Rich men move the world, and never has that been clearer in Wes Anderson's body of work than in The Phoenician Scheme, for which the director slows his supervisory roll to co-write once again with Roman Coppola.
Starring Benicio del Toro, who delivers his best performance as Anatole "Zsa-zsa" Korda, an international arms dealer and schemer, the film begins with our lead narrowly escaping the latest in a string of assassination attempts in a scene that may feature the most bloodshed an Anderson film has ever seen. In his post-near-death clarity, Korda resolves to tutor his eldest daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), as his successor, pulling her out of the convent where she's lived since she was 5 years old.
The who's-who of Anderson's ensemble unfolds from there, with Tom Hanks, Bryan Cranston, Riz Ahmed, Mathieu Amalric, Jeffrey Wright, Scarlett Johansson, Benedict Cumberbatch and many more logging their timesheets with the director, some returning and some making their debut in the oeuvre.
Leaning into what functions as a "one last job" trope, Korda enters into a final scheme with his daughter and Bjørn Lund (Michael Cera), a Norwegian entomologist and de facto romantic lead, in tow, bringing them via private plane to various stakeholders, businessmen and otherwise wealthy investors in faraway, exotic locations to gather funds for the development of infrastructure in Phoenicia, for which he plans to use slave labour.
Anderson's films have always had an imperialist bent to them; his (usually white) characters are prototypically enshrined by their worldly possessions, his narrators rattling off their (usually private) academic pursuits before they're even given a chance to speak, their eccentricities a mask for their underlying insecurities and parental or psychological wounds. It's interesting, then, despite casting a Puerto Rican actor as the paternal lead, Anderson is at his most unapologetic in expressing his hegemonic impulses.
Another eyebrow-raising choice is evident in Anderson's continued casting of Bill Murray in the wake of misconduct claims. He also casts F. Murray Abraham, who has had sexual abuse allegations levelled against him in recent years. Under further scrutiny, the film's attitudes toward its female characters raise further questions.
Johansson's Cousin Hilda being subjugated in her betrothal to Korda — as he simultaneously attempts to exploit her for financial gain — leaves a bad taste. Her denial of him is one among few small victories for women orbiting Korda's supernova. Similarly, Liesl's possibly-murdered mother (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is given a voice only in the afterlife. Meanwhile, Liesl (played by another in an endless lineage of Anderson's sullen, monotone ingénues) is forced to suffer the whims of her eccentric father as she attempts to bring him to God.
Like any well-rounded story arc, our Grinch's heart inevitably grows three sizes after Korda realizes the meaning of life amid the growing danger of assassination — but we're left with little resolve. Rich men may repent, but their bad deeds can't be undone. It's through Anderson's most prominent integration of Christianity that he attempts to absolve the paternal figure, rather than through honest character development (see the titular character in The Royal Tenenbaums arc masterfully orchestrated by the late Gene Hackman for proof that Anderson is indeed capable of directing such a feat).
There are many moral icks to unravel throughout — but even Anderson's continually lauded cinematic and aesthetic tendencies are lagging in The Phoenician Scheme. The sets are claustrophobic, the ornamentation is prescriptive, and even the 1950s decor landmarks leave much to be desired. With its storyboards practically bleeding into film, The Phoenician Scheme is much more obviously suited to Anderson's stop-motion style (Fantastic Mr. Fox, Isle of Dogs). That all said, he does take uncharacteristic leaps with his camera angles, relying less on stationary and symmetrical framing and using dynamic movement in a way that is genuinely intriguing. Cohesion between scenes suffers as a result, but this is a growing pain.
As Anderson's hallmark cinematic strengths are largely absent in this latest instalment to his collection, so too is his ensemble. While the director puts Cumberbatch, del Toro and Cera to excellent use, Hanks, Cranston and Willem Dafoe's slots are largely wasted.
With the excellent, career-defining The French Dispatch just a few years in rearview, it's disappointing to see how the director has fallen so far so quickly.