Wes Anderson’s Whimsy Goes Too Far
Wes Anderson has always had a penchant for dysfunctional underdogs—the eccentric high schooler Max Fischer of Rushmore, the failed family of geniuses in The Royal Tenenbaums, the herd of garbage-dwelling canines in Isle of Dogs. It’s no surprise that the filmmaker’s newest feature focuses on another lovable long shot: print media. The film is an homage to the mid-century heyday of The New Yorker and its ilk—a time when writers seemingly had no spending restrictions, deadlines, or word limits.
Anderson has alwaystakes a different approach, attempting to sift that aesthetic onto an entire print magazine. His signatures are all there: beautifully built sets that resemble elaborate cutouts, droll line readings that prompt frequent chuckles but few belly laughs, and a deeply controlling directorial approach. But while paid specific tribute to Jacques Cousteau, or to Satyajit Ray, his latest tries to honor too broad of a subject. The resulting film is a breezy viewing experience—but also a shallow one.
