![]() The year is 1955, an era when a merry mushroom cloud can billow upward, in the background, signalling the test of an atomic bomb, without causing undue alarm. Unless that green glow in the film’s trailer turns out to be an alien spaceship, bearing someone, or something, who stops to pose for a picture. So, who shows up here, in the course of the plot? Apart, that is, from the widower with his late wife’s ashes in a Tupperware bowl, the blazing Hollywood star, the eccentric kids and their futuristic inventions (not least a functioning ray gun), the warbling cowboys, and the government agents who plunge everyone into quarantine? Nobody, really. And what crashed in this remote spot, nearly five thousand years ago, was not an asteroid but a meteorite, the size of a crystal ball. Asteroid City is not a city but a dusty town, a stone’s throw from the middle of nowhere, with a population of eighty-seven, a luncheonette, and a motel where you can get milk, Martinis, and real estate from vending machines. Like pretty much everything about the new Wes Anderson film, “Asteroid City,” the title is a joke. ![]()
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