The phone rings, and Anderson, a tall, slender man of forty, answers it. The windows are cracked open, and the airy room, one of many in the bright and spacious apartment, is alive with the buzz of scooters and the whirr of cars from the street below. The walls are the color of Chinese mustard yellow curtains shade high windows. Behind the desk stand bookcases filled with art books, encyclopedias, uniform editions of literary classics, and a variety of tastefully selected objects, including a battered leather suitcase with metal corners and a postcard of Albert Camus. A boxy nineteen-seventies touch-tone telephone rests on a dark-wood Art Deco desk, alongside a new Apple keyboard, a big computer screen and a scanner, a modern cordless phone, and a pair of small speakers. His workspace is as carefully arrayed as the set of one of his films. The director Wes Anderson is making a movie in a large studio in the East End of London while seated at his desk in Montparnasse, in Paris.
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