This essay contains spoilers for The Phoenician Scheme
Anatole “Zsa-Zsa” Korda is concerned about the same thing every complicated, slightly hateful, extremely rich man is concerned about: his legacy. We meet him dodging assassins and conspiring governments, traveling the world to raise money for his scheme; what he is building we don’t know, only that it involves a host of shady and unethical practices that have made him a target in the first place.
Wes Anderson’s latest film, The Phoenician Scheme, is his 13th feature film over nearly 30 years. You imagine the director may be concerned with legacy and executing ever grander visions before he is no longer able. But in the end, all the scheming and espionage of The Phoenician Scheme lands Korda (played by Benicio Del Toro) and his daughter Liesl (played by Mia Therapleton) not in a 16th century mansion or as the keepers of a grand fortune, but as the chef and waitress of Cafe Zsa Zsa, a humble bistro on a gray streetcorner.
The Phoenician Scheme appears to be the latest in one of my favorite genres of film: movies about making movies. This is the story of a man with big ideas, who spends most of his time convincing people with money — train barron brothers, a cousin with an armaments fortune, a weird nightclub owner — of the worthiness of his vision, each of whom insists on their own revisions of the big plan, but who are ultimately necessary to it happening at all. Sometimes Korda swindles them, sometimes he tries to convince Liesl that slavery or causing a destabilizing famine is necessary for his great plan to work. But it is a great plan, he tells himself, one that will ultimately bring good to the world. Though the audience never quite sees what it is.
This, of course, sounds like every “job creator” who is convinced their myopic tech startup is actually going to benefit humanity. But it also sounds like every artist questioning whether art, primarily their art, can change the world. It’s an alluring idea that your work could inspire others and touch their hearts or minds, one that most artists secretly hope will happen. Maybe your book will get readers to think differently about the identity of its main character. Maybe your restaurant will get diners to respect the country where the cuisine originated. And of course, the way to get your art in front of other people is with money. So surely the more money you get, the more people your art will reach, and the gr impact it can have.
Oh boy, is this idea pernicious in restaurants. Cooking is a specific art form, one that more deeply embodies the idea of service. Because there is no point in the art unless someone else consumes it, unless it literally enters their body and aids in keeping them alive. It’s important, but it’s also easy to get pompous, believing this specific restaurant, or tasting menu, or franchise is the thing that does good. It is so easy to equate personal success with wider importance, masking it all under the veil of “service.”
Back to the movie. We don’t know what the Phoenician Scheme is, only that Korda believes it to be his lasting legacy, and that he’s willing to do terrible things to get the resources to make it happen. Is he in it for himself or for the good of “the people?” Does one matter when the other is at stake? Who hasn’t imagined how much more they could do with deeper pockets? So you bargain with God over how little you can pay the people helping you realize this dream; about whether or not it’s okay to destabilize a region, about how you want to be famous because with fame comes money, and with money comes the ability to do what you need. Even if it’s not quite your vision. Even if you have to answer to the people you borrowed from and hurt along the way.
It is Liesl who pulls Korda back from total moral rot. She insists the laborers must be paid, and her brothers must be raised in the same house as their father. The scheme “may be a sizable step backwards for civilization,” says Liesl, “but it will produce some good works, I’m sure of it.” A compromise.
Meanwhile, she makes her father give up the fortune he’d amassed over his life of scheming, and live a plainer life. The end finds the family laboring together in Cafe Zsa Zsa. Perhaps a restaurant is just a good visual representation of simplicity in contrast to Korda’s rich origins. But Korda admitted to Liesl he’s always been a good cook, after learning in the kitchen with his childhood nanny. It’s not a grand place. It’s crowded and everyone is sweaty and stained. According to Liesl, everyone is happy.
A neighborhood restaurant is not inherently the antithesis of corruption and greed. Korda and Liesl are not made good because they give up the money and wash dishes instead. But they are not beholden to anyone but themselves. Whatever they decide to put into the world is their choice alone, uninfluenced by investors and governments. They choose to serve the same roast pigeon that Korda served to guests in his mansion earlier in the film. But this time, it’s service without the self-importance, without many resources, and it’s perhaps better for it. It’s an honest legacy, at least.
