Asteroid City (2023, Wes Anderson) (Patreon)

65/100

Astonishing visual conceit—in a sense, it's the familiar Wes look (albeit heavier on pastels), but I couldn't get over the degree to which he and Yeoman and the other craftsfolk manage to create the impression of a Max Fischer Production that's being staged outdoors. Asteroid City looks like a movie and a play simultaneously and equally, facilitating the climactic rupture that suddenly provides it with something like a soul. Had been feeling a tad frustrated prior to that, plentiful delights notwithstanding; Anderson now has his pick of Hollywood actors to an extent unseen since Woody Allen's heyday, and this overstuffed ensemble reminded me of Shadows and Fog, my go-to example of talent being squandered Because I Can for over 30 years now. (Liev Schreiber and Hope Davis in particular are given virtually nothing to do. And Matt Dillon's just a distraction. Points for self-awareness via the Goldblum gag, though.) There's so much whimsy going on, between the Junior Stargazers and the vending machine that dispenses plots of potentially radioactive land and the singing cowboy who's hot for teacher and the post-CE3K military lockdown and so on and so forth, that Auggie and Midge (and their respective "actors"—scare quotes so that it's clear I'm not talking about Schwartzman and Johansson) never accrue the emotional weight that's (eventually) clearly intended. Auggie's actor's crisis lands so beautifully, in both its Brody and its Robbie stages, that I briefly thought this might be one of those rare films that packs its entire meaning and force into one short sequence that reverberates throughout...and maybe I'll still get there on a future viewing. Gotta say, though, that the whole "You can't wake up if you don't fall asleep" thing kinda ruined it for me, turning what had been gorgeously delicate into an unwelcome bludgeon. Actual ending delivered no catharsis, either. Bear in mind, however, that my original grade for Rushmore, back at NYFF '98, was a B. Might've been a 65, is now an 85. I don't foresee this one growing that much—again, it's just been spread too thin, made room for too many fun cameos—but I've learned to think of these initial assessments as provisional.