Latest news with #Renoirs
Yahoo
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
A First Look At the Sets of Wes Anderson's 'The Phoenician Scheme'
The precision of the Wes Anderson aesthetic is legend. The costumes, the pans, the delivery of unsmiling characters, and, of course, the sets. Anderson's newest film, The Phoenician Scheme is no exception. In Anderson and Roman Coppola's movie, out May 30, Benicio del Toro plays Anatole 'Zsa-zsa' Korda, a 'ruthless, charismatic business tycoon,' according to the production notes, whose magnetism is matched only by his inscrutability. Picture a 20th-century robber baron-slash-visionary. The year is 1950; he is one of Europe's richest men. The film opens with Korda on a plane, which promptly crashes. It's the sixth attempt on his life. It's also the one that seems to finally give him pause. To recover, he returns to his lavish Italian-style palazzo somewhere in Phoenicia. Inside, a brooding gray and black palette plays off trompe l'oeil wall murals, and masterworks stacked like old magazines in corners. From here, the audience is ushered into his orbit, full of heavy stone bathtubs, Renoirs, and a slew of eccentric characters (Bjorn the tutor, played by Michael Cera, half-brother Nubar, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, and Cousin Hilda, played by Scarlett Johansson, to name just a few). There's an Egyptian revival set, a Casablanca-like moment (aka 'Marseille Bob's'), and a few scenes on a train (typical of Anderson) as well as aboard a ship. The characters visit the desert and end up in a jungle, with brief but grounding returns to the palazzo. ELLE Decor caught up with production designer Adam Stockhausen, who has worked on several other Anderson films including Asteroid City, and set decorator Anna Pinnock, who worked with Stockhausen and Anderson on The Grand Budapest Hotel, for an exclusive look inside the making of Zsa-zsa Korda's fanciful world. Viewers first get to know Korda while he's in his bathroom. There, he recovers from the plane crash, cigar in one hand, wine glass not far from the other. As nurses spin through the room, Korda leans back in a remarkably giant tub made entirely out of stone. It was 'incredibly heavy,' says Pinnock, who helped source the tub from Lapicida in Yorkshire, UK. There the staff kindly sat in it to check that the size was right for the very tall del Toro ('quite hilarious, actually,' says Pinnock). In the background are tiles from European Heritage in London. Also: three sinks. The toilet, a bidet-turned-ice-bucket (the sanitaryware and hardware come from Mongers Architectural Salvage, in Hingham, as well as Stiffkey Bathrooms and Piet Jonker in the Netherlands, says Pinnock), and the stone tub, are all arranged to the symmetry typical of Anderson's tableaus. These pieces are used, in this case, to describe this new, strange, but actually very likable character. Immediately one thing is clear: Korda has very good taste. The team drew inspiration from a few key sources, one being the real-life figure who seems to most closely resembles Korda, Calouste Gulbenkian, a renowned (or infamous) British-Armenian businessman. 'We started with the Gulbenkian house and museum,' Stockhausen tells us. 'A bit for architectural style and also a bit just as the home of a great collector of art.' From there, 'Italian houses became key,' he continued. 'We looked at several from Mantua, Venice, and the Villa Farnesina in Rome.' Besides the bathroom, viewers see Korda's house through its hallway, his daughter's room, and the grand entrance gallery. But it's the gallery that plays the biggest role: a wide rectangular space, it has a grid of stone flooring, high ceilings, and walls painted to look like marble columns. For the gallery, the crew took inspiration from several locations, including the Marmorpalais in Potsdam. 'This palace went hand in hand with the forced perspective wall paintings of the Villa Farnesina we were looking at,' says Stockhausen. The designers brought in a team led by Domenico Reordino 'who specializes in trompe l'oeil marble work' to paint the room. 'It's a fascinating process—part faux paint techniques and part collage,' says Stockhausen. But grandiosity isn't the palazzo's only attribute. In one early scene, Korda summons his estranged daughter Leisl and the two sit on a raised platform in the center of the austere gallery, around a large Italian oak table, accompanied by a filing cabinet and office chairs. On the floor is a series of shoeboxes filled with the details of Korda's scheme (which also comprise the movie's plot). 'Wes wanted that comic juxtaposition between the big, splendid refectory table and these very utilitarian 1930s, '40s office chairs,' says Pinnock. 'And he wanted the filing cabinet there. A comic device in amongst all this richesse, as it were.'As a man of taste, Korda naturally collects art. Throughout the film, real masterworks show up on set. 'We were very lucky, we had a Renoir that came in for a couple days,' says Pinnock. 'The painting had to be kept at a certain temperature, there were guards, the whole shebang.' (There's also a Magritte, from the Pietzsch Collection.) Though some of these paintings are prominently hung in Korda's palazzo, others are stacked several deep, as if they've just been deposited there by movers. 