As Wes Anderson has released his meticulous cinematic concoctions at a clip of about one every three years, a segment of the audience has begun to tire of him.

I sympathize with those naysayers. I can’t deny that his films have an insular, fussed-over quality that sets them a little too far away from what most of us consider real life. It’s tempting to be turned off by the certainty that he spent as much time worrying about the art direction and costumes as he did about the script and actors.

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