It seems like through Wes Anderson’s filmography, while his style has moved towards the realm of extreme formalism, the stories he employs it to tell are spacing out into these maximalist folds. His worlds contain seemingly boundless possibilities, unconcerned by form or structure the characters bounce from event to event as strung along by some dream logic. Whatever sense exists in Anderson’s dialogue, and it is easily malleable, buffeted by strange winds and desires, serves to chase the characters to some new episode. Always unexpected, always inventive.
So much of the time Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri feels great. Then one of its black characters enters a scene. It’s rough seeing an able movie so deftly shoot itself in the foot, cos as elegant and taut as Martin McDonagh’s plotting and dialogue feels he is totally unable to write people of colour at all.