by Alexandra I. Mas
Wes Anderson works like a master painter — no wonder his films are often compared to canvases. Not simply composed, but orchestrated, with hues and angles as deliberate as conceptual art. His colour palette is unmistakably his own: whimsical yet restrained, stylised without ever becoming sterile. And while his signature is boldly imprinted, he never succumbs to the vanity of mannerism. The image is following him. Anderson builds each project from instinct and detail, rather than from a rigid blueprint, not really knowing where the movie will take him to the end.
One line echoes long after the credits roll: “When something gets in your way, flatten it.” A line that defines our protagonist — a grotesquely magnetic magnate, cast in Manichean extremes, Zsa-Zsa Korda, the capitalist archetype — all sharp corners and cold deals — is played with luminous irony by Benicio Del Toro. Next to him, we encounter, with unsettling calm, his daughter, played with grace by Mia Threapleton. She delivers a controlled, meticulously crafted performance, radiating emotional depth beneath a poised exterior. Her portrayal becomes the story’s moral axis.
At the film’s heart lies the strange and new bond between father and daughter, a relationship delicately and inventively rendered. As viewers, we expect the eventual fall of this seemingly fragile young woman, adorned in precious stones by her father and newly acquainted with the trappings of an opulent life. Instead of a tale of decay, we are offered a metamorphosis. He doesn’t so much redeem himself as dissolve into something else entirely. Not saved, but seen — lit from within by his daughter’s quiet force. Not through deliverance in the traditional sense, but through exposure to a kind of luminous clarity, embodied by his daughter.
There is a turning point: confronted with doubts about his biological connection to her, Zsa-Zsa nonetheless chooses to be her father. And she, in a mirrored act of faith, accepts the role of his heir. But this is no straightforward inheritance. This isn’t about becoming the next titan of industry, nor about embracing a legacy of wealth and control. The film gently subverts these tropes, instead suggesting that something intangible — moral, emotional, almost spiritual — is being passed on. In a narrative peppered with clinical deaths and divine visitations, Anderson invites us into a world that seems both whimsical and transcendent. Charlotte Gainsbourg appears briefly but memorably as the girl’s mother.
The cast is nothing short of spectacular — an ensemble of remarkable talent, each bringing a distinct note to this orchestral film. Michael Cera is a brilliantly complex double agent — ambiguous, jittery, and oddly magnetic. Tom Hanks lends a quiet authority, intensity and a veil of enigma. Mathieu Amalric balances charm with menace, Jeffrey Wright is deeply affecting, and Richard Ayoade provides dry, calculated wit. Scarlett Johansson exudes icy glamour, while Benedict Cumberbatch’s appearance as Uncle Nubar is a masterclass in presence — a cameo so dryly funny it barely needs context. Bill Murray, of course, plays God — who else could? Willem Dafoe is both sinister and hilarious, F. Murray Abraham delivers prophetic weight, and Rupert Friend enchants with a wry elegance.
Then, of course, there is the construction of the film itself: each scene an intricate diorama, where movement is choreographed to the second and every object seems deliberately placed. This is signature Anderson, a life lived within symmetrical frames and heightened tones. But far from cold or mechanical, these choices evoke a powerful sense of control in a world on the brink of emotional chaos. Through this intense aesthetic order, we are allowed to feel the quiet disarray of the characters within.
It’s almost here — June 6th. This film is an ode to tenderness where you least expect it, and proof that precision need not mean rigidity. Love here is not loud, but luminous. Power is not toppled, but softened. And those you think you’ve pinned down will dissolve and reappear, like figures in a dream. It’s a fresco, controlled, yes, but trembling with the human. Go. Watch it. Let the details disarm you.
