Until the film’s final scene, I would have said that this is, surprisingly, Wes Anderson’s most anti-capitalist film: the contrast between the coldly metallic heavy industrialisation of Boggis, Bunce, and Bean’s farms and the warm autumnal palette of the animals’ home; Mr. Fox’s (George Clooney) embrace of his wild animal nature. The last shot, a long shot of a huge big-box supermarket, complicates this reading. Has Mr. Fox in some sense been domesticated by neoliberal convenience? Is capitalist normativity just a different kind of fox-trap for him?