I confess: Wes Anderson films have never really done it for me. His cinema feels more architectural than visceral—films that seem made by and for the art-world elite, keeping the viewer at arm’s length. There’s a “you can look, but you can’t touch” energy to them.
Don’t get me wrong: I went to film school. I fell in love with cinematography. I understand and respect the craftsmanship. But I believe the art should serve the story, not the other way around. And it’s hard not to think about how many brilliant filmmakers—especially those without wealth or connections—never get the chance to bring their vision to life, while others, talented though they may be, can direct deeply personal, meticulously crafted films with little resistance. Sometimes it feels less like telling a story, and more like projecting a curated inner world onto the screen—and calling it auteurship.
Wes Anderson has long been considered a modern auteur—a director whose signature style is instantly recognisable. But it’s worth asking: is a signature style enough? Especially when a film like The Phoenician Scheme has all the right ingredients— excellent cast, compelling themes, stunning visuals—but still keeps the audience at a distance.
The film opens with a fantastically over-the-top, perfectly scored plane crash—just the latest in a string of assassination attempts on Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda (Benicio del Toro), a ruthless industrialist and arms dealer. The near-death experience prompts him to reconnect with his estranged daughter Liesl, a quick-witted, pipe-smoking novice nun played effortlessly by Mia Threapleton (who I later discovered is Kate Winslet’s daughter, perhaps proving us wrong about nepo babies).
The chemistry between del Toro and Threapleton is black comedy excellence. Their dynamic is only further enhanced by Michael Cera’s bumbling Bjorn, whose comedic timing is simply flawless. As Korda attempts to pull off a monumental infrastructure project in the fictional nation of Phoenicia, the trio navigates a world populated by a revolving door of cameos—Tom Hanks, Scarlett Johansson, and the IT Crowd’s Richard Ayoade among them.
It’s an extravagant plot with some brilliantly dry, absurdist humour (Korda’s version of hospitality? Telling guests to help themselves to a hand grenade.) But the actual business dealings are rendered in frenetic, dialogue-heavy vignettes, so rapid-fire and stylised you’d need a flowchart just to follow them.
The commitment to visual design is total, and therein lies the problem. Every frame is meticulously composed, but the characters, the story, the emotional arcs—they all struggle to breathe. During the boardroom scenes, I realised I hadn’t absorbed a single line of dialogue. I was too distracted by the immaculate symmetry of the room. The mise-en-scène had become louder than the script.
Under less composed direction, a scene where nine sons appear on a balcony, one of them launching flaming arrows at their father, would have had me in stitches. Here, it’s so carefully orchestrated it loses its bite.
Still, there are moments of grace. Del Toro gives Korda weight—he feels like a man burdened by real history. Threapleton brings a raw, grounded presence to Liesl, and Cera’s refreshing energy cuts through the clockwork world. These three are the human thread holding the film together—but even they can’t quite overcome the director’s iron grip on tone.
Thematically, The Phoenician Scheme gestures toward redemption, family, and the moral rot of capitalism. Korda could be a great anti-hero—but we’re kept too far from his inner life to care deeply. The film wants us to invest in his reunion with Liesl, yet it skips over the hard emotional work that would make their bond believable. She’s a woman who thought her father killed her mother, who hasn’t seen him since he sent her to a convent—why does she trust him so quickly?
It’s another case of aesthetics eclipsing character. Anderson’s worlds are like museum pieces: perfectly curated, immaculately framed, and completely untouchable. It’s cinema as a snow globe. But if he’d come from the underclass, I wonder if the snow globe would be cracked, and whether we’d finally get to feel the cold.
(I was leaning toward a 6, but the moments between Korda, Liesl, and Bjorn—away from the chaos of cameos and business dealings—earned it a 7.)
7/10
