A peculiar tension exists inside nearly every frame created by writer-director Wes Anderson. The geometric visual preoccupation of the framing; the actors, sometimes in motion but more frequently motionless; the manifestation of storytelling as a series of the prettiest shoebox dioramas in modern cinema: It’s more than a style or a look to Anderson. It’s his way of seeing the world through a lens of comic stoicism, right at the edge of art-installation territory.

The tension in those images comes from two places. The unfortunate place: When the comic banter or monologuing strains for laughs, or goes sideways, it sometimes dies an extra, tiny, momentary death because of the arch, extreme formality of the presentation.

The more fortunate source of tension is where the actors live. In Ander

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