In 'Asteroid City,' A Search for Meaning Behind Anderson's Iconic Style

Wes Anderson is such a strange candidate to be one of the most divisive figures in Hollywood. Since the 90’s, the soft-spoken, dapper writer/director from Houston, Texas has been delivering his trademark dry wit through tightly-directed dialogue coming out the mouths of eccentric characters living in lushly-colored worlds just a little quainter than our own. His style is unmistakable and frequently imitated, making him a known name in an era of Hollywood where behind-the-camera creatives become increasingly invisible.

Yet despite it all, his body of work remains contentious online, torn between a devoted fanbase and critics who dismiss him as shallow and devoid of substance, making candy-coated pretty pictures with nothing meaningful to offer. After almost 30 years in the business, Anderson finally seems to have turned around to respond, and the result is one of his greatest creations yet.

For ‘Asteroid City,’ Anderson takes his theatrical, presentational style of drama to the next level, arranging the narrative as a show within a show within a show. A narrator (Bryan Cranston) recounts the production of a play, the origins of which are dramatized in black-and-white, while the contents of the story it tells come to life in bright technicolor. Through this lens, Anderson is simultaneously able to present us with a story while adding external observations, almost like a travel guide to navigate the film, but written so seamlessly it never feels too jarring.

Within the story of the play, long-time Anderson crew member Jason Schwartzman plays Augie Steenbeck, a bereaved widower, who - while stranded in the middle of the desert following a earth-shaking celestial event - struggles to face a future without his wife and the mother of their four precocious children, while forming a bond with the mysterious movie star in the cabin next door (Scarlett Johansson). Meanwhile, in the world of the production, the actor playing Augie, Jones Hall, confronts a tragedy of his own that leaves him searching for elusive meaning within the text of the script.

On this journey, the audience and the characters become one as we are invited to join the timeless drive of artists as they attempt to extract the “meaning of life” through their creations. But rather than a grand ‘Eureka’ moment of discovery, these players are left with even more questions than they started with. Augie is left without the answers he seeks and Jones without the meaning of the play. But as the credits start to roll over the postcard perfect southwest horizon, they both find the strength to move forward. And that, Anderson seems to argue, has been the point all along.

In a penultimate scene that almost feels as a response to the critics finding no deeper meaning within his career, Anderson’s ensemble joins together in repeatedly yelling a singular phrase into the screen: nine words that, once their impact has sunk in, become a key to unlock all that has transpired before.

You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.

This is the answer to all of the questions; and none of them. It is, at least, the closest that the world of Asteroid City has to offer. Through this nesting doll of a story, Anderson supposes that the purpose and meaning of each of our lives is not something to be found, but rather something that can only be created by living life itself. Through all the unpredictable, inexplicable twists and turns we face, we can only ‘keep doing the show.’ Meaning is not an answer. Meaning is the lives we make, the love we build and the fleeting moments we share through matching windows in the middle of the desert, stumbling over our words to forge connections in spite of ourselves in the face of a terrible, ever-changing world that’s a little more bearable because, even if only for a moment, we’re in it together.