The Royal Tenenbaums is the work of director Wes Anderson, who wrote the screenplay with his regular collaborator, Owen Wilson. Since their previous picture was the utterly brilliant Rushmore, expectations have run high for the Tenenbaums, and disappointments have been voiced. I, too, felt let down at first. The fantasy version of New York City seemed arch to me. (Taxis are always instantly available, and invariably bear the logo of the Gypsy Cab Co. The only place to exercise is the 375th Street Y.) I also wondered whether some of the characters, such as the perpetually pissed-off Chas, were absolutely necessary to the story, and whether the redemption of Royal wasn't too much of a foregone conclusion. The second viewing hasn't moved me to play a mug's game and compare The Royal Tenenbaums to Rushmore; but it has convinced me that a strong imagination is at work in every part of the picture.

The talent is easiest to see in the performances that Anderson has elicited, beginning of course with Gene Hackman's Royal. He's a man without an internal censor--whatever pops into his mind comes out of his mouth--who nevertheless tries to con people. A hopeless ambition; yet astonishingly, he has moments of success, which Hackman somehow makes plausible and transparent, sleazy and endearing, in a single gesture. It's a big performance by a big actor; and it's matched, paradoxically, by Gwyneth Paltrow's infinitesimal gestures as Margot. In one of her best scenes, where she's reunited with Richie after many years' absence, she almost smiles. Then she doesn't. That's it; and it's enough to make Margot into a booming echo chamber of hurts and longings.

Just as memorable are Luke Wilson, whose Richie tries so hard to be sane and responsible, from within a body that seems anesthetized; Bill Murray as Margot's husband and father-surrogate, an Oliver Sacks-like neurologist who snickers openly at his weirdo subjects; Danny Glover as the gentlemanly and inept Henry Sherman; and Owen Wilson, who plays the most desperate of the characters and the most successful, the popular novelist Eli Cash. Residents of the imaginary Gotham need someone to supply them with fantasies of other nonplaces, such as the primitive, authentic West. Eli does the job, and pays the cost of having bad mescaline dreams leak out of his head.

It's clear enough why this theme of dreams and disappointments should appeal to Anderson and Wilson, who themselves achieved a precocious success. You might read The Royal Tenenbaums as a film by bright young people who are brooding too much over their next move; and you wouldn't be wrong. But early triumphs and long slides into mediocrity have long played their part in the myth of Gotham. So, too, has the occasional late redemption.

The second time I watched the Tenenbaums, the young-adult archness seemed to me like Eli's prep-school outfit, which he wears until far too late in life. When you realize why he's changed it for a preposterous Western get-up--something that only makes him look more like a kid--you understand he should have stayed in the blue blazer. He might not like what it symbolizes, but it suits him.

The whimsy suits The Royal Tenenbaums, too. It's the smile of two filmmakers who seem to feel sad, but can't hide their delight in what they do. It's the dirty grin of Gene Hackman, shoplifting his way into your heart.

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