Wes Anderson is the most overrated and self-satisfied director

WES Anderson is exquisite. You might expect the editor of Britain's est-dressed sharpmen's style magazine (incredibly, that's me) to approve of anyone who fits that arcane descriptor for a dandified male.

- Alex Bilmes

But there's something about Anderson's tweedy, elbow-patched affect that rankles. And for years I thought my antipathy towards the floppy bow-tied filmmaker had less to do with the limitations of his movies than with his fusspot personal style: the whippeton-hunger-strike physique; the Pardoner's hair; the Seventies librarian vibe that only fellow corduroy salesmodel Jarvis Cocker can comfortably pull off.

But lately, rewatching Anderson's old films and, last weekend, sighing and fidgeting through his latest one, Asteroid City, I realised that it's the movies that reveal Anderson for what he is. Not a delightfully eccentric visionary but a pale facsimile of a great writer-director - a fauxteur.

Anderson's early films - Bottle Rocket (1996), Rushmore (1998) - felt fresh and funny. Here was a new voice with a distinctive sensibility. A bit whimsical and pleased with itself for some (me), but invigorating.

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) has all the tropes that would calcify into ticks: a stellar ensemble playing two-dimensional oddballs; doll's house production design; and a confected mournfulness.