The French Dispatch
Directed by Wes Anderson
★★★
"The French Dispatch" - (From L-R): Lyna Khoudri, Frances McDormand and Timothée Chalamet in the film THE FRENCH DISPATCH
While one comes to expect a general whimsy from a Wes Anderson film, The French Dispatch ups the ante by adapting an anthology format and turning his signature quirky style up to eleven. Anderson brings back many of his repeat collaborators including Tilda Swinton, Bill Murray, Frances McDormand and Owen Wilson, while also incorporating many new talented faces to his roster as well, namely Timothée Chalamet, Saoirse Ronan and Benicio Del Toro.
The French Dispatch follows Bill Murray’s Arthur Howitzer, Jr., the editor of the titular paper, which is a leg of a magazine based in Kansas, as he assembles an edition of the magazine for print. Each segment is an exploration of an article written by one of four staff members at the magazine.
The first is a short, swift cynical bike ride through Ennui, France (the location of the Dispatch and the name of the town, itself, providing the theme explored in the film), as Owen Wilson’s character describes the more unsightly figures and features of the locale he is drawn to. This opening sets us up for three longer pieces about an art critic (Swinton) who navigates the story of a uniquely talented painter (Del Toro) who meets an art connoisseur (Adrien Brody) in prison, who attempts to sell his art that is centered around one of their guards (Léa Seydoux), a journalist (McDormand) who is compiling a political piece about a local youth uprising led by a young wannabe intellectual (Chalamet), and a food critic (Jeffrey Wright) who recalls profiling a local prison chef (Stephen Park) to a television host (Liev Schreiber).
If that sounds like a lot to cover in 108 minutes, that is because it most definitely is. At times, the film can feel a bit overstuffed and complicated, paired with Anderson’s love for packing each frame with a visual overload, it's almost inaccessible at points, causing the viewer to frantically attempt to analyze what's being presented, while simultaneously reading the subtitles, keep up with the plot gymnastics and trying to comprehend the idiosyncratic dialogue.
However packed the film may be, Anderson still manages to bring his signature eye for color (of course, lots of yellow) and visual stimulation. He crafts so much detail and care to every frame, it's hard not to be impressed with his accomplishment. Anderson also uses a lot of black and white in the film during the flashbacks, but uses color to make certain parts pop, to signify the importance of the moment to the person recalling the events. Again, the production design on this film is unmatched and rivals Anderson’s earlier film The Grand Budapest Hotel for the most outstanding in his repertoire yet.
Additionally, Anderson brings back Alexandre Desplat, who matches his sort of neurotic flair with a beautiful and triumphant score, rivaling his past Oscar-nominated work on Hotel and Isle of Dogs.
The film, at its core, is a love letter to the New Yorker (and other grossly funded magazines like it) and the writers who exemplify Anderson’s taste for the unconventional. Yet, no matter how technically brilliant and beautiful the film may be and though the A-list cast try their damnedest, The French Dispatch still lacks an emotional through line to keep the viewer attached to the characters on display on a deeper level.