'Wes had the thought that his collection isn't a finished thing on display, but rather in flux,' says Stockhausen. 'Zsa-Zsa has a great assortment of paintings, sculpture, and decorative objects but they are always coming and going.' Pinnock adds, 'The house would be put to bed when he traveled on to the next residence, so we did a lot with dust sheets and furniture covers and crates and stacks of paintings, which was an unusual way to dress a set, really.' But not all of the paintings are real—some are copies made just for the film. 'There were certain paintings that Wes had a certain penchant for,' says Pinnock, 'and felt this character would definitely possess.' One of which was a work by Peter Paul Rubens. Making it turned out to be a very involved task. 'Rubens is quite a difficult artist to copy, even if you're a brilliant forger.' Most scenes were shot on sets at Studio Babelsberg in Potsdam, just outside of Berlin, Germany. Called the world's oldest large-scale film studio, it's been open since 1912, and is most famous for being where the 1927 movie Metropolis was filmed. 'We had it jammed full,' says Stockhausen. 'At one point all the component parts of Zsa-Zsa's house were there side by side.' It was a surprisingly quick build, according to Stockhausen; construction began in mid January and by March they were shooting. Because the schedule was tight, there were multiple sets standing at the same time. 'It really was possible to walk from Zsa-Zsa's house, past Marseille Bob's nightclub, and into the Egyptian hotel, and feel a lot of the film at once,' says Stockhausen. Slight spoiler alert: While the journey is very much the plot, there is also a destination. Even while attempts are made on Korda's life, and he's trying to secure funding for his grand scheme, Leisl is probing for information about her mother. At its heart, the movie is about the father-daughter relationship, and how the quality of relationships is more important than the acquisition of great wealth. One of the final locations in the film was shot on location in Potsdam, in a small 'hovel'—part residence, part restaurant (think Orphan Annie meets Amélie). Tonally, it's a fitting finale: chockfull of bottles, dishes, rags, and furniture. It's warm, messy, lived-in, and entirely charming. 'Usually in sets we do with Wes everything is quite sparse and paired down and every single item is deliberate and selected,' says Pinnock. 'But the hovel was a very different kind of set. [Wes] kept saying to me, Put more in, put more in.' She continued: 'That clutter gave it a real warmth and intimacy.' You Might Also Like From the Archive: Tour Sarah Jessica Parker's Relaxed Hamptons Retreat 75 Small (But Mighty) Kitchens to Steal Inspiration from Right This Instant
Times
27-04-2025
- Times
This is the most exciting way to see the US Midwest
Main Streets, megafarms and small family-owned homesteads. Red barns, white picket fences and cornfields. Stars, stripes and Peanuts. Mark Twain, swing bridges and grain silos the size of cathedrals. My voyage on the Upper Mississippi, sailing from St Louis in Missouri to Minneapolis and St Paul in Minnesota may be going against the river's flow yet it has a narrative arc of its own. A journey along the Mississippi feels as complex as America itself. It may not be the longest river in the US (the Missouri wins that prize) but every inch of its 2,350-mile length is packed with history, contradictions and beauty. At the St Louis Art Museum, I spend the evening before joining my voyage in a state of reverie among a profusion of Van Goghs, a sprinkling of Renoirs and some rather nice Renaissance art (free; The millionaires who bankrolled the 1904 World's Fair insisted that the St Louis Art Museum, housed in the middle of Forest Park, could never charge an entry fee. 'Am I safe to walk through the park in the evening?' I ask one of the museum staff as I leave around the start of twilight. 'Oh yes,' she says, and passing the picnics and wedding photoshoots that are taking place amid the park's boating ponds and tennis courts as I head northeast to my hotel, the Sonesta, a 20-minute stroll away, next to the park in the Central West End, I can understand why; this part of St Louis feels as gentle as a village. Forest Park is significantly bigger than Central Park and is fringed by houses, with wide verandas and the sort of late 19th-century confidence that the Smith family exuded in Meet Me in St Louis. After a hard few decades, the city has become an increasingly popular place for people to bring up children. Businesses are relocating here and the downtown area — newly accessorised with restaurants and hip hotels — seems to be firmly on the up. St Louis is known as the Gateway City, which does hint at a loss of identity even though the name makes sense. Below lies the Mississippi Delta; above it — and the area I'm exploring — is the Midwest. My cruise is called Heartland of America and it feels appropriate. The states through which the Upper Mississippi runs are America's breadbasket but also full of literary and cultural history. Hannibal, founded in 1819 and one of our first stops, is fully Mark Twain-themed, from Becky Thatcher's Diner to Finn's Foods and Spirits. The author of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer grew up here and there's a freshly painted fence outside his childhood home, which offers creaking floorboards and a full sense of context for his novels and journalism (£11; 'Along the Upper Mississippi, every hour brings something new,' Twain wrote. 