Wes Anderson has, by design, painted himself into a corner over the past decade. The freewheeling whimsy that saturates every frame of “The French Dispatch” is a lot of fun, but grows tiresome in spots.
Since the release of his debut feature “Bottle Rocket” in 1996, Wes Anderson has spent his time creating and inhabiting the intricately crafted worlds of his films. He’s a filmmaker known for his unique sense of style and art direction, which distinctly announces to audiences whose world they have entered, just in case Bill Murray on the poster wasn’t a dead giveaway. Anderson has steadily grown with each new film, working out his personal reservations on screen and giving audiences a front row seat to his growth as an artist.
“The French Dispatch” feels like the director hit a creative wall, then got Benicio Del Toro to paint an abstract nude portrait of Léa Seydoux over it. That is to say, Anderson is blatantly doubling and tripling down on all of his creative ticks, laughing in the faces of his detractors as he does it.
The film is framed by a fictional newspaper --- after which the film is titled --- and set in the fictional french city of Ennui-sur-Blasé. It opens with the death of Bill Murray’s Arthur Howitzer, Jr., the paper’s now-former Editor-in-Chief, which puts in motion the publication of the final issue of “The French Dispatch.” The stories that populate this grand finale are the isolated vignettes that comprise the film, each with their own title card.
There’s “The Cycling Reporter” featuring Owen Wilson as Herbsaint Sazerac as he rides his bike through Ennui, throwing out tidbits of town history and a rapid-fire stream of Anderson-isms along the way.
After that comes “The Concrete Masterpiece” about a criminally insane inmate (Benicio Del Toro) who also happens to be an artistic genius, prime for exploitation by an overly dedicated art dealer played by Adrien Brody.
Next we have “Revisions to a Manifesto,” the tale of a student revolution in Ennui. Which is framed by Lucinda Krementz’s (Frances McDormand) coverage of the event, as well as her assistance with one of the student’s (Timothée Chalamet) revolutionary literature.
And finally, we have “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner,” a Russian nesting doll of a story which revolves around writer Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright) as he uses his typographic memory to perfectly recite a story of his about the kidnapping of the Police Commissaire’s son.
Being told through the guise of separate stories being collected for an issue of print, “The French Dispatch” feels disjointed at times. Some stories drag on for too long and end without resolution, only for the film to jump-cut into another, unrelated story, which can prove dizzying for audiences still trying to keep track of what’s going on. These vignettes are ultimately drawn together in the outro, titled “Obituary,” but the connective tissue holding these isolated stories together is weak and doesn’t alleviate some of Anderson’s more baffling tendencies.
The entire film is composed of beautifully intricate production design, exquisite use of color, a true masterclass in blocking and composition and all-around delightful performances from its ensemble cast. Anderson’s trademark brand of dry, awkward humor punctuates his most poignant scenes and wraps his latest work in a warm blanket of hilarity. But the stories told through these methods range from a whimsical farce to an overly-complex narration-fest that serves to befuddle more than entertain.
Anderson is on such a creative kick throughout his latest film that he throws audience consideration out the window, choosing to indulge all of his impulses at once in grandiose fashion rather than focusing on making a coherent film that audiences can digest. “The French Dispatch” is not an unknowable enigma, but its constant and unrestrained lunacy slowly turns its initial charm into varying levels of confusion and frustration.
The filmmaker is once again playing in his own, pastel-hued sandbox, and this time he’s invited ALL of his friends to join in. The cast of Anderson’s latest film rivals that of any ensemble in recent memory, including just about everyone that’s ever previously appeared in one of his movies. As well some first-timers like Timothée Chalamet and Jeffrey Wright, who both are able to distinguish themselves amongst the blinding amount of star-power Anderson has curated. Wright in particular gives one of the best performances in the film, and maybe even his career.
A new wrinkle – not found in his previous work – that Anderson has added to this film can only be described as the “mannequin challenge freeze frame." In which the director will film a live shot of his cast standing still, pausing whatever action they were currently in, while simultaneously breaking the illusion of a still frame with a swinging chain or a subtle movement by one of the characters. Shots like this speak to Anderson’s ethos as a filmmaker, his desire to let the audience in on the joke, but “The French Dispatch” is his least “audience-friendly” film yet.
It’s not his artistic quirks that drag his new film down, quite the opposite actually, they’re most of what holds it up. It’s Anderson’s preferential treatment of his own silliness and his ignorance of his more sensible side as a filmmaker that send “The French Dispatch” spiraling down an idiosyncratic whirlpool.
Fans of the director's work will no doubt find his latest offering just as cheerily enchanting as anything else in his filmography, but the uninitiated are likely to be left feeling utterly bemused when the final credits roll. This, like everything else in Anderson’s films, is by design, and those who feel compelled to give “The French Dispatch” a second viewing will likely have a more favorable opinion of the film after the second go-around.
Still, “The French Dispatch” may work better as a collection of stills or clips with The Creation’s “Making Time” playing over them than an actual film.
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