When the curtain rises on a new Wes Anderson film, a certain comfort washes over the seasoned cinephile. You know, with an almost mathematical certainty, what you are about to receive: meticulously crafted symmetrical frames, a color palette so deliberate it could be copyrighted, whip-pans that snap with rhythmic precision, and a cast of familiar faces delivering deadpan dialogue with melancholic flair. Anderson has done more than cultivate a style; he has forged his own genre. His 12th feature film, The Phoenician Scheme, is a testament to this, a movie that is, from its first frame to its last, unmistakably, unreservedly, and perhaps problematically, a Wes Anderson picture.
Following hot on the heels of 2023’s Asteroid City, this new venture opens in select theaters before a wider release, carrying with it the weight of expectation. The film promises a globe-trotting caper centered on a morally ambiguous magnate, played by the formidable Benicio del Toro. But as the intricate plot unfolds, a nagging question emerges from between the perfectly arranged props and pastel-hued sets: has the architect become a prisoner of his own design?
The Phoenician Scheme starts with a bang—literally and figuratively—and for a glorious first act, it feels like we are witnessing the master director reconnect with the very human heart that powered his greatest works. However, the film slowly, methodically, and beautifully builds a labyrinth around itself, ultimately getting lost in its own intricate corridors. It is a work of breathtaking artistry that leaves you admiring the construction from a distance, but never truly invites you inside. It is, in essence, a film that showcases both the director’s genius and his most frustrating excesses, leaving audiences with a gorgeous, hollow, and profoundly perplexing question: is this all there is?
The Brilliant Blueprint: A Scheme That Starts Strong
The initial premise of The Phoenician Scheme is as tantalizing as any of Anderson’s creations. We are introduced to Zía Corda (Benicio del Toro), a vaguely sinister international businessman whose various enterprises—shady, legal, and everything in between—have made him a pariah in some countries and a target for assassins in most. The screenplay, penned by Anderson with a story credit for longtime collaborator Roman Coppola, wastes no time establishing Corda’s precarious existence. Recovering from the latest attempt on his life, he makes a characteristically eccentric decision: he names his estranged, aspiring-nun daughter, Lisel (Mia Threapleton), as the sole heir to his complicated empire.
This act sets in motion the titular scheme: a grand, final project that requires a massive influx of capital from a motley crew of skittish investors. To help him on his journey, Corda is joined by his personal tutor, the endearingly goofy Bjorn, played by a pitch-perfect Michael Cera.
It is in this first third that the movie absolutely sings. The success rests squarely on the shoulders of its central trio, beginning with a truly magnetic performance from Benicio del Toro. A relative newcomer to Anderson’s sprawling acting troupe, del Toro doesn’t just fit into the director’s world; he commands it. He finds a profound depth in Zía Corda, a man who should be utterly unlikable. He’s a manipulator, a global provocateur, a neglectful father, and yet, del Toro imbues him with a weary charm and a flicker of wounded humanity. He’s a complicated man hated by the world, and del Toro makes you understand, if not condone, his reasons. This is easily one of the most compelling lead performances in an Anderson film since Gene Hackman’s Royal Tenenbaum, a character who feels lived-in and real beneath the stylistic varnish.
Flanking him are two superb supporting players. Mia Threapleton, in her Anderson debut, is a revelation as Lisel. She brings a wonderfully dry, deadpan energy to the role of a young woman torn between a life of quiet faith and the chaotic, morally gray world of her father. Her comedic timing is impeccable, a perfect counterpoint to del Toro’s brooding charisma. Rounding out the core group is Michael Cera as Bjorn. It’s almost baffling that Cera hasn’t been in a Wes Anderson film before now; his gentle awkwardness and sincere-yet-goofy persona slide into the Andersonian aesthetic so seamlessly it feels like a homecoming. As a trio, del Toro, Threapleton, and Cera develop a powerful comedic and emotional rhythm. They are the rock, the anchor that grounds the film’s fantastical premise. For a solid 40 minutes, you are with them, invested in their strange family dynamic and eager to see where their journey leads.
The Puzzle Box Cracks: Where the Scheme Goes Wrong
Unfortunately, the journey leads directly into a narrative quagmire. As has become increasingly common in Anderson’s recent filmography, The Phoenician Scheme expands its cast and scope until the very foundation begins to buckle. As Zía, Lisel, and Bjorn set out to meet the various investors, the film transforms into an interlocking puzzle box of celebrity cameos.
The roster is, as always, impressive. We meet characters played by Tom Hanks, Bryan Cranston, Jeffrey Wright, Scarlett Johansson, Riz Ahmed, Mathieu Amalric, and Benedict Cumberbatch. Each gets their own little vignette, their own meticulously designed set, and their own quirky mannerisms. Hanks and Cranston, for example, appear as a bickering pair of financiers who operate like a classic vaudeville comedy duo, providing some genuine laughs.
But with the introduction of each new face, the film’s focus becomes more diluted. The compelling central narrative of the father, the daughter, and the tutor is pushed to the periphery. The emotional core that the first act so carefully established begins to decay. The film loses its momentum, trading narrative drive for a series of beautifully rendered but disconnected sketches. It’s a classic case of the whole being significantly less than the sum of its star-studded parts. The movie slowly drifts away from the characters we’ve come to care about, leaving the audience stranded in an ocean of ironic detachment.
