It’s weird to think that Wes Anderson has always exactly like one of his characters. Whenever I watch one of his movies, I feel like I’m kind of watching an idealized version of what he himself is like. It’s kind of nice to have it confirmed. In this 1999 article NYT archives, our hero goes to the country to fetch an aging New Yorker writer, beg her to watch Rushmore. She is very ill and frail, doesn’t drive. She takes a couple sly shots at Bottle Rocket and tells him to change his name. He is at once exhilarated, hopeful, turned on, disgusted, and slightly disappointed. She gives him a book. She dies not long after.
No, but seriously, that’s a Wes Anderson movie.
