From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

For his autumnal yet incandescent family tragicomedy, The Royal Tenenbaums, Wes Anderson drew inspiration from a handful of literary works remarkably possessed of whimsy and insightful wit. Chief among these is the late J. D. Salinger’s short but utterly perceptive book, Franny and Zooey, whose title characters are members of the Glass family, the basis for the dysfunctional Tenenbaums in Anderson’s film. The eccentric director, drawing further attention to his enchantment with Salinger’s fictional family, even went so far as to pattern a quirk of one of the central characters in The Royal Tenenbaums after a scene in Franny and Zooey, where Zooey, the male protagonist, spends an inordinate stretch of time in a bathtub. Anderson did the same, that is, cutting out a scene from a beloved book and stitching it into his film, to the 1968 Newbery Medal-winning novel by E. L. Konigsburg, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. In a brief episode of childhood rebellion in Anderson’s film, two of the Tenenbaum siblings run away from home and live in, of all places, a museum. They must have read Konigsburg’s novel--Anderson has, certainly--for that’s exactly what Claudia and Jamie Kincaid, the leads in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, did.

From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (hereafter referred to simply as Mixed-Up Files, despite the book’s delightful roller-coaster of a title) is narrated with a quaint sense of humor by a wealthy old lady named Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Mrs. Frankweiler’s purportedly true story sets off when Claudia, fed up with being unfairly treated in the Kincaid household in Greenwich, Connecticut, and tired of "the monotony of everything" decides to teach her parents “a lesson in Claudia appreciation” by running away from home. Considering her very low tolerance for discomfort, she chooses the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City as her hideaway, and considering her very low supply of money, she persuades her penny-pinching brother, Jamie, to join her.

With the snazzy art museum as their home-cum-playground, sister and brother make the most out of their newfound freedom, and Konigsburg, via Mrs. Frankweiler, seems to make the experience of being away from the safety and convenience afforded by home a tad too easy and pleasant for her protagonists, who attempt to live on less than twenty-five dollars and a few sets of clothes for God knows how long in the Met, an otherwise comfortable dwelling place. They hide in the bathrooms at opening and closing time to evade the museum personnel, sleep in ancient canopy beds while pretending to be 16th-century monarchs, bathe in the restaurant fountain while picking up wish coins to add to their dwindling funds, and mingle with visitors for their daily dose of art history. But these aren’t small plot conveniences so much as products of the complementary nature of Claudia and Jamie’s individual strengths: most notably, she’s excellent at planning while he’s good at (not) spending. And so, even as they bicker mildly about mostly trivial matters, they become thick as thieves.

“The greatest adventure of our mutual lives,” as Claudia enticingly described their stint as truants and runaways when she was just trying to enlist Jamie, becomes just that when they stumble upon a mystery surrounding the museum’s latest acquisition, a statue of an angel believed to be the handiwork of none other than Michelangelo Buonarroti. Claudia and Jamie, as inquisitive and ingenious as any kids of their age (he’s nine years old; she’s “one month away from being 12”) would dare to be, and seeing that they’re right where the object mired in mystery is, sets out to uncover the angel’s secret, if any.

This is no The Da Vinci Code or Angels and Demons for kids, thank you very much. In this little book where most of the events, big and small, also happen in a famous museum and an Italian Renaissance man also gets plunged into the story, there’s no room for bloated conspiracy theories and cheap thrills. In the first place, they’re not what you’d expect from a sophisticated narrator like Mrs. Frankweiler, who at old age has amassed great wisdom and a great deal of items for her art collection besides, as a newspaper article Claude and Jamie chance upon states and as the proud octogenarian herself boasts around the time she finally enters the story as a supporting but not insignificant character (while retaining her role as narrator, of course).

What we’re treated to instead is a charming and smartly plotted novel that at first blush seems focused on the excitement of being a defiant and carefree youth and later appears entangled in the revelations, impressive in spite of their scant amount, hatched by the pair in their investigation about the true maker of an antique sculpture. But as they go about their kid detective work they, Claudia especially, unknowingly encounter a path towards self-discovery, and Mixed-Up Files ultimately becomes fixed on an eye-opening search for what makes a person different and beautiful inside--a living work of art, in other words.