'There are crowds of odd islands, bluffs, prairies, hills, woods and villages — everything one could desire to amuse the children. Few people ever think of going there, however.' But we are. The Viking Mississippi eschews the retro paddle steamer look for something sleeker. It has 193 cabins that are smart and surprisingly spacious-feeling — despite the constraints of having to fit through the Mississippi's lock system. They all have balconies with chairs and tables. In late August temperatures were in the 30s, but the cabin's air conditioning never faltered (as long as you closed the sliding door correctly). The ship also has room for two restaurants; on the top deck, the River Café is more informal and has outdoor seating, while the Restaurant is quieter with an à la carte menu. There's also space for a large library area and outdoor terraces — the one aft, near the bar, has particularly nice rocking chairs. In the evening, the entertainment includes a thoughtful and tuneful look at the history of music in St Louis, talks about history and wildlife in the area and demonstrations of mint julep-making. As we head north, the menus reflect the region, with fish and steak of course, but also corn chowder and local cheeses. 'When we started, there were 30 small farms like us. Now there are just two,' says Ralph Krogmeier, who founded his farm Hinterland in 1978 and now runs it with his wife, Colleen ( Hinterland, surrounded by motion-picture perfect cornfields a thirty-minute drive from our stop in Burlington, Iowa, has survived because it now makes award-winning cheese and ice cream. 'Land was cheap then. It isn't now,' he adds. • 17 of the best US cruise lines On hearing this, a small group of passengers nod in an understanding way before they lean over the railing to admire some of the Holstein and Jersey cows. They are dairy farmers from New Zealand who examine the corn-based winter feed that's grown in the surrounding fields with great interest. When I point out that this could be classed as a busman's holiday for them, they laugh. 'Makes it tax-deductible,' one says, with a farmer's directness and a smile. Apart from the fact-finding Kiwi dairy farmers and me, everyone on the ship is American, as are the crew. The landscape feels properly American too, from the railroad tracks with the mournful whistles of trains heading through to the bald eagle I spot and the Victorian architecture of the smaller towns where we stop. As night falls, the ship's engines are quiet enough to be able to — just — pick out the sound of cicadas as we pass woodlands, grand riverbank houses and the occasional campsite. The ship's swimming pool, a narrow strip at the stern, turns out to be really conducive to overhearing conversations. 'When I was teaching civics in high school, I always made sure a module on Agent Orange was on the curriculum,' I hear a woman on my left say as she discusses the Vietnam War with another passenger. On the other side, a man is telling his friends about coming across a bear and her cub while out hiking earlier in the year. 'I just tried to make as much noise as I could, and hoped that I wasn't between her and the cub,' he says. If anywhere feels like the repository of American pride, hopes and dreams though, it's the John Deere Pavilion ( in Moline, Illinois. First, we look at the homes the Deeres built in Moline's leafy suburbs. Victorian edifices stuffed with Flemish tapestries and ceiling frescoes from Venice are interspersed with notices that the company refused to repossess farm equipment in the Depression and that John Deere once helped to break up a meeting of segregationists. In the Pavilion, however, it's full-throttle agricultural admiration, with museum-like reverence given to a boxed 1970s Barbie in John Deere clothing, early tractors polished to a sheen and — in pride of place — a corn-harvesting combine that costs £1.07 million. One of the passengers on this excursion brings out his phone to show a photo of his grandfather's 1931 John Deere tractor, which he's restored, and the other passengers cluster around admiringly. • Read our full guide to cruise holidays A stop at Dubuque means that we're just over an hour's coach ride from Taliesin, where America's most famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, lived. His grandparents had settled in this part of Wisconsin from Wales and he created a home and a college here, still with the plyboard desk from which he designed buildings such as Fallingwater and the Guggenheim Museum in New York. The house and grounds are a delight to wander around and the gardens are a profusion of orchards, trees and shrubberies (tours from £27pp; Frank Lloyd Wright's home in Taliesin ALAMY Meanwhile, the ship's bridge team are making endless calculations on the swell of the river when it comes to navigating. 