A new piece of Wes Anderson ephemera has popped up at Cinephilia and Beyond: it's a 1999 note from Anderson to his pal James L. Brooks, and even for those of us who live in Portland, where painfully twee shit is un-fucking-avoidable, you might want to brace yourselves. Here's my favorite part, but click on it to read the whole precious thing:
Thanks to FilmDrunk for drawing my attention to this (and for pointing out that Anderson's note "shows that he may have a legitimate sickness"). Here's the thing I like about the note: It's so carefully wrought that it seems like it should be terrible, but it also feels so legitimately earnest that it can't help but be charming. In other words, it's like Anderson's movies.