No one goes to a Wes Anderson movie expecting heartfelt melodrama or realistic human emotions and interactions. They go for intricately crafted doll’s house dramas featuring boxes-within-boxes narratives and arch, satirical conundrums. At best, these range from the piercingly acute family portraits of The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) to the bittersweet comedy capers of The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) and the delightfully off-the-wall stop-motion animation of Isle of Dogs (2018). At worst, they put the “irk” into “quirky”, with The Darjeeling Limited (2007) and, more recently, The French Dispatch (2021) stretching patience to breaking point.
This latest feature from the world’s most famous corduroy fan may nod cheekily towards the heyday of the Actors Studio (James Dean, Marilyn Monroe et al) but it’s as detachedly Andersonian as ever; a Swiss watch-style meta-puzzle of interlocking stories with a faux-nostalgic, sub-Spielbergian edge and a stellar cast acting like animated mannequins. Fans will doubtless be dazzled by its meticulous imitation-of-life-in-miniature visual aesthetic, yet I swithered between whimsical amusement, mild curiosity and outright irritation.
