What makes for a standout performance in a Wes Anderson movie?

The writer-director has fostered career turns for a host of notable actors: Bill Murray in Rushmore and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou; Gene Hackman in The Royal Tenenbaums; Ralph Fiennes in The Grand Budapest Hotel; Jeffrey Wright in The French Dispatch; Jason Schwartzman and Scarlett Johansson in Asteroid City. In each case his movies have either inspired the performers to shift into a higher gear (Murray, Fiennes, Schwartzman) or allowed them to delightfully drill down into the qualities that have always made them distinct (Hackman, Wright, Johansson).

And so what of Benicio Del Toro in The Phoenician Scheme? He plays Zsa-zsa Korda, an unscrupulous business profiteer, circa 1950. At the start of the film, after surviving yet another assassination attempt, Korda feels compelled to enlist his estranged daughter—a novitiate nun named Liesl (Mia Threapleton)—in his latest venture. He’s seeking an heir; she hopes to steer the potential windfall toward the common good. 

Del Toro has long been a favorite actor who has nevertheless never given a favorite performance. It’s more about the bulky sorrow he brings to his films, along with a rumpled mug you can’t help but love. His best turns can be found in his breakout, The Usual Suspects; the melodrama Things We Lost in the Fire, opposite Halle Berry; Denis Villeneuve’s cartel thriller, Sicario; and Steven Soderbergh’s two-part, revolutionary biopic, Che.

And I would include Wes Anderson’s anthology film The French Dispatch, in which Del Toro anchored one of the three main sections as a depressive, homicidal artist who paints a masterpiece while incarcerated. There, Del Toro’s ruefulness comes to the fore, as he brings a quiet despair, as well as a fundamental integrity, to the part of Moses Rosenthaler. Speaking softly (and rarely), he’s comparably catatonic to the motormouthing that dominates so much of the rest of the movie. And yet he—alongside Jeffrey Wright’s weary but curious writer in another section—forms the film’s bittersweet soul. Del Toro shines in The French Dispatch because the role allows him to evoke his performative essence within the context of a mournfully wacky Wes Anderson world.

In contrast, The Phoenician Scheme asks him to stretch—and it doesn’t work. It’s not that Del Toro isn’t capable (he has range). It’s that, as Korda, he’s asked to conform to a particular Anderson type: the fast-talking, deadpan, linguistic gymnast who sticks the landing with an unexpectedly emotional bon mot. As a lifelong scoundrel and cheat who has survived multiple assassination attempts, Korda needs Del Toro’s weariness (as well as that face, which even when he was younger looked like it had seen too much). Yet when he’s required to deliver fast patter—especially at loud volume—the performance feels false. And asked to carry the entire movie (this is the first Anderson feature with a clear lead character since The Grand Budapest Hotel), the weight is placed on the wrong shoulders. It’s the rare case of Anderson trying to mold an actor to his style, rather than offering a way for them to flourish within it.

What of the rest of the movie—and other performers?

As Liesl, the relatively unknown Threapleton is an easier Anderson fit—perhaps too much so. She has the deadpan demeanor down, but builds an emotional fortress with it that isn’t penetrated until the unlikely possibility of romance allows for a few cracks to appear. A number of Anderson regulars pop in here and there with charmingly reliable turns—Johansson, Wright, Murray, Tom Hanks, Bryan Cranston, Richard Ayoade—but the best performance comes from another newcomer: Michael Cera. He’s a perfect fit as Bjorn, Korda’s administrative assistant, even pattering away in an accent. (Cera probably deserves a Best Supporting Actor nomination for his pronunciation of “Holy moly!” alone.) What’s more, he gets the opportunity to shift into a new gear, eventually becoming—dare I say it—a dashing leading man type.

Cera is The Phoenician Scheme’s brightest spot. To be fair, other cast members offer plenty of laughs—Hanks and Cranston’s basketball game against Del Toro and a befuddled Riz Ahmed is a comic highlight. And in terms of production design, costuming, and camerawork (cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel takes over for Anderson regular Robert Yeoman), the director and his collaborators are at the top of their games. Alexandre Desplat, another familiar member of the Anderson team, brings a new lushness to this score. Yet despite all of that, the movie feels slighter than other Anderson outings—and not just because it offers one of his most streamlined narratives in years.

The Phoenician Scheme repeats many of its phrases and gags, including some—such as business negotiations that devolve into shouting matches—that aren’t all that compelling the first time. The heart of the story—the redemption of a rapscallion at the hands of his family members—has been more movingly dramatized in the likes of Royal Tenenbaums, Steve Zissou, and Fantastic Mr. Fox. And while it is his most religiously overt film, I found The Phoenician Scheme to be theologically thin.

Religiosity is all over the movie, starting with Liesl, who accuses her father of “unholy mischief.” In response, he tells her that she “can still believe in God if you want,” although he does replace her rosary with a bejeweled, “secular” one. There is some interesting discussion of prayer; Korda’s guilt-ridden visions of the afterlife (shot in striking black and white, with Murray as God); and a map of the movie’s fictional, vaguely Eastern-European setting that consists of locations with biblical names. (The term “biblical” is thrown about a lot.)

All of this, however, strikes me as referential religiosity. The only thing The Phoenician Scheme believes in—and the only interpretation it really allows room for—is “sincerity.” In a key scene midway through the movie, Liesl explains to Korda that praying isn’t just asking for what you want and receiving it. “What matters,” she says, “is the sincerity of your devotion.” Korda literally points and responds: “That’s it.” Note that in their first meeting, neither one of them is sincere. Korda offers a brisk apology for not seeing her in six years, while she makes a quick sign of the cross and says, “I forgive you.” But neither of them really means it; they’re performing what’s expected in that moment. Throughout the movie, they continually repeat questions to each other in response to evasive answers; both are trying to get to a sincere exchange. (One of Korda’s pet phrases is “Let’s communicate,” but he rarely does it.)

This understanding of sincerity as the greatest good is fine as it goes, but it’s less interesting to me than other Anderson outings that were “secular” on the surface, yet percolating with spiritual significance underneath. I think of Steve Zissou’s yearning—not only for restored relationship, but something transcendent in his search for the jaguar shark. The Grand Budapest Hotel offered, among other things, an understanding of nostalgia as a resurrecting force. In The French Dispatch, the transitions from black and white to color suggested something like an eschatological coloring book. And Max Fischer’s journey in Rushmore was at once a coming-of-age story and a parable of the Christian narrative of creation, fall, redemption, restoration. I may be the only person who interprets these movies in these ways, but at least they were layered enough to allow for that sort of engagement.

Certainly The Phoenician Scheme still fits within what I’ve come to call “Wes Anderson’s restoration cinema.” It just does so more plainly, less poetically. (Spoiler ahead.) The movie ends with Korda and Liesl living in humble familiarity and genuine sincerity. It’s a lovely sequence, patiently staged and beautifully performed. In fact, given that Del Toro is nearly wordless throughout, I’d even say it’s his best moment.

(6/11/2025)