
takes a backseat to the emotional core of “Darjeeling,” as opposed to side-by-side
seating on past go-rounds. Each comedic
vignette — Peter buying a snake, Jack convincing himself he’s in love, Francis
losing a shoe — is more for dramatic revelation than simple laughter. But the
real maturation goes to seed once the boys have arrived in a remote desert
village: Anderson
combines his notorious pans, zooms, slow-mos and camera tracks for some of the
most stirring visuals he’s ever recorded. After a stirring riverside rescue,
the village sequence opens in muted contemplation, finally erupting into an
emotional reawakening — courtesy of the Kinks — that strips each brother off
his guard and forces them to at last revisit the family’s past. And, in Anderson’s most
cinematically compelling sequence to date, the three siblings noiselessly
reconcile to the Rolling Stones’ “Play With Fire,” together connecting the
universal dots between all those who grieve.

Even rabid
Wes-ophiles will require multiple “Darjeeling”
viewings for full appreciation of its many subtle yet significant touches,
particularly a cameo by Bill Murray and a mystery man on the train (remember
Pagoda?). At first, it’s difficult to understand the change in the Whitman
boys, their dialogue steering clear of audible affirmation; more than ever, Anderson employs his
dialogue-as-shield technique to a degree that may be — much like the auteur’s
“Rushmore” or “The Royal Tenenbaums” — offsetting to first-timers looking for
direct transformation.

While we’re on it,
save yourself the trouble of comparing “Darjeeling”
to Anderson’s
previous films altogether. Each is a distinct entry into the 38 year-old’s
adult storybook and a necessary stepping stone for one of the only novel
filmmakers under the hill. And if you’re not keen on Anderson’s universe, spare us your
pontification on the director’s “pretentiousness” (which often includes such
overwrought, empty pokes as “hipster” and, the most heinous attack: “quirky”).
This innovator’s works are of their own logic, islands to normalcy, much like
Jack on the train: cold to some, welcoming to others. If you do buy the ticket,
be prepared for a bumpy ride alongside fellow Lawn Wranglers, Rushmore
Beekeepers, family geniuses and proud cadets of the Zissou Society.