This article contains mild spoilers for “The Phoenician Scheme.” 

Ever since the fall of the Hays Code, violence has become the most common (and commonly accepted) transgressive element in American cinema. Where sexual content is still constantly avoided or diminished (sometimes for good reasons, oftentimes for bad ones), general audiences have been trained not to blink an eye at a lot of blood being shed. Despite the common appearance of violence in cinema, most films have a rationale for its inclusion: either they’re using violence as a fantastical element, or they’re emphasizing its effects to raise dramatic stakes, or to horrify, and so on.

Yet while numerous movies draw particular attention to their violent aspects, there are relatively few that can maintain a consistent level of shock to their violence. One filmmaker who can claim the ability to do this is, of all people, Wes Anderson. On paper, it would seem obvious that any violence in Anderson’s films would be shocking, given his reputation as an arthouse filmmaker whose work is more concerned with intelligence and wit than cheap thrills. Anderson’s early films indeed seemed to be grounded in their violence — he certainly wasn’t above the comedic potential of slapstick, but the most upsetting moments of violence felt appropriately jarring, such as the self-harm in “The Royal Tenenbaums.” It wasn’t until “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” when Deputy Vilmos Kovacs (Jeff Goldblum) had his fingers chopped off by a slamming door, that it felt like Anderson learned how to use violence as both a dramatic element and a punchline.

While the moments of violence in Anderson’s films are often extreme, they’re also artfully executed, keeping them part and parcel of the director’s tightly controlled aesthetic. In this fashion, Anderson’s violence perfectly captures something about it that few filmmakers do, which is its uncanny valley quality. “The Phoenician Scheme” happens to be Anderson’s most violent movie to date, and it absolutely works given the way it uses its violence to serve the overall tone of the film and its lead character’s predicament.

Even though there have been instances of Anderson using moments of violence throughout his last several movies like little bits of seasoning, “The Phoenician Scheme” demonstrates that it’s going to be a very spicy movie just seconds into its runtime. During a doomed flight on the private plane of industrialist Zsa-zsa Korda (Benicio del Toro), an assassination attempt is made on Korda’s life, which is apparently a recurring problem for the arms dealer. Korda survives, but his aide does not, as the man is spectacularly blown to smithereens, causing the plane to develop a hole in its fuselage. 

This is Anderson’s way of setting the table for the film, not just its plot (which is reminiscent of a stereotypical 1950s espionage adventure movie), but its unique tone. In conjunction with Korda being nonplussed about living through (and surviving) numerous attempts on his life, Anderson makes the violence both impactful and cartoonish, resulting in an overall absurdism. In other words, the film, like Korda, views violence as both honestly dangerous and annoyingly blasé.

The approach to violence in the film isn’t a new thing for Anderson in terms of its effect. His films continually handle high-stakes events and situations with a deadpan detachment; for the best recent example, look no further than the extraterrestrial encounter in “Asteroid City.” The difference is that the violence in “The Phoenician Scheme” is threaded throughout the movie rather than appearing solely at the climax or at one specific moment. There’s something about it which harkens back to early Jim Henson shorts and Chuck Jones cartoons, in which the violence in those works is similarly both brutal and bizarre. Ultimately, the ever-present violence in the film helps emphasize not just Korda’s plight, but also sets up his journey as a character, too. 

At the start of the movie, death holds no meaning for him because his life lacks meaning, and it’s the discovery of life’s value through his estranged daughter, Liesl (Mia Threapleton), that allows Korda to try and change himself for the better. Korda’s spiritual and moral awakening doesn’t diminish the violence in the film, but makes it perversely more enjoyable; his climactic tussle with his nemesis, Uncle Nubar (Benedict Cumberbatch), may be the most elaborate physical fight Anderson’s ever staged, and it comes off less like “John Wick” and more like Merrie Melodies. 

In the same way that Anderson undercuts high-stakes drama with deadpan humor and non-sequiturs, his utilization of violence in “The Phoenician Scheme” contrasts and deepens what is ultimately a very tender story of Korda reconnecting and learning to genuinely love (as opposed to objectively appreciate) his daughter Liesl. Korda is a gruff, to-the-point, obsessively business-minded man, and the violence he’s subjected to and surrounded by is both a byproduct and cause for his character. In his world, hand grenades are little more than souvenirs, to be offered to business partners like chocolates. Anderson uses the pious Liesl to steadily peel away this hardened exterior, revealing a tenderness within the man that perhaps he himself wasn’t previously aware of. It’s a character arc and archetype that’s been seen before — the hardened man of violence with a gooey middle — but Anderson is coming at it in his own unique, skewed way.

One additional aspect of the film’s use of violence is how it also provides comedic counterpoint to Korda’s business dealings, making his negotiations suffused with literal life or death stakes. It’s amusing to interpret Korda and his efforts, traveling throughout the land of Phoenicia trying to sweet-talk or otherwise cajole his coterie of investors, as a metaphor for an artist attempting to obtain funding for their craft. While Anderson doesn’t draw a direct comparison between Korda and himself as a filmmaker, the subtext is present for those who wish to get a kick out of it. Of course, this interpretation lends itself to its own comedic counterpoint, with Korda-as-Anderson-alter ego taking a bullet for his investors and handing out hand grenades to them.

Ultimately, “The Phoenician Scheme” is proof that Anderson now has a firm grasp on utilizing violence for both dramatic and comedic purposes, and sometimes both at once. Although there’s certainly an edginess to graphic violence in cinema whenever it’s used, there’s a great deal of charm to Anderson’s version of bloody mayhem. The filmmaker clearly has a kind heart, as shown by how often he has characters verbally apologize for the violence on screen. While it’s doubtful that we’ll ever see Wes Anderson’s version of a slasher movie, “The Phoenician Scheme” indicates that, unlike a few years ago when that “Saturday Night Live” sketch was made, it’s now a little less unlikely.