The Phoenician Scheme
It’s a bold and enriching experience to admit when you’re wrong. Ideally, you’re wrong about something like a movie—not, say, matters of the heart or life in general—but we don’t really get to choose. I’ve done both. Luckily, in this instance, I was only wrong about the former.
When I first saw the trailer for The Phoenician Scheme, I groaned—audibly. Here we go again, I thought. Another whimsical, perfectly composed, awkwardly sentimental Wes Anderson film. And listen, he’s one of my favorites. The man has never made a capital-B Bad film. But his last two features, The French Dispatch and Asteroid City, felt like they were missing something. There’s craft, there’s vision, but the spark—some core of emotional realism—felt out of reach. There are moments, yes, but they don’t quite stick the landing.
This one does. And I’m happy to admit I was wrong. The Phoenician Scheme is, for the most part, a joy.
It simplifies the equation. We follow a country-trotting journey with a clear objective—but what grounds the film, what gives it weight, is its emotional core: the strained, yearning relationship between a father (Benicio Del Toro) and his estranged daughter (Mia Threapleton). All the zany detours and lavish accoutrements are built around that simple story, and it pays off. It feels meticulously orchestrated in a way that’s not just aesthetic, but emotional. Anderson gives the relationships as much care and detail as he gives to the diorama sets and camera choreography.
The cast isn’t just here to cameo. They show up. They make choices. They act. You get a number of scenes that feel composed like a play, and truly give the actors time to really create the scene. Michael Cera, in particular, is getting applause across the board—and it’s well deserved. He’s a powerhouse in this, and I truly hope Anderson brings him into the fold going forward. Richard Ayoade is another highlight. His screen time is short, but he adds so much—his dry, oddball timing lends real texture to the film. Both actors represent a kind of awkward comedic talent that isn’t played for cheap laughs. It’s measured. Earned.
Stylistically, Wes makes some choices here that feel like a shift. There are moments of fantasy and quiet contemplation, naturalistic humor that isn’t rooted in discomfort, even action beats shot with handheld urgency. It’s looser, in the best way. More alive. I was genuinely impressed, and I hope this marks a new chapter in his career. It’s simplified, but not slight—clearer, but no less rich.
Does it top The Grand Budapest Hotel? No. It stands just to the side of it, maybe in its shadow, but it stands tall all the same. Wes Anderson proves here that he still has it in him. That he still knows how to make something genuinely wonderful.