Wes Anderson. The name conjures a myriad of vibrant images for movie lovers around the world. Whether a boisterous bunch of boy scouts, a fantastic family of foxes, or a ragtag reunion of Royals, the quaint, yet complex visual worlds of Anderson’s films are poised to stand the test of time as some of the most recognized of any contemporary American filmmaker. In his 10th film, Anderson serves up a selected series of tales, all sized to fit within the latest edition of The French Dispatch.
When the editor of “The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun” (Bill Murray) suffers a sudden death due to a heart attack, his former editorial staff gather to write a proper sendoff. From here, Anderson’s The French Dispatch structures itself to represent the imaginary print magazine it’s based on, with three feature sections bookended by an introduction and a closing piece. We begin with cyclist and reporter Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson), who takes us on a brief guided tour to highlight the locale of the fictional Ennui-sur-Blasé (translated to “Boredom-on-Jaded”), which serves as the French home of the American-distributed periodical.
The first feature, titled “The Concrete Masterpiece,” tells the story of jailed painter Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro), discovered by art connoisseur Julian Cadazio (Adrien Brody) and commissioned to create masterpieces often inspired by his muse, the prison guard Simone (Léa Seydoux). This article is written, and narrated, by J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton), renowned modern art critic, as she lectures a packed auditorium on Rosenthaler’s rise to artistic prominence.
The middle feature, titled “Revisions to a Manifesto” and written by Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand), chronicles the journalist’s encounters with the disillusioned youth of Ennui as they approach a standoff with adults as represented through a game of chess played across enemy lines. Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet) and Juliette (Lyna Khoudri) bicker over the details of the movement’s public manifesto, all while harboring romantic feelings for one another.
The final feature, titled “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner,” is a suspenseful tale of a kidnapping-turned-rescue-mission when a group of thugs led by “The Chauffeur” (Edward Norton) kidnap the Commissaire’s beloved son (Winsen Ait Hellal). This piece is written by Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright), and recalled word-for-word from his article – thanks to his typographic memory – live on a television talk show.
Like any work of art presented as an anthology, the reactions to each piece will vary from person to person, with the success of the entire work dependent on how cohesively the pieces fit together. Regardless of whether you prefer: the action-filled heist, the meeting of love and war, or the skirmish of artist versus commerce, each section is tightly constructed, so the film never drags or fails to hold our engagement. The screenplay hardly commits to a linear track, always shifting with a kinetic freedom between the multiple layers of plot while also taking the occasional detour to provide historical context or some new information to enrich the already deeply detailed world of the film. However, this structure results in a viewing experience that also feels divided as the film is more satisfying in its individual pieces than it is as a narrative whole. This creates an emotional distance; a coldness in character and thought that is unique when compared to Anderson’s other works.
Even as Wes Anderson trades his typical storytelling whimsy for excerpts more rooted in their social and political themes, make no mistake: this film is as visually imaginative as anything he’s ever created. An early sequence features the beauteous mise en scène of the still frame filled with residents moving about their lives across and in between every nook and cranny of production designer Adam Stockhausen’s architectural delight. An Oscar winner for The Grand Budapest Hotel, Stockhausen once again combines miniature models with full-sized sets, as well as location filming in the town of Angoulême, France, where an old felt factory was temporarily transformed into a movie studio. Cinematographer Robert Yeoman plays with sudden shifts in aspect ratio, black & white versus pops of color, and even moments of 2D animation. Along with Anderson/Yeoman’s usual staples such as (a)symmetry, tracking and overhead shots, and an art nouveau color palette, the pair incorporate multiple uses of tableau and even entire building facades that move on tracks to transition us between exteriors and interiors. Every composition is precise and particular, often pulling from the visual vocabulary of the imagined magazine’s main inspiration, The New Yorker.
The French Dispatch boasts a massive ensemble of amusing performers across its numerous sections, with many returning as a part of Anderson’s unofficial repertory troupe of actors including Anjelica Huston, Tilda Swinton, Edward Norton, Owen Wilson, Willem Dafoe, Adrien Brody, Bob Balaban, Jason Schwartzman, and Bill Murray, who has appeared in every Wes Anderson film since his debut feature, Bottle Rocket. New to collaborating with Anderson, Benicio del Toro stands out as the gifted artist who turns his prison into a canvas in an intense display of simultaneous beauty and destruction. Another Anderson first timer, Timothée Chalamet, shares a new comedic lightness to match his usual presence as the brooding heartthrob.
Like a living dollhouse, The French Dispatch is one of Wes Anderson’s most theatrical works to date, containing stories within the frames of other stories, to form picturesque worlds as a homage to international journalism in a moment of transformation. “A new flavor. That’s a rare thing in my age…” form the final words of one of Anderson’s characters. Having now made ten films, we feel like he too is seeking new flavors, trying for something original, yet entirely his own.
