‘The French Dispatch’ Review
I’m going to try as hard as I can not to wave off the technical mastery in The French Dispatch. I don’t want to treat Wes Anderson like a modern Disney animated film where their gorgeous animation has hit a plateau. At this point, the stunning visuals are a given, and it’s not enough to have billions of dollars and the best technology behind you if your stories are subpar. Anderson has perfected his visual style over the past few years, and he pushes it even further in The French Dispatch. So I don’t want to sound like an ingrate who thinks we deserve his innovative style, and it’s not worthy of praise if the end product doesn’t completely satisfy.
That’s essentially my main takeaway from The French Dispatch: it’s a delightful feast for the eyes and senses that failed to connect with me. This film finds Anderson pulling out an assortment of filmmaking techniques to make the audience fall in love with the story of an old newspaper in the fictional French town of Ennui-sur-Blase. He employs various aspect ratios, lovely color palettes, and vibrant tableaus to convey his love for journalism and European history. And as always, there’s a loving amount of detail put into every costume, set, and camera movement. But for me, this is one Wes Anderson film that feels overwhelming in its style, and by the end, I felt disconnected from the story’s emotional core.
Wes Anderson is one of my favorite filmmakers, and to me, his greatest strength is his skill at building an enchanting, intricate world around a simple story. Whether it’s the childhood romance in Moonrise Kingdom, the mentor/protege relationship in The Grand Budapest Hotel, or a boy looking for his dog in Isle of Dogs, his films always have a simple hook that gets the audience invested. And his style applies a charming storybook coat to these stories, which makes it all the more impactful when they expose an ugly side of humanity or society.
The French Dispatch is missing that simplicity that makes Anderson’s movies so accessible. We get an underdeveloped framing device where the paper’s editor, Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray), has just died of a heart attack. In his memory, his staff puts out one final issue with three stories set in Ennui. Anderson’s skill for world-building works against this film as he crowds these stories with exhausting framing devices, pointless side characters, and highfalutin jargon. He throws too many ideas at the wall, and they bury any overarching theme or emotional core. Most of the film felt like overhearing a conversation between two English Lit majors full of in-jokes and references that flew over my head.
Perhaps I would have felt a stronger connection to the story if Howitzer had more presence. Throughout the film, the staff mourns his passing, feeling lost without him. I didn’t feel that sense of loss or confusion because I didn’t know Howitzer or any of these people. Imagine The Grand Budapest Hotel trying to convey the grief over M. Gustave’s death with only a tenth of his captivating screentime.
But the paper itself is the main character, and the individual stories are the meat of the film. They’re our window into what The French Dispatch and the town of Ennui are all about. And the first story, The Concrete Masterpiece, is by far the best part of the movie. It gives us a refreshing take on the relationship between art and the artist, as well as the artist and the muse. But most importantly, it focuses on its subject while the journalist, J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton), stays on the margins, which the other two stories get wrong.
The article follows incarcerated, mentally disturbed artist Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio del Toro) and his relationship with his muse/prison guard, Simone (Lea Seydoux). The way Rosenthaler’s art transcends his status as a murderer and inspires the hardened Simone makes for a compelling hook. Their hot-and-cold chemistry is darkly funny, and it gives the story a touch of poignancy. And the cherry on top is the hilarious, disparaging commentary on the capitalization of modern art through opportunistic art dealer Julien Cadazio (Adrien Brody). Concrete Masterpiece may have a lot on its mind, but by focusing on one character’s journey, it’s able to balance its themes, pacing, and visual storytelling to give us a complete, satisfying picture.
The second story, Revisions to Manifesto, is where the film started to lose me. Journalist Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) recounts her relationship with student revolutionary Zeffirelli (Timothee Chalamet), who attempts to write his manifesto as he and his fellow students revolt against the establishment. What could be a charming story about journalistic integrity and the absurd circumstances surrounding revolutions becomes bogged down in too much world-building. McDormand and Chalamet make a cute pair, and relative newcomer Lyna Khoudri makes a strong impression as Zeffirelli’s revolutionary girlfriend. But by the end, I felt overwhelmed trying to piece together where each character fit and what incident led to which action.
The final segment, The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner, chooses its journalist Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright) as its primary focus as opposed to its subject. During a TV interview, Wright recounts a night when a gang of criminals kidnapped a police commissioner’s son. Like the last story, this one struggles to focus on one idea, and it feels like Anderson threw in some of his regulars like Edward Norton and Willem Dafoe because he couldn’t find any other roles for them. But Wright’s magnetic performance, along with an inventive animated sequence, keeps this story fresh and engaging.
Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner also gets props as it’s the one story that features Howitzer. His presence gave me a sliver of that emotional connection I desperately craved throughout most of the film. But with only 10 minutes left, it feels like too little too late. Once the segment wraps up, we cut to the staff reeling from Howitzer’s death, and all I could think was, “wow, they gave Elizabeth Moss nothing to do.”
I’m a big fan of the large ensembles Anderson arranges in his films. He always finds the perfect actors for the perfect roles, and they effortlessly slip into his fast-paced, deadpan style. Even in small parts, his actors manage to stand out with a well-timed joke or subtle physicality. But without a central story to tether them to, the ensemble feels crowded, and certain actors like Dafoe and Christoph Waltz become lost in the shuffle.
But despite my criticisms, Anderson ultimately succeeds at his main goal with this film. I may not love the numerous asides and framing devices within framing devices, but this type of storytelling does recreate the feeling of reading a newspaper. The film immortalizes several events throughout these three stories through art, theatre, and comic strips, which make the town of Ennui feel like a living, breathing character. This structure may not create the most compelling narrative, but it does make The French Dispatch feel like a genuine story about journalism.
Even as someone who’s not crazy about the film, I can still get lost in The French Dispatch’s visual style and zany sense of humor. By now, Anderson has proven himself a visionary, so even his worst films are hard to look away from. You can even argue that tackling an anthology is him taking a step forward and growing as a storyteller. So, despite all my complaining, I still only see it as a minor misstep. I may have finally walked in the shoes of his biggest detractors, but I will always be a sucker for his spectacular worlds. I just hope he remembers to keep it simple next time.
★★★½