The Phoenician Scheme is fantasy. It is also a remarkable engagement with the real-life conflict in the Middle East

The Guardian

3 days ago

The Phoenician Scheme, Wes Anderson's makebelieve treatment of the war-ravaged near east, reimagines the region as a sunlit Levantine fantasia of cypress trees, fez hats, camel-riders and kitsch hotels, all photographed with the lustre of an Ottolenghi cookbook. Meanwhile, livestreamed daily to our news feeds, the warlords of the Holy Land exhibit for us an equally spectacular dystopia of cities pummelled into sawdust, of skies scarred with scorching white phosphorus and gun-toting paragliders.
How could these images be of the same place? What does it mean that they have been produced at the same time, and that we are consuming them alongside each other?
The film is set in the Middle East of a parallel universe. It's 1950, but decolonisation, the Holocaust, the world wars – none appear to have taken place; history has stalled in a kind of perpetual belle époque, leaving only a pastiche of the orient in its imperial heyday, meticulously reconstructed in the film's geography and production design, its storylines and characters.
In place of the warring states unleashed by Europe's botched withdrawal from its imperial mandates, the entire Levant forms a single nominally sovereign territory known as Modern Greater Independent Phoenicia, named after the ancient civilisation once inhabiting what would now be Lebanon, Palestine and Israel. Those national demarcations don't exist in the film, as you can see from all the quaintly displayed trademark Wes Anderson cartography, the whole region pristinely undivided – as it was before the first world war.
All the ethnic and sectarian squabbles that beleaguer these lands in the real world are magically replaced by a peaceable patchwork of aristocratic families, each with their respective toeholds. Their inflated titles mean nothing, their names allusions to the toothless dynasties once patronised by imperial overlords.
The film's King Hussein refers to more than one Hashemite monarch installed by Britain and Prince Farouk to Egypt's last king. The fact that a svelte Riz Ahmed has been cast to play a character, whose real-life inspiration, King Farouk, was a worldwide celebrity infamous for his fatness, tells us everything we need to know about the distorting mirror through which Anderson reflects the history of empire.
Above all, the colonial order is represented by the film's devious protagonist Anatole 'Zsa-Zsa' Korda and his visionary scheme to build railways, tunnels, canals and dams across Phoenicia. The significance of infrastructure in colonial mythology cannot be overstated. Anderson says Korda was inspired by his father-in-law, the Lebanese construction magnate Fouad Maalouf, also the film's dedicatee. But Korda is as much an empire-builder in the mould of Cecil Rhodes or Ferdinand de Lesseps.
With his African mines and railways, Rhodes brought to heel the better part of a continent. In building the Suez canal, a waterway in the deserted sands between Africa and Asia, De Lesseps performed Moses' miracle in reverse. Such magnificent infrastructure projects, said to be beyond the wit of the native, were the glory of empire and still feature in reappraisals of it ('What about the railways?'). It's in this context that Korda's Phoenician scheme must be understood: a plot to re-engineer the Middle East in his image.
This is the east as a career, in Disraeli's famous words. And through such a career, the Palestinian literary critic Edward Said wrote, 'one could remake and restore not only the Orient but also oneself'. That sums up Korda, who is as motivated by megalomania as money.
There's always been something grippingly cinematic about that. It was another Korda – the Hungarian Jewish émigré film director Zoltan Korda – who more than anyone demonstrated that, in colonial adventure films that he made with his brother Alexander in the 1930s, relating heroic adventures in a timeless orient under eternal British rule. In naming his hero Korda, Anderson proudly acknowledges his debt to a controversial narrative tradition.
In its most pointed contrast with reality, its greatest hallucination about empire, The Phoenician Scheme unfolds in a cosmopolitan world that is, for all its lying and cheating and double-dealing, completely free of racism. Imperial cosmopolitanism is symbolised, of all things, in headwear. The fez is absolutely ubiquitous in the film, as it was among colonial elites, Muslim, Christian and Jewish. (There are photos of Israel's founding prime minister, David Ben-Gurion, as a fez-hatted law student in Istanbul.) It fell out of fashion in the postcolonial Middle East, becoming a symbol of colonial nostalgia.
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Anderson positively luxuriates in that nostalgia, in the ecumenical fellowship of the fez, worn in the film by Frenchmen, Arabs, Armenians, all happily sharing cocktails. Korda appears to be Armenian (judging by the script on his birth certificate) but in a bizarre twist Korda dons the distinctive white fez and robes of Lebanon's Druze sect, just as pharaonic imagery strangely adorns Phoenician hotels: all part of the pastiche.
This is history stylised beyond all proportion. It's meant to evoke the urbane world that existed under imperial rule, before the emergence of violent ethno-nationalism. The state of Israel is absent from the film, but Zionism, interestingly, isn't. One corner of Phoenicia, visited by Korda, has a kibbutz, replete with Hebrew signage, quotations from the Old Testament and the suggestive imagery of 'making the desert bloom', palm trees sprouting from the barren earth. It has its own visionary founder, a rival of Korda's, played by Scarlett Johansson, working the land in khaki shorts, like the pioneer kibbutzniks portrayed in early Zionist posters.
Crucially, though, it's labelled a 'private utopian outpost'. Nationalism is such an anathema to the ethos of the film that Zionism is reduced to the personal enterprise of another one of those visionaries making a career in the east. It has no aspirations to statehood. Such nonpolitical strains of Zionism were originally favoured by followers of the movement, including Einstein and Kafka, and one suspects it's the kind most palatable to Anderson. But this sanitised, fantasy vision of Zionism is of a piece with Anderson's fantasy of empire. Historically in both, violence and racism were always simmering.
The Phoenician Scheme may at once be Anderson's worst and most profound film, a beautifully textured engagement with the past, and an almost morally repugnant retreat from the present. Its transformation of tragedy into comedy feels perverse. To watch The Phoenician Scheme amid the devastation of Gaza – during which it was also filmed – is to see two images of history, two maps of our time, disorientingly superimposed over each other: the sweet fantasy of a much-promised land, and the bitter, bloody reality of how it's turning out.