This is where the film feels less like a story and more like a museum exhibit. Anderson, working for the first time with the brilliant cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel (Amélie, Inside Llewyn Davis), creates images of breathtaking beauty. Every shot is a painting. Yet, this beauty feels cold and uninviting. It’s as if there’s a thick sheet of glass separating the audience from the events on screen, a phenomenon that many Anderson admirers celebrate but which feels particularly alienating here. The mantra becomes, “Look, but don’t touch. Watch, but don’t feel.” This is a stark contrast to the films that made him a cinematic icon. The sadness of The Royal Tenenbaums, the defiant creativity of Rushmore, the earnest adventure of The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou—these films balanced their unique style with a powerful, beating heart. The Phoenician Scheme feels like it has all of the style, but its heart was left on the drawing board.
The Anderson Auteur Theory: A Style in Need of a Soul
To understand the shortcomings of The Phoenician Scheme is to understand the evolution of Wes Anderson as an auteur. No living director has a more instantly recognizable aesthetic. But style, when not tethered to substance, can become a cage. This film, more than any other in his recent work, feels like a deep dive into the director’s own worst instincts. He seems more in love with his intricate sets and his detached, literary sensibility than in the fundamental task of engaging his audience in a story. He has become so detached, in fact, that he feels less like a storyteller and more like a curator, an audience member sitting next to you, commenting on the pretty pictures.
The film draws a fascinating, if unflattering, parallel to another recent auteurist indulgence: Christopher Nolan’s Tenet. Both films represent a director at the peak of their technical powers, with a blank check to realize their wildest visions. And in both cases, the result was a film that showcased their incredible talents but was ultimately dragged down by their signature excesses—Nolan by his obsession with convoluted temporal mechanics, and Anderson by his fetishization of symmetrical, emotionless dioramas. Nolan, however, rebounded spectacularly with Oppenheimer, a film that refocused his immense skills on a deeply human story, grounding its epic scale in the tortured psyche of its main character.
This is the course correction Wes Anderson desperately needs. He needs to find his own Oppenheimer—or, more accurately, he needs to rediscover his own Max Fischer or Royal Tenenbaum. He needs a central character so vibrant, so flawed, so compelling that the meticulous world must be constructed around them, not the other way around. He comes tantalizingly close with Benicio del Toro’s Zía Corda, but then he literally loses the plot, abandoning his most interesting asset in favor of a sprawling, unfocused ensemble piece.
One has to wonder if Anderson feels challenged anymore. Since 2007’s The Darjeeling Limited, his films have been financed by billionaire producer Steven Rales, essentially granting him the kind of unchecked creative freedom that most artists can only dream of. While this patronage has undoubtedly allowed for some of modern cinema’s most unique visions, it may also be a roadblock to his artistic development. Without the constraints of a studio or the need to compromise, it feels as if Anderson is content to retreat further into his own aesthetic bubble. He is no longer challenging himself or his audience. He is stuck in a beautiful, impeccably designed, and utterly inescapable rut. He has built a creative prison for himself, and The Phoenician Scheme is its most ornate and lonely cell.
A Constellation of Wasted Stars?
While the film’s narrative structure is its primary flaw, the overstuffed cast creates its own set of problems. An ensemble is only as strong as the material given to its members, and here, the wealth of talent is spread far too thin.
As mentioned, the central trio of Benicio del Toro, Mia Threapleton, and Michael Cera are the undeniable standouts. Their chemistry is the film’s greatest strength, and their performances alone make the first act a must-see for Anderson fans. The comedic stylings of Tom Hanks and Bryan Cranston are also a highlight, providing a welcome burst of classic humor that feels both fresh and perfectly suited to the Andersonian tone.
Beyond that, however, the returns diminish rapidly. Acclaimed actors like Scarlett Johansson and Richard Ayoade, both of whom have proven their comedic and dramatic chops time and again, are essentially wasted. They appear for fleeting moments, given little to do but occupy a beautifully designed space and recite a few lines of quirky dialogue. They are less than an afterthought; they are decorative props with famous faces. The same can be said for Jeffrey Wright, Riz Ahmed, and Benedict Cumberbatch, talents of immense caliber who are reduced to glorified cameos. Their presence feels less in service of the story and more like a contractual obligation in a fashionable cinematic club. This isn’t just a missed opportunity; it’s a fundamental misunderstanding of what makes an ensemble film work. A great ensemble, like in Robert Altman’s Nashville or Anderson’s own The Grand Budapest Hotel, feels like a tapestry where every thread is vital. Here, it feels like a collage of disconnected, albeit very famous, pieces.
The Final Verdict: Should You Invest in The Phoenician Scheme?
So, where does that leave us? The Phoenician Scheme is a frustrating paradox. It is simultaneously one of the most visually stunning films of the year and one of the most emotionally inert. Its first third is a masterclass in character, comedy, and tone, powered by a career-best performance from its lead. Its final two-thirds are a slow, beautiful collapse under the weight of its own stylistic indulgence.
There are genuine laugh-out-loud moments and images of such compositional perfection that you’ll want to frame them. The performances from the core cast cannot be faulted for any of the script’s shortcomings; they bring all the energy and charisma they can muster. But these highlights cannot bail out a story that loses its way and a director who seems to have lost interest in his own characters. The final verdict of “it’s fine” feels almost generous, a grade buoyed entirely by the strength of its opening act and the sheer talent on display.
If you are a devoted Wes Anderson acolyte, one who cherishes the aesthetic above all else, you will find plenty to admire here. The craftsmanship is undeniable. But if you are looking for an evolution, for a story with the resonant humanity of his earlier work, or for a film that does more than just look pretty, you will likely walk away disappointed. The Phoenician Scheme is a flawed, fascinating failure—a film that proves, once and for all, that even in a world of perfect symmetry, something can still be profoundly out of balance.
What are your thoughts on The Phoenician Scheme? Are you still excited to see it, or do you agree that Wes Anderson is in a creative rut? Let us know down in the comments below!