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.

Rushmore, "Serpico"

Andy Greenwald: Part of the allure of the high school movie is watching very young people experimenting with acting very old. Usually this involves wooing women, pounding beers, or running an elaborate prostitution ring out of your parents’ suburban McMansion. But in the twee-range musings of Wes Anderson, young people are more likely to reenact a shaggy cop story on a proscenium stage than waste time getting slammered. There are plenty of ways to misspend your youth, but not nearly enough of them demand packing heat in a nun’s habit.