With The Phoenician Scheme, Wes Anderson continues to expand a cinematic universe that, by now, has become almost a subgenre unto itself. The meticulously symmetrical framing, precise camera movements, painterly color palette, and an ensemble cast that oscillates between the eccentric and the endearing are all present once again in his new film. The question is whether any of this still surprises us—or if, as many suggest, Anderson is doomed to repeat, again and again, the same film with only minor variations.

The story revolves around Zsa-zsa Korda (Benicio del Toro), a magnate as wealthy as he is extravagant, who survives his sixth plane crash and begins to suspect that someone wants him dead. Faced with the prospect of his demise, he decides to entrust his business legacy to his daughter Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a pipe-smoking nun with rigid principles who maintains a tense and distant relationship with her father. Together, they traverse the corners of the imaginary nation of Phoenicia, encountering corrupt union leaders, eccentric nobles, and suspiciously organized revolutionaries, as they attempt to launch an ambitious infrastructure plan. This time, Anderson offers a more contained narrative than in his previous films, allowing for greater narrative clarity without sacrificing visual complexity. Unlike The French Dispatch and Asteroid City, whose fragmented or metatextual structures challenged the viewer, here we find a more straightforward plot, focused on the father-daughter relationship and the redemption attempt of a deeply loving yet equally corrupt character.

The director once again showcases his talent for world-building. Phoenicia, though fictional, feels alive through industrial tunnels, ornate offices, bridges under construction, and crumbling castles—all arranged with obsessive perfection. Yet, this meticulousness can also become overwhelming, especially when information is delivered at a pace that leaves little room to breathe. Still, the film has moments of genuine freshness, like when Bjorn, the hilarious Norwegian tutor played by Michael Cera, bursts in with his Scandinavian accent and insect obsession, stealing several scenes with a mix of naivety and absurdity.

One of the most compelling readings of The Phoenician Scheme is to see it as the third part of an informal trilogy on the cinematic process. If The French Dispatch explored writing as a way of shaping reality, and Asteroid City reflected on directing and the theatricalization of texts, The Phoenician Scheme focuses on production: on how films—like major engineering projects—depend as much on artistic will as on diplomatic skill to gather resources, persuade partners, and keep egos in check. Zsa-zsa, with his boxes of papers, maps, and contracts, is not so different from a producer trying to make the impossible possible.

This analogy reinforces the notion that Anderson is increasingly speaking about himself—not only about his creative process but about his place within an industrial ecosystem that, as it becomes more monotonous and predictable, singles him out for being “too Wes Anderson.” Yes, it’s true: there’s a formula that repeats. But there is also room for small ruptures, like a Dutch angle (unusual in his work) or a scene of physical comedy more reminiscent of Jerry Lewis than Jacques Tati. The Phoenician Scheme is not a revolution within Anderson’s filmography, nor does it aim to be. Rather, it’s a new chapter in his exploration of family, legacy, art, and bureaucracy. It may not win over those already tired of his style, but it offers enough nuances for those who still take pleasure in his visual language and his ability to combine the absurd with the melancholic. Is it always the same movie? Maybe. But even within that repetition, Anderson continues to find ways to say something new.