Regardless of their quality, Wes Anderson’s movies are precious little contraptions. They’re like antique Matryoshka dolls encased in an eighth grader’s volcano diorama and situated in a dollhouse made of Legos and Lincoln Logs. There are small pieces everywhere, assembled just so, from tweedy costuming to crate-dug soundtrack choices to peculiarly named characters (Raleigh St. Clair; Ned Plimpton; Dignan; Oseary Drakoulias; Badger; Ari and Uzi Tenenbaum — we could go on). In making so many uniquely complex choices during his career, Anderson’s become his own brand of cliché: That’s so Wes Anderson is one of the meanest things anyone can say in Brooklyn. His seventh film, Moonrise Kingdom, which opens today in limited release, is as delicate and fussed-over a thing as he’s ever made. It’s also gorgeous, hilarious, and probably the purest distillation of his style as he’ll ever achieve. It’s a parody of itself in the best way possible.