Mixed-Up Files is structurally a written account addressed to Mrs. Frankweiler’s lawyer. In her letter prefacing her main narrative, she discloses that “I’ve written it to explain certain changes to my last will and testament. You’ll understand those changes (and a lot of other things) much better after reading it.” There's no doubt that her lawyer did understand. “I don’t come in until much later," she continues, "but never mind. You’ll find enough to interest you until you do.” Wes Anderson sure did, and anyone who has ever been a child and who goes on to read (and re-read) Mixed-Up Files does, sure enough.

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Originally posted here.

I loved this book so much as a child and it was a pleasure to revisit it all these years later. Who didn't fantasize about running away from home and having a wonderful adventure like Claudia and Jaimie? As an adult I love going to the Met, so the fact that they chose the museum to run away to appealed to me even more now.

I didn't remember much of the story, but one detail that always stuck in my mind was how the siblings took a bath in the fountain and used the coins that people tossed in to supplement their income. The other thing I remember is the same feeling I had when I finished it this time: it ended too soon. I would have loved a few more details about what happened after; how did their family and friends react to the whole thing, did they really visit Mrs. BEF, etc. But overall a charming, enjoyable story.

Wow, I haven't been this uncomfortable about two related family members bathing naked together since Out Stealing Horses.

Wither.

Why? Why would the author write a scene of a prepubescent 12-year-old sister frolicking naked in a bath with her 9-year-old brother?

I'm three years older than my brother, and when I was 12, I can promise you, I would have been far more inclined to hold his head underwater for five minutes than I would have been to stand naked before him, splashing him.

Come on now. Make it stop.

I turned to my resident 12-year-old after the first mutual bath scene, to check in on her thoughts of the sibling bath, and she contributed one word: revolting.

And what's with the old lady narrator, interrupting the narrative flow with her nonsensical comments and weird flirts to the old man lawyer, “Saxonberg?” Get a room you two, and gross.

The title? What, because for five minutes there's a scene near some file cabinets? How about Night at the Museum? It was 1967 when this was published, and that title was still up for grabs.

How about the frantic parents, whose kids decided to “disappear” on them, wondering, for a week, if two of their children had been abducted by murderers? My stomach hurt so badly at the prospect of these parents not knowing if their kids were alive, it made me despise both of the selfish brats. Their excuses for running away were pathetic at best, and I couldn't be humored in any way at how the parents must have suffered from their antics.

From where I'm sitting, this is a book, like Harriet the Spy that you've got to fall in love with when you're young, otherwise the plot points are just too weird to swallow down, as an adult.

Three stars for some memorable lines and a strong narrative (albeit one with a horny old woman interrupting it at every turn).

I honestly have no idea why, but there was something about this book (I guess the adventure?) that I absolutely loved when I was younger.
Really cute story of two kids that run away to live in a museum, skirting the cops and sleeping in the priceless beds and having a series of adventures in the museum!

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Delightful and amusing.

"I think you should learn, of course, and some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything with them. It's hollow."

Here's a book that's lost none of its charm. Siblings Claudia and Jamie run away together and live in the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a week, uncovering a Michelangelo-related mystery and, along the way, learning a few things about family, grammar, and the joy of knowing secrets.

"New York is a great city to hide out. No one notices no one."

Like all the best children's books, its example is disgraceful. The two children have only the dimmest sense of the panic they've thrown their parents into; they break into a museum repeatedly; and they cheerfully throw backpacks into sarcophagi and sleep in historically valuable beds. They also steal. Children who follow their advice will be very bad children. In addition, it's logistically improbable that any of this would work.

"Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you. It's the same as going on a vacation. Some people spend all their time on a vacation taking pictures so that when they get home they can show their friends evidence that they had a good time. They don't pause to let the vacation enter inside of them and take that home."

But for engendering a sense of the mystery and magic of art, and a sense of adventure, it is exemplary. And it's a wonderful New York book, no less today than it was in 1967.

"If you think of doing something in New York City, you can be certain that at least two thousand other people have that same thought. And of the two thousand who do, about one thousand will be standing in line waiting to do it."

Which is why I don't do brunch.

Superior story, still works well even in today's highly digital world. The appeal of kids living in a museum is timeless and fun. I learned all about Michelangelo from this book, so there's that!

My granddaughter liked it, I found it dated and confusing until the end. The spirit of adventure, curiosity, and resourcefulness was what saved the story from just being totally mixed-up.