Somehow, Wes Anderson has become the Niles Crane of contemporary cinema. He’s transformed himself from an oddball perfectionist into a snooty, pompous fussbudget. Though he still arranges gorgeous color palettes, striking geometric frames, and era-blending visions that are part French New Wave, part Vogue photo shoot, when he sticks his characters into those shots, he barely even lets them move. Human flesh and noise and body language—the stuff that most of us are used to thinking of as “drama,” and the reason we refer to films colloquially as “movies”—have become unwelcome intrusions in Wes Anderson’s relentlessly pretty and static universe.