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A round-up of breakdowns of Wes Anderson’s rich, intricate film.
Jarmusch makes things that look like movies, but really aren’t. This is just his prettiest such thing.
As a political thriller, it’s somehow both lean and languid – and while this would be a compliment for almost any other genre, here perhaps it doesn’t always work in the film’s favour.
Come for Bowie as Warhol. Stay for Walken’s single, movie-stealing scene.