![]() There's a recently widowed war photographer, Augie Steenbeck (Jason Schwartzman), and his kids, who number one brainiac teenage son (Jake Ryan) and three little girls (cosmically named Andromeda, Cassiopeia and Pandora), who arrive with a tupperware container full of their mum's ashes on its way to Grandpa (a silvery Tom Hanks). ![]() "Asteroid City does not exist," says the film's Rod Serling-esque narrator (Bryan Cranston), introducing the fictional theatre production that serves as the movie's framing device, "the events an apocryphal fabrication." Like so much of the filmmaker's recent work, it's both a fable and a kind of parallel reality, a story nested within another that has the contours of a familiar dream. In a career that now spans nearly 30 years, Anderson's latest film, Asteroid City – a carousel of astronomers, aliens and singing cowboys of mid-century madness, deadpan soul and signature melancholy – might just be one of his finest. While the world goes bananas for the retro Americana of Barbenheimer – the beauty and the beast currently burning up the box office – leave it to Wes Anderson to quietly deliver his own dizzy diorama of pastels and cotton candy mushroom clouds, an irresistible synthesis of Looney Tunes, Spielberg and Atomic Age paranoia that pays tender tribute to the power of art and the imagination.
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