I was hesitant to see Wes Anderson’s new movie, The Phoenician Scheme. (Props to the marketing team; the Instagram clips of Bryan Cranston doing a “classic backhand lay-up” got me to the theater.)
Still, I was skeptical as I settled into my seat. I’m familiar with Anderson’s quirky style; his cinematography and editing play starring roles in movies like The Grand Budapest Hotel and Fantastic Mr. Fox. The appeal of his work lies in its design sensibility and dry humor, its absurdity and creativity.
But I also often find Anderson’s movies, including Moonrise Kingdom and The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, coast on looks without much character development or depth. The characters are often, well, characters—more tropes than real, complex individuals. (The exception is Isle of Dogs, one of my favorite films.)
For fans of the Anderson aesthetic, The Phoenician Scheme doesn’t disappoint. I was charmed by the title sequences’ choreography and set design. There’s some genuine hilarity, including a basketball game to settle a contract dispute. But once again, I found the main plot—a wealthy businessman (Benicio del Toro) with morally questionable strategies embarks on an industrial endeavor—to be less than compelling, another entry in the “rich-people-suck” genre. The industrial titans’ outbursts made me wince; watching these stock characters argue is like watching Elon Musk and President Donald Trump’s current social media spat.
In short, this plot isn’t strong enough to carry the film’s deeper themes—what reconciliation looks like for a broken family, what faith means apart from monotonous practices or a solid moral code. The style of The Phoenician Scheme doesn’t match the substance. But that substance is still compelling.
Underneath the wheeling and dealing is a more powerful story: The agnostic businessman’s relationship with his Catholic daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), a novice nun about to take vows. Zsa-zsa asks Liesl to be his heir on a “trial period.” Curious to find out more about a family mystery, she agrees to follow her father around as he meets with business partners about a future industrial project.
Conversations about faith lend Liesl and Zsa-zsa more heft than typical Wes Anderson characters—they’re able to access nuance and intimacy and even to change their minds. Zsa-zsa survives many assassination attempts; after each one, we see some glimpse of his heavenly judgment. (One scene involves him asking God, played by Bill Murray, questions about ethical business practices.) When Zsa-zsa returns to reality, he offers sentimental confessions to his business associates that ultimately prevail over his violent and deceitful tactics.
Something of a Paul on the road to Damascus, Zsa-zsa is the last man you’d expect to come to faith. But he ends up sacrificing his own fortune and employing more ethical business practices to fund a project he believes will help the country of Phoenicia. We see him do what the rich young ruler couldn’t (Matt. 19:23–26): He gives up his material desires for the greater good.
Liesl is the lens through which her father is able to see faith differently; she’s often praying over conflicts and forgiving those who wrong her before they come to apologize. As the two get closer, she is able to accept his flaws while feeling more confident in challenging his violent, exploitative business practices. Though Zsa-zsa acknowledges that he’d like Liesl to leave the convent and be his permanent heir, he also gifts her a bejeweled rosary and asks her probing questions. He wants to support her future even if it conflicts with his desire for her life.
Toward the end of the film, Mother Superior (Hope Davis) insists that Liesl cannot take her vow because she is too attached to material things, like the bejeweled rosary. Shortly after, the head nun is paid off by Zsa-zsa and roped into his industrial scheme. It’s a painful reminder of the church’s shortcomings and its misguided push for institutional prestige and power.
But The Phoenician Scheme isn’t just looking to point out the failures of the institutional church; it’s exploring, however glancingly, the struggles of the individual Christian life. When Zsa-zsa confesses to his daughter his desire to be a man of faith, she in turn confesses to him that no one answers. That’s a very relatable fear: What if God isn’t listening?
For a moment in the theater, the dry humor, cynical side-eye, and quirky aesthetics faded into the background. I remembered my own experiences of doubt and God’s silence. Liesl’s reflection shook me: honest and genuine and, again, not what I’d expect from a Wes Anderson movie.
As a Christian, I’m often pessimistic about Hollywood’s engagement with religion. I assume portrayals will be unabashedly negative, as in Mickey 17’s harsh representation of prosperity-gospel teaching, megachurch pastors, and the church’s platform in American politics. Or I assume Christianity will be relegated to a mockable character trait, an archetype for hypocritical characters—think Angela from The Office and Marianne in Easy A—or ditzy ones, like Shirley in Community.
Sometimes faith is less sinister conniving than outdated superstition. That’s the attitude of Han Solo in Star Wars and of another Harrison Ford cult-classic figure, Indiana Jones. But by the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Dr. Jones has changed his mind. In fact, I think that’s the kind of film The Phoenician Scheme could be understood as: a coming-to-faith testimony wrapped in an action-packed plot.
For us as believers, it can be disheartening to see movies that take a glib or combative approach to Christianity. On the one hand, we imagine how nonbelievers might understand any unfair critiques. And on the other, we’re ashamed of the all-too-fair criticisms they level. Financial corruption, sexual abuse, and spiritual manipulation are terrible realities; we have a responsibility to be honest about our sins, even if it’s painful to watch them on screen.
But I also don’t want story lines about Christianity to be reserved for “faith-based” films. These stories preach to the choir (pun completely intended), and they aren’t the kind of movie I am going to with my nonbelieving friends here in Hollywood.
I left The Phoenician Scheme a little numb, still absorbing what I had watched. It took me a few days to realize the olive branch that had been extended to people of faith. The subtle conversion story almost got lost in the set design, editing, lackluster plot, and character-actor absurdity, as funny as Bryan Cranston might be playing basketball.
But it didn’t get lost, not entirely—which means I can add this film to the encouraging examples of recent movies and television series that take faith seriously, projects like A Real Pain and Minari, Nine Days and First Man, Women Talking and Conclave. Seeing big-name directors like Wes Anderson engage faith in their stories is surprising and refreshing and reminds me to check my assumptions about the film industry writ large. The Phoenician Scheme, while not the most obvious or richly emotional come-to-faith story, gives me hope that we will continue to see more authentic and serious displays like it.
Mia Staub is editorial project manager at Christianity Today.