'Whenever you come back after a break, this feels like a completely new river,' says Cory Burke, who is piloting the ship. Our journeys demonstrate how much effort goes into trying to tame the Mississippi. After a few days, I find my tribe on the rocking chairs at the fore of the ship. With wine and cocktails in hand, passengers are enthralled as the ship manoeuvres through locks and bridges. And we wave at the lock-keepers. There turns out to be a lot of waving in the Upper Mississippi. When we head inland, the cornfields ripple just as they do in the movies, fields and fields of them; flat in Iowa, undulating hills in Wisconsin. But on the Mississippi itself, every time a jet ski or fishing boat comes alongside, as well as a passing lock-keeper, people wave. Sometimes I think, no, this is an effort for them, but every single time someone sees the ship, they wave. We arrive in La Crosse, a cool little Wisconsin college town on the day Trump stages a rally there before the presidential election that will take place two months after my trip. The residents remain polite but the fourth-generation owner of Kroner's Hardware store is sporting a tie-dye T-shirt, while the baristas of the Root Note coffee shop are in a range of pro-choice and rainbow outfits. Meanwhile, makeshift stalls arrive with Trump memorabilia, including bright gold baseball caps and fake dollar bills with Trump's face. Back on board though, there's no talk of politics, which is an American civics lesson in itself. Instead, people chat and laugh with their fellow passengers and head on deck to admire the Mississippi in all its glory. Sarah Turner was a guest of Viking, which has seven nights' full board from £5,295pp on a Heartland of America voyage, including flights, some excursions, tips and drinks with meals, departing on August 16, 2025 (
Telegraph
27-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
The End: A satirical post-apocalyptic musical? It's almost as insufferable as it sounds
Joshua Oppenheimer's extraordinary documentary The Act of Killing may have been released almost a decade and a half ago, but if you saw it back then, chances are its aftertaste still lingers. By turns brutally clear-sighted and queasily surreal, it had perpetrators of the Indonesian anti-communist pogroms of the 1960s not only crowing about their crimes on camera, but also staging gloating reenactments, often with bizarre theatrical flourishes. The point, at its heart, was that the only way the human soul could bear the horror of such facts was by dressing them up as fictions, thereby giving the truth an absolving gloss of falseness. Why the recap? Because 13 years on, Oppenheimer has returned to this theme for his debut narrative feature – albeit far less convincingly, and at bafflingly extended length. The End is a satirical post-apocalyptic musical set in a billionaire's bunker buried deep in a salt mine, whose residents live in luxury, sealed off from civilisation's burning remains. Michael Shannon, Tilda Swinton and George MacKay star as its main occupants: a former oil baron with a prowling, Daniel Plainview-ish air, a brittle former ballerina with the Bolshoi, and their wide-eyed 25-year-old son, whose entire life has played out in this luxurious sanctuary-slash-tomb. The walls throng with Renoirs and Monets; the wardrobes are stocked with enviable knitwear; a butler (Tim McInnerny) and private doctor (Lennie James) are both on hand to ensure everyone's needs and wants are adequately met. The cuisine prepared by Swinton's professional chef friend (Bronagh Gallagher) couldn't be hauter. Even the gouged sides of the mine itself look acoustically optimised, like the flanks of some grand modernist konzerthalle. Perhaps that's why everyone's singing all the time. Big, buttery golden-age showtunes, too – mostly about how lucky and lonely everyone is down here, and how hard it is to blame anyone for the planet's current hellish state. MacKay – the best thing here, though the whole cast admirably commit to the eccentric task – also helps Shannon write his presumably never-to-be-read memoirs, in which his company's role in climate change is downplayed. ('It's sheer arrogance to think we control the fate of our planet,' one line runs.) As the survivors serenade their audience of nobody, their pitch and choreography occasionally wobbles, just to remind us that what we're watching is ultimately all for show. These poor players have all hand-picked their roles, and are resolved to strut and fret as convincingly as they can, right up until the curtain plummets. For the first half hour or so, it's intriguing stuff – not least when Moses Ingram's mysterious outsider somehow burrows her way in, and successfully ensconces herself within the family group. But nothing resembling a plot ever gets underway, and the characters don't really change or develop: the tedium of their routine soon spills over into the viewing experience itself. Perhaps that's the idea: we should feel trapped with these self-deluding ghouls, who cloak themselves in melodious clichés and ignore the sourness of the vintage plonk uncorked at lunch. It's all meaty stuff for a think piece, but rather less swallowable as a film. 12A cert, 149 min; in cinemas from Friday March 28
