Something's happened to Wes Anderson. Somewhere past The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, he slid into a deep, self-indulgent rut that's made his subsequent films feel like a chore. Excluding the lively Grand Budapest Hotel, a fleeting glimmer of hope, each new entry in his catalog has grown more tediously derivative than the last, a gradual recline into the echo chamber that's amplified each of his best and worst traits. Asteroid City is just the latest disappointing, star-studded example of that trend.
Make no mistake, the picture looks great. Stuffed with gaudy film techniques, quaint details, incredible color palettes and gorgeous compositions, it makes for a wonderful trailer. Enough to make us think, hey, maybe this time Anderson has finally bucked the monkey and returned to making the kind of quirky, strong-hearted epics that first made us fall in love with him! Not hardly. Three minutes of immediate, nonsensical act-within-a-screenplay-within-a-movie layering was enough to relieve me of that illusion. The rush of ensuing long, dry, same-voiced monologues only reinforced my belief that this auteur has lost his way. This script swings its dialogue like a club. No subtlety, no nuance; eventually it'll trap the audience and beat it to some degree of stunned, quivering submission.
In strictly superficial terms, Anderson's work has never been better. Oversaturated desert colors, wacky small-town eccentricities and 1950s pop culture make for a unique visual playground that matches brilliantly with his style. If he could direct his focus there, on the things that make a Wes Anderson movie look and behave the way they do, while hooking up with a well-suited editing or writing partner, I think the results would be spectacular. As it stands, I'm not sure I've got the willpower to sit through another one like this.
Make no mistake, the picture looks great. Stuffed with gaudy film techniques, quaint details, incredible color palettes and gorgeous compositions, it makes for a wonderful trailer. Enough to make us think, hey, maybe this time Anderson has finally bucked the monkey and returned to making the kind of quirky, strong-hearted epics that first made us fall in love with him! Not hardly. Three minutes of immediate, nonsensical act-within-a-screenplay-within-a-movie layering was enough to relieve me of that illusion. The rush of ensuing long, dry, same-voiced monologues only reinforced my belief that this auteur has lost his way. This script swings its dialogue like a club. No subtlety, no nuance; eventually it'll trap the audience and beat it to some degree of stunned, quivering submission.
In strictly superficial terms, Anderson's work has never been better. Oversaturated desert colors, wacky small-town eccentricities and 1950s pop culture make for a unique visual playground that matches brilliantly with his style. If he could direct his focus there, on the things that make a Wes Anderson movie look and behave the way they do, while hooking up with a well-suited editing or writing partner, I think the results would be spectacular. As it stands, I'm not sure I've got the willpower to sit through another one like this.