A love letter to journalists set in an outpost of an American newspaper in a fictional twentieth-century French city that brings to life a collection of stories published in “The French Dispatch Magazine”.
A known Francophile, Wes Anderson pays tribute to French cinema, and journalism, while basking in his own quirk and self-irony in the narcissistic, patchy “The French Dispatch.” Purposefully fragmented to approximate magazine articles — the film was inspired by stories in The New Yorker — the narrative lurches from one unremarkable set-piece to another, so in love with itself that it’s like watching the filmmaker masturbate to his own genius for 100 minutes. Even the trademark Wes Anderson visuals and stylistic flourishes have become redundant, as they serve no distinct purpose except to remind us, in each damn frame, that we’re watching a Wes Anderson movie.
Split into three distinct parts, and two sort-of interludes, or bookends or whatever, it all starts off compellingly enough. We’re introduced to the titular newspaper, an American publication based in a fictional, eccentric little French town. After Owen Wilson’s beret-sporting Herbsaint Sazerac (the character names are as unbearably grandiloquent as the rest of the film) takes us through a tour of the town, we delve right into the first story, one of a jailed artist, Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro), his groundbreaking paintings, and his relationship with warden Simone (Léa Seydoux) and art dealer Julian Cadazio (Adrien Brody). Tongue-in-cheek and swiftly paced, that first section, though indulgent, marks the highlight.
Sadly, it’s all downhill from there. In the second story, a young protestor and genius chess player, Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet), has an affair with “Dispatch” writer Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand), who attempts to document the young people’s uprising. Purporting to study generational differences, as well as, I guess, gently satirizing the very New Wave, 1960s anti-authoritarian movements, the talky segment fails to sustain attention; it’s neither witty nor especially insightful, and none of the emotions in it ring true. Take out fleshed-out characters and a sense of purpose, and the heightened tone of the film becomes wearying, fast.
Everything falls apart completely in the final chapter, or “visual article,” wherein Jeffrey Wright’s “Dispatch” writer Roebuck Wright is being interviewed by talk show host Liev Schreiber about his past. Involving the local police, a wondrously gifted chef Nescaffier (Stephen Park), the Commissaire (Mathieu Amalric), and a kidnapping, this segment marks Anderson’s low point, overstuffed, headache-inducing, making little sense, and worst of all, wasting the talent of an incredible cast.
Speaking of: from a cast that includes, in addition to the names I’ve already listed, Bill Murray, Tilda Swinton, Edward Norton, Christoph Waltz, Willem Dafoe, Saoirse Ronan, Jason Schwartzman, Elisabeth Moss, Griffin Dunne, Bob Balaban, Henry Winkler, Cécile de France, Rupert Friend, and (the voice of) Anjelica Huston, only four names stand out: Del Toro, Seydoux, Swinton, and McDormand. Del Toro is both soulful and amusing as the talented artist prone to aggression and hungry for love; Seydoux’s steely demeanor counters him well; Swinton chews scenery with her fake dentures as only Swinton can, and McDormand can do no wrong.
But Murray, technically the soul of the film, is wasted in a few all-too-brief sequences. The rest of the incredible cast barely makes an impression; some actors barely have a single line of dialogue. If Anderson’s goal was to achieve the feat of grouping together half of Hollywood, schedules be damned, then mission accomplished, but it’s distracting and dispiriting to see Edward Norton make a goofy face and then disappear, or have Christoph Waltz grace the screen in shoddy make-up for all of five seconds. It’s a sacrilegious waste of talent.
Equally distracting are the constant shifts from black-and-white to color; Anderson fails to communicate any coherent point, except making one wish the entire thing was at least visually vibrant, like the rest of his films. A few allusions to cinema of yore would’ve been okay, but the effect is akin to getting slapped in the eyeballs. The filmmaker also utilizes some novel (for him) approaches, such as actors and objects frozen in place (but the actors visibly breathing), and frankly poor animation.
Wes Anderson is one of our finest cinematic artists, and even when he gives in to his worst impulses, he ensures there are moments of brilliance amidst all the hectic action and breathless speechifying. The city is beautifully realized, both dreary and cheerful, filth rubbing shoulders with beauty. Art, he seems to say, be it in the form of paintings or food or chess or writing, is the savior; it endures despite calamity, but it also goes hand-in-hand with artifice, just as poverty clashes with wealth, fortune with adversity, and so on. In one refreshingly inspired shot, a static city comes alive as the citizens all simultaneously go about their business.
“The Royal Tenenbaums” remains Anderson’s masterpiece, because it fused real tenderness and empathy for its characters with his retro/offbeat/immaculately-framed/dollhouse style. Some of his other films came close to achieving that perfect equilibrium, but none so far have been as borderline-insufferable as the soulless “The French Dispatch.” You’ll be better off re-reading the latest copy of The New Yorker.
Now available on Digital HD, and on Blu-ray™ and DVD December 28th
