In a quiet Midwestern town called Asteroid City, a remote corner famous for old nuclear tests, families travel from across the country to attend the annual Congress of Young Astrologers. The location is chosen for its history: a meteor crater from three thousand years ago marks the landscape, a reminder of celestial events shaping the town’s story.
Among the guests staying at the local hotel are familiar faces and new voices alike. A celebrated actress, Midge Campbell, grapples with silence after recent troubles, while Augie Steenbeck, a veteran war photographer, mourns the loss of his partner. The town also hosts several cheerful parents, the Convention’s landlord General Gibson and his deputy, a scientist from the observatory, Dr. Hickenlooper, and a middle school teacher named June. A group of cowboys sings with the city’s musicians, and a hotel manager keeps an attentive watch over the proceedings. Steenbeck’s father-in-law, a car mechanic, and a few other locals weave in and out of the hotel’s rhythm. An alien visitor arrives, adding a layer of astonishment to the measured pace of the Congress.
What unfolds is the play Asteroid City, a work by a renowned dramatist, and its grand film adaptation, which adds a second layer to the artist’s vision. The initial stage story follows Schubert Greene as he shapes the performance, with a star-studded cast taking shape under the direction. The roles of Johansson and Schwartzman are central, while a TV show inspired by a classic anthology hosts a narrator who echoes the spirit of classic science fiction creators.
Two in one for the price of one: a film framed like a black and white broadcast and a nested color feature called City of Asteroids.
Its opening line announces the mood after credits fade: a line about counting stars with no apparent stars to count. The eleventh film from a distinctive director splits his attention between live actors and puppets, a blend that pushes the boundaries of what a movie can be. The alien figure remains a constant across different textures of the production, blurring lines between animation and performance.
Across the screen, the director crafts each scene with a deft eye for palette and texture. The different settings—a summer camp, a hotel, a newsroom—become parts of a single, mutable mosaic. Viewers are invited to watch the dollhouse tremble as pieces come apart and then reassemble in surprising ways. This approach mirrors the playful myths circulating in online communities, where familiar franchises are reimagined through the lens of a Wes Anderson aesthetic, from Star Wars to magical school adventures.
What matters most is not merely the technical polish, but the way the film handles its core subjects. The artistry resembles a master cinematographer guiding figurines and actors alike, allowing both to inhabit a shared world. The alien presence, paired with iconic performers, acts as a mirror for the human drama at the heart of the film. The result feels heavier than a simple spectacle, inviting reflection on art, memory, and the ways imagination informs our sense of wonder.
Asteroid City stands as a focal point for humanity confronting the unknown. Yet the film acknowledges that responses to contact are unsettled, and people retreat behind rituals and routines when grief or affection presses in. The tension lies in balancing the tension between unknown life and unknown death, and in inventing formalities that may not suit every moment. The piece hints that the world itself is a stage, and the players rarely fully grasp their own motives. The trick, perhaps, is that precise understanding is not strictly necessary.
The narrative suggests the same phenomenon for audiences as a sudden alien sighting might provoke: a sense of mystery that lingers long after the moment passes. The recommended approach is simple and expansive—look up at the skies, explore other worlds, and savor the richness of Earthly weather and landscapes. A telling reminder sits in the everyday: the planet’s climate becomes a companion to wonder, not a barrier to curiosity.