The Royal Tenenbaums (2001)

directed by Wes Anderson

Shome Dasgupta

Since the release of The Royal Tenenbaums in 2001, I’m only just now making the connection between the title of the movie and the scorned patriarch of the family, Royal Tenenbaum. Royal is almost like a cute scoundrel throughout the movie, but there is redemption—it’s found in one of the most emotional and significant lines in a film full of a myriad of soulful dialogues between family members, anguished in one way or another. I saw the movie in theaters upon its release, and then as soon as it came out on DVD, I bought it, and when it came out again on DVD, as a part of the Criterion Collection, I bought it again in 2012. That was the last time I saw the movie—2012. It’s one of my all-time favorite productions, filling me with all kinds of emotions and internal experiences, but I haven’t seen it since then. However, while I can still remember clips and scenes from the movie, providing this nostalgic ghost inside of me, there is one line that I think about without hesitation, whether it’s from the movie popping into mind, or because of the troubling experiences I’m journeying through in my own like: “I’ve had a rough year, dad.” Chas says this toward the end of the movie—per the screenplay, only five or so pages or minutes remain, and it was at this point when I became most emotional. It is this line that plays in my head over and over again.

Each family member is going through some kind of pain, internal and external, but Chas was the one, for me, who reveals the most agony, having lost his wife in a plane crash, leaving behind two children without a mother. Additionally, Royal Tenenbaum stole from Chas and gave more attention to his siblings, leaving their relationship heavily strained. Chas himself feels much more isolated than anyone else in the movie, incessantly watching over his children, making sure that they’re safe and capable of escaping dangerous situations—of course, this stems from the trauma of losing his wife. His burdens take their toll and, feeling like he’s alone with nowhere to go for help, he finally breaks down and opens up to Royal. As a result, there arises the narrative of character growth, manifested in six words and six words only, and not only does this line reveal maturity for Chas, but it also displays a more caring side of his father. It shows Royal actually being a dad to Chas after all those years when his son felt like he never had one. Perhaps, saying such a line and opening up to his dad—someone who should be there for him—was a rebirth of his youth. A metaphorical hug or head on the shoulder can be found in those six words. In its simplicity on the surface, a deeper analysis can break down what these words expose of Chas and, inherently, Royal.

“I’ve” seems insignificant, perhaps, but for Chas, this is the beginning of breaking personal boundaries—an acknowledgement or a realization where he’s attempting to leave his isolated life of suffering and reach out. He is thinking about himself—understanding that he must take care of his own being as he has found himself on the brink of a complete breakdown. He’s referring to himself and as the line moves forward, he himself is also moving forward.

“Had,” of course refers to his past experiences—but there’s more to it: a past that consumes and haunts his mental and physical states, and by verbally expressing this “had,” Chas continues to move forward as the line moves forward, trying to depart from his troubled life, seeking help. He no longer wants “had,” or rather, he can no longer live in “had” anymore, knowing that “had” has been breaking him down.

“A”—just a simple article, but a meaningful and significant bridge to getting to the other side, both mentally and metaphorically. It modifies what comes next, but it’s not only that—the vagueness here and all that it encompasses: his wife, his children, his family and more specifically, his father, can all be tucked away in “a,” and again, he’s symbolically stepping forward as he continues to speak. He’s halfway there.

Now enter the heavy part of his journey through this sentence—”rough.” Rough, indeed—and this is only what we can read or see visibly, not quite fully comprehending what is going in the mind of Chas and all his worries and sadness and darkness. “Rough” is huge here because, much like “I’ve,” Chas is reaching closer to his destination, internally and perhaps, eventually, externally, by grasping the idea that he needs to let out his emotions—the deep emotions, not on the surface, and the best way he can describe all that he’s feeling is “rough,” but it’s a significant movement of progress. However, there’s something childish here about using “rough,” and I don’t mean that negatively, but rather, symbolic of when Chas was young and wanting a present father figure, one who would be there for those bad days at school or with a friend or on a date or for any other reason. So here, “rough” serves as a door that opens from his youth to where he is now—there, standing in front of his father.

Back to time—”year,” connecting to “had” earlier in his line. Chas is standing at the threshold here. “Year.” He's seeking a rebirth now, in an effort to shed the sorrows of all that he has gone through. By saying “year,” this character is recognizing time as a concept, and his existence in such a realm, and by doing so, he's now entering back into the normal constructs of society, not the one formed in his own mind. By realizing time and its capacity and divisions, Chas is now ready to cross through—approaching and breaking his own boundaries, including one he, or perhaps his father, had set between himself and Royal. To end one year and begin a new one with hope—he’s pleading for a change and a better life. He's almost there—word by word, he's nearing an end of a year that exists in his head infinitely up to this point. His hand is rising, reaching out, pulling himself out of the year that has caused such torment and into a place of peace. Not only is he raising his hand to pull himself out—that very same hand is offering a childlike love, a reconciliation of sorts to the only person he feels like he needs at the moment of crisis, where during all his previous crises, this person wasn't there for him.

“Dad.” Chas has reached his purpose here—the most meaningful word of this line. “Dad,” perhaps, the way he always wanted to say it when he was a child or when he was struggling throughout his life, in need of someone to be there for him. “Dad,” as in one who has caused so much damage to both him and the Tenenbaum family, but now he is coming to terms that he needs his father. “Dad”—now, Royal is a figure of importance to Chas, a paternal presence that he has been trying to fulfill throughout the movie, trying to redeem himself from his own past ways. Here, “Dad” represents Chas crossing through the threshold, past his own personal boundaries, across his burdensome mentalities—an actualization, a realization, and because it’s such a quick line, it becomes a surprising moment of subtle love and emotion amid the end of the film, after a chaotic and loud climax. When Chas speaks and comes to the end of his line, it’s almost like we all take a deep breath, a relief—a quiet epiphany or a peripety of sorts, cathartic. His discovery, by the end of this six-word sentence, seems unexpected, not only for the audience, but for Chas himself. Once he finishes his quick bit, at the same time, his personal journey, however it can be labeled—spiritual, physical, or internal—has found solace in its reached destination.

A line, a phrase, a paragraph, or a lyric, a verse, a scene—however large or small, such as this six-word sentence—can seem so meaningless, or it is meaningless, perhaps, until some kind of personal engagement can connect to such a form of writing, a connection that relates one human to another. 

2018 was my the roughest year of my life by far. I entered rehab full of unknowns, and in my previous life, I had let so many people down, and the guilt I felt for what I had put my parents through up to that point is still taking time to process. In October of that year, upon leaving rehab after thirty-five days, in addition to being unemployed, I was facing so many new obstacles with this new life, completely disconnecting from all that I knew and how I lived prior to sobriety. Every day was a mental and physical struggle—there were times I didn't think I would be able to make it, and I'm thankful that I'm still here. Despite the guilt I felt for putting my parents through such guilt, they were always there for me, relentless with their love, patience, and nurturing ways. I remember during that night of the new year a couple of months later, sitting on the edge of my bed and crying—a full sob, loud and heaving, and I remember, in a broken whisper, mumbling, “I've had a rough year, dad.”

Shome Dasgupta is the author of The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India) and, most recently, a short story collection Atchafalaya Darling (Belle Point Press), the novels The Muu-Antiques (Malarkey Books) and Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), a prose collection Histories Of Memories (Belle Point Press), and a poetry collection Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, New Orleans Review, The Emerson Review, Jabberwock Review, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.