Of The Clash's famously uneven 1981 triple LP, Sandinista!, Robert Christgau once wrote, "if this is their worst--which it is, I think--they must be, er, the world's greatest rock and roll band." While I do not consider Wes Anderson the world's greatest auteur, I would make the claim that if The Darjeeling Limited is his worst movie, as many have stated, then he must be at least near the top.
There are two chief offenses for which Anderson's fifth feature has been cited: 1) how closely it hews to his established template (slow-mo shots, British invasion soundtrack, precious tableaux, quirky characters typified by an overarching sense of monied ennui), and 2) its expropriation/exploitation of India, its signifiers, and its people.
Both charges are difficult to defend against, for entirely different reasons. The first because it is completely true. Wes Anderson has developed a heavily regimented, instantly recognizable style, and he seems disinclined to evolve in another direction, either vis a vis form or function. If you liked Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, and (especially) The Life Aquatic, the odds are high you will connect with The Darjeeling Limited. If you hated these films, or you feel that their subsequently diminishing returns (an undeniable truth) will preclude your enjoyment of another helping, look elsewhere for entertainment.
The second charge, that Darjeeling is guilty of post-colonial condescension at worst, cultural tourism at best, is difficult for me to respond to simply because I am not among the potentially offended parties. I can certainly see how any film tightly focused on three white main characters set in a primarily nonwhite local can be potentially loaded; certainly Anderson's film does itself no favors by having Jason Schwartzman's character have sex with a gorgeous Indian stewardess aboard the train (it's obviously consensual, but you can't duck the charge of third-world fetishism) and having no Indian characters of real consequence.
Allow me to backtrack: the set-up is that the three Whitman brothers, Peter, Jack, and Francis (played by Adrien Brody, Schwartzman, and Owen Wilson respectively) are traveling through India on the titular train, in a nominal attempt to reconnect with one another after not seeing each other for a year following their father's funeral. The Whitmans are obviously one of those fading ancien regime families, akin to Anderson's Tenenbaums - comfortable in their wealth, though not ostentatiously so, yet completely unmoored by their material security. None has any type of vocation to speak of, and all are self-absorbed to the point of eluding adulthood. Francis (who has a hidden agenda I needn't spoil for you) organized the trip as a faddish attempt to commune via mutual spiritual enlightenment - you know, visit the shrines, walk among the people, engage in the rituals.
Anderson and co-scribes Roman Coppola and Jason Schwartzman are savvy enough to know the "white people amongst the beautiful, child-like foreigners" trope is a poison pill, and their script actively combats that perception by embracing the obliviousness of the characters, and supplying no "child-like foreigners" apart from, well, actual children. Unlike most "Americans abroad" comedies, little friction is derived from any "clash of cultures"; the Whitmans, urbane experienced travelers, more or less roll with the punches. Yes, of course they behave like tourists, because, well, that how tourists behave. Indeed the very underpinning of the tourist trade is visiting something that is quotidian or sacred, either in a religious or secular sense, to the locals, and oohing and aahing because it's exotic to you. Certainly, it is desirable to be respectful, and there's little suggestion in Darjeeling that the Whitmans are anything but. I fail to see the difference, thematically, between this film and an actual vacation to India, save that the film is acutely aware that its tourists' ambitions re: the spiritual effects of a journey in an alien land are faintly ridiculous. So yes, there are things to offend those seeking to be offended. However, it is possible, perhaps even likely, that those offended parties went into the movie seeking offense; surely Anderson and his collaborators do little to give any.
In an era where the term "indie movie" is coming to refer less to the method of production and more to content, the director of Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums remains the chief influence. Yet where imitators pour quirks and signifiers into empty vessels and consider the resulting collections of ticks and affectations characters, Anderson never neglects to give his tin men hearts as well. The Darjeeling Limited is thus another curious curio, visually sumptuous and emotionally muted, its protagonists the last of a dying breed.
