by Oscar O’Sullivan

In the opening scene of Wes Anderson’s new film The Phoenician Scheme, a man is killed in a manner that is both uncharacteristically brutal and completely in keeping with the director’s sensibilities – Benicio Del Toro turns and looks at the unsuspecting victim, there is a beat of confused calm, and then an instant of chaos as the hull of the aircraft implodes on him, leaving behind nothing but a pair of legs and a vivid smear of blood on the wall behind him. If Anderson’s most recent efforts could be accused of retreating into artifice to an overly obvious degree (French Dispatch‘s metafictional asides, the play-within-a-TV-special-within-a-film conceit of Asteroid City, the story-book/children’s theatre presentation of Henry Sugar), then here is an up-front promise that there will be no funny business this go round, at least not narratively. No framing device, no fourth-wall breaking, no assurances of the ultimate unreality of what we are being presented – here is a tale of assassins, plane crashes, hand grenades, poison gas, crises of faith, industrial espionage, communist revolutionaries and parental neglect. It is, in short, the most immediate and action-oriented narrative Anderson has delivered in years. And still for some that will not be enough – that cohort who moans and groans over how “he just does the same thing every time!” as if that thing is not one of the most beautiful and unique languages in cinematic history. To those haters I say – get a grip.

Those confused by the layered, thematically-conscious narratives of the last few Anderson films will be glad to know that this is a perfectly simple piece of Point A to Point B storytelling. Benicio Del Toro is our hero, Zsa-zsa Korda, a ruthless industrial titan putting the finishing touches on a lofty development scheme in the war-torn region of Phoenicia. After surviving the latest in a string of suspicious plane crashes and having an eerie vision of the afterlife, Korda decides to get his affairs in order, naming his estranged daughter Liesl (Mia Threapleton) as sole heir to his estate. Liesl, who was raised mainly in a convent and aspires to use the family fortune for good deeds, is critical of her father’s callous monstrosity while displaying her own share of cold emotional constipation. Their relationship is the emotional core of the story, at least insofar as the film is allowed to express emotion. I personally reject the notion of Anderson as being a cold, emotionless filmmaker – in fact, his best films are among the most emotional I’ve ever seen – but there is undeniably an intentional layer of detachment in his modern work. And why shouldn’t there be? His films deal with emotionally stunted people, struggling to express themselves and connect with one another. Even heartfelt confessions and moments of understanding are delivered in a deadpan tone that paradoxically serves to heighten their sincerity. There is no room for guile or trickery here, at least not when it comes to how the characters feel.

Speaking of the characters, Anderson has once again rounded up an assortment of his usual suspects and a couple of new faces. Benicio Del Toro takes the lead after his standout part in The French Dispatch, perfectly embodying the suave, severe and suicidally confident Zsa-zsa Korda. Del Toro has always been a versatile actor, as comfortable playing psycho murderers as he is in goofy comedy parts, and he proves a perfect fit for the first proper leading man role in an Anderson film since Ralph Fiennes in 2014’s Grand Budapest Hotel. Mia Threapleton holds her own as second lead Liesl, maintaining a cutting deadpan snark and veneer of practiced disinterest that calls to mind Gwyneth Paltrow’s performance as Margot Tenenbaum. Her warming to her difficult father is so gradual as to be imperceptible, as is her growing attachment to material things that jeopardises her religious aspirations. Rounding out the trio of leads is Michael Cera, the other major newcomer to the Wes Anderson stable, and such a natural fit for this sensibility that you have to wonder how it never happened before now. Cera’s delivery and mannerisms as Norweigan insect boffin Bjorn are affected to the point of parody, both of Anderson’s style and Cera’s own typical roles in awkward, stammery comedies. Surprisingly, he’s also given the chance to show his serious side, for reasons I won’t give away here.

The above three stars are the core cast of the story, who travel together on a sort of episodic journey where the rest of the all-star ensemble drop in and out for their own individual moments in the spotlight. The titular scheme, we discover, is under imminent threat of failure – Korda’s political enemies, chaired by no-nonsense bureaucrat Rupert Friend, have engineered a stock-market coup and left him with a huge investment gap to fill. So he sneakily approaches his colourful investors, hoping to swindle each of them into taking on increased financial risk to keep the project afloat. Each of these vignettes allows for a memorable walk-on role or two and another amusing scenario. Well-to-do college men Tom Hanks and Bryan Cranston challenge Korda to a game of basketball in an underground train tunnel, sinking shots with a series of comically precise movements. Opulent French investor Mathieu Amalric is initially outraged over Korda’s attempt to blackmail him, only for an unexpected attack by Communist Revolutionaries (led by a hilarious Richard Ayoade) to result in Korda taking a bullet for the grateful Frenchman. That injury, one of a multitude Korda suffers throughout the adventure, leads to him receiving a blood transfusion from fast-talking naval captain Jeffrey Wright, who has to be threatened with a live grenade before he’ll cough up the dough Korda needs. While it may seem a shame to spend so little time with each of these wonderful actors (especially Scarlett Johansonn, whose interlude feels the shortest and least eventful of the lot despite her familial connection to the leads), this is not an ensemble piece in the same way Anderson’s last few have been, and the fact each guest star leaves you wanting for more is a testament both to the strength of their performances and the memorability of each character. Most effective of all is the use of Benedict Cumberbatch as Uncle Nubar, a semi-mythical figure of impending dread who looms over everything, both as the final investor on the list and as the supposed murderer of Liesl’s mother – at least according to Korda, who insists he did not do the deed himself despite whatever “they” might say. When Cumberbatch does appear in the flesh, he lives up to the hype – decked out in a truly insane beard and eyebrow combination, staring with a devilish intensity and speaking in a sinister purr, this is Cumberbatch at the height of his powers as an actor who can embody the inhuman.

The visual design of the film is predictably brilliant, another constructed world with something of a timeless quality, not quite fitting the aesthetics of any one place or time. People who roll their eyes at Wes’ love of symmetry, precise camera movements and characters looking right down the lens won’t find much here to surprise them, aside from the inclusion of brief bursts of semi-comical action and brazen bloodiness. There is a semi-noticable change in the visuals here when compared to his usual choices, though I can’t quite put my finger on what it is – perhaps the light is a little warmer, the colours less pastel. The standout sequences are also among the most understated – whenever Korda suffers a near-death experience, he experiences a glimpse of the afterlife, a grayscale heaven of puffy clouds, marble columns and bearded men in robes. These scenes manage to feel mystical without becoming ridiculous, playing a vital role in Korda’s reluctant character development and the not-so-subtle religious themes that abound in his story of redemption. The abundance of spiritual imagery and discussion might even feel strange in a Wes Anderson film, if not for the fact that he uses most of the symbolism in a casual, offhanded way. It’s certainly a major part of the film’s texture, but far from being a sermon or deep rumination on the Christ Allegory.

I make no secret of my bias in rating this film. Wes Anderson is a director who has consistently blown me away, whose talent and vision leaves me at a loss for words. When I say that this is very much more of the same from him, I mean that in no way as a slight – would you complain about being served the same elaborate dessert over and over again if you found it so delicious the first time? Sure, you might eventually get tired of the same treat if had too many times, but he’s the only artist making cakes like this, and you only get one every couple of years, and whenever you dig in you’ll find that, even if it looks the same, the texture is different, the flavour a little richer. How could you turn your nose up at that? Wes has done it again. 10/10.