‘The French Dispatch’ review: Dir. Wes Anderson (2021)

Mr Anderson, welcome back, we’ve missed you. Whether you’re a fan of the dollhouse aesthetics that have come to dominate the latter half of the Texan’s career, he is undoubtedly something to be cherished in the modern landscape of American filmmaking. His visuals are unmistakable, he’s one of a handful of directors that you can identify in an instant, a creator who has found his perfect band of collaborators across the years, individuals both in front of and behind the camera who seem perfectly tuned to Anderson’s rhythms and quirks. 

He is a director who has often been accused of offering little more than twee whimsy, featuring eccentric characters with little in the way of beating hearts underneath the tweed, While it is not an opinion I particularly agree with, it is hard to argue against the fact that the very same aesthetic that has made Anderson so distinct is one that can also put his films at a distance for some. Like all things, it is a matter of taste, and not all the chocolates in Anderson’s box are going to be to everybody’s liking.

His latest, The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun (to give it its full title), is not one that is going to win over anybody who is not already taken with Anderson’s trademarks and frivolities. Here is a collection of short stories, brought to life from the pages of the fictional American magazine, based in the (also fictional) French city of Ennui-sur-Blasé as its final issue is put together in the wake of the death of its editor, Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray). 

This anthology framework gives Anderson the chance to use every trick, tool and medium he has dabbled in across his previous nine features. There are animated segments, sets, and action augmented with stop-motion, miniatures, precise camera movements, shifting aspect ratios, vast colour palettes, you name it; if there’s a meticulously crafted visual trick he’s used before, you can bet it pops up in here somewhere. 

It makes for an audio and visual feast that is often very beautiful to look upon, with excellent work from Anderson’s regular cinematographer Robert Yeoman wrangling the constantly shifting shooting styles. Alexandre Desplat’s score is also another remarkable piece of work, driving the action with a playful spirit. Likewise, Adam Stockhausen’s gorgeous production design and Milena Canonero’s enviable costumes are staggering in their detail. It is Wes Anderson to the max, and while some images may marvel, there is no denying that it is all quite overwhelming, particularly when paired with the very eloquently written narrations that accompany each segment. 

The overarching theme across this collection of stories is undeniably a love for the written word, with the magazine and many of the characters we meet directly inspired by The New Yorker, its reporters and the articles Anderson fell in love with across his formative years. Anderson has put that adoration into his dialogue, providing many colourful metaphors and fanciful idioms throughout. When paired with the meticulous aesthetic that is often very quick with movement and packed with detail, the film can often end up in a cul-de-sac of sensory overload. The characters as well are so often very similar that there is little in the way of distinguishing personality traits among the various players to hinge on (they all sound, move and dress like Anderson-archetypes, which can often leave everything in a bit of a blur). 

The three main stories we spend time with (an art dealer becoming fascinated with the work of an artist in an asylum, a student revolution in the ’60s and an eventful dining experience with a police commissioner) likewise vary in their level of enjoyment. The act offers some strange notes, while the middle section is the weakest, led by a performance from Timothee Chalamet. The final third is where the film is at its best; it is a very funny and kinetic caper with a surprising heart, led by the incredibly comforting tones of the fantastic Jeffrey Wright (the best performance in a very crowded ensemble). 

The French Dispatch is a melting pot of all the things that have influenced Anderson in becoming the filmmaker he is today, from French New Wave cinema to New Hollywood, and of course, the pages of The New Yorker. It results in what is arguably his most self-indulgent piece, one that is undeniably as distinct a sensory experience as anything he has made with plenty of oddball humour.

But it falters in capturing that same sense of escapism that a brilliantly written article can conjure, often far too crowded a little too distant to hook you in. It is bound to be catnip to anybody already worshipping at the altar of Wes, but for those not already converted, you might want to pick up a different magazine.