An intimate story in ochre, captivating in its melancholic stagnation, or a toothless meta-fiction where plot pales before the charm of the image? What is «Asteroid City»?

Wes Anderson is always Wes Anderson. He feels like detachment from existence behind a screen of soft color filters. He is an immersion into a theatrical image of the real world. Caressed and berated by audiences and critics alike, Anderson always remains a traveler, describing quirky microcosms living within the borders of the political map.

“Asteroid City” is the story of one such microcosm in the southwestern United States. Young astronomers and their families gather for the annual festival in Asteroid City, a small town near a nuclear test site whose only attraction is an asteroid remnant. But all of this is a play, and viewers learn about the stages of its creation through a TV show hosted by a guide (Bryan Cranston).

The consistency of “Asteroid City” is like quicksand. Consisting of many elements and layers, it differs from the natural phenomenon only in that it pulls you in faster the more the viewer is immobilized by the lack of plot dynamics and the measured accompaniment of barely recognizable Alexandre Desplat. And you can only surface from the muted colors of the widescreen, act-divided play—which itself is part of a meta-fiction—into the black-and-white world of narrow-format television, which sometimes indulges in such outpourings of thought that you sense the invisible influence of Lynch, monotonously hypnotizing with Anderson’s narration: “You won’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.”

And absolutely everyone is asleep: life-weary actress Midge Campbell (Scarlett Johansson), war photographer Augie Steenbeck (Jason Schwartzman) who, three weeks after his wife’s death, is finally forced to tell his children what happened, his charming but seemingly escaped-from-the-corridors-of-the-Overlook-Hotel daughters who identify with the extraterrestrial and otherworldly, and the manager of a half-empty hotel where even a dreary half-bridge over a highway leads nowhere.

To nowhere… It seems everything in Anderson’s tale leads there, because while the camera does cartwheels between black-and-white and color images, focuses the viewer’s gaze with centered framing, glides, turns, and dictates to the viewer what needs to be examined in more detail, where to turn their head, the content fills with painful stagnation, from which no one is allowed to escape the bonds of their inner world. These inner worlds are the rooms where the characters are staying: the darkroom and the bathroom. And only through small windows, symmetrically positioned relative to each other in the frame, can people symmetrical in their spiritual sorrow open up. But only a little, because even dialogues brimming with obviousness demonstrate the weariness of existence.

– You’re not here.
– We’re not there.
– I’ll be there when I arrive.

The film lacks completion, in whatever regard. The characters don’t achieve their goals, or only barely touch them: the chase with a shootout is endless, the country band just stays in place, the father can’t decide on his daughters’ future, and the grandfather gives up trying to relocate their mother’s burial site, the contest winner’s check is handed out off-screen, the burnt house isn’t fully repaired, even the purchased plot of land seems not really purchased after all.

But that is precisely the film’s charm, its essence. You cannot accuse the director of a lack of ideas in the film because, amidst the “nothing” leading to “nowhere,” everyone finds it a little easier to discover something that will stir the “nothingness” of life. The thirst for discovery, conspiracy theories, love, and even an alien who, to avoid disturbing the universal slumber, behaves like a timid but mischievous kitten. And so that a person can notice the opportunity to feel something new, they need a little rest, a small quarantine in a quiet place.

In one fell swoop, Anderson not only justified a plot twist but also played with the clichés of militaristic US policy, as well as the customs of Americans themselves, who, for example, manage to fit an amusement park with a Ferris wheel and cotton candy even in the smallest square.

What then? When the temporary upheaval subsides, the colorful sets empty, and life returns to its usual course, does the viewer return to the starting point of meaningless cinema? Did the director simply create a charming picture that forces the characters to mark time both literally and figuratively? Strangely enough, unlike “,” Wes Anderson made a very cohesive, meaningful film. Describing an escape from reality, it itself is a way to relax and not notice it for at least two hours.<br> [[post_link: 18360]]<br> For more details, see our analysis: “«Французский вестник» – бенефис одного режиссёра”.

Варвара Ульяненок

«Французский вестник» – бенефис одного режиссёра

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