The French Dispatch

After Quentin Taranatino saw 1992's TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME, he proclaimed that "David Lynch had disappeared so far up his own ass that I have no desire to see another David Lynch movie until I hear something different.  And you know, I loved him.  I loved him."  Some viewers, not me, necessarily, may have a similar view of Wes Anderson after they see this year's THE FRENCH DISPATCH.  It's really something.  Anderson's unchecked, near pathological eccentricities may have finally, entirely manifested themselves to his detriment.  The OCD on display in THE LIFE AQUATIC and THE GRAND BUPAPEST HOTEL seems merely a warm up for this seven layer cake of a film.  One so overwhelming and busy that I really wished I could pause it at several moments.  Alas, I was in a movie theater, enjoying this cinematic orgy on the big screen where it belongs.

You really could study each and every frame.  The film is that dense with detail. Is there any current filmmaker as meticulous? Did Anderson intend this as a homage to Jacques Tati?  I read that it was originally to be a musical.  It might as well have been, so organic would singing be to this dynamic palate of color and texture.  Alexandre Desplat again collaborates and the whimsy scoring completes the tableaux.  This is not the place to start for a neophyte looking to get into Wes Anderson. 

THE FRENCH DISPATCH visualizes three articles that had appeared in the titular periodical, one that shares a likeness with The New Yorker.  The stories take place in the town of Ennui (haha), which is introduced and tour guided by Herbsain Sazerac (Owen Wilson) while on his bicycle.  

Soon we are plunged into the black and white world of Moses Rosthenthaler (Benicio del Toro), an artist in prison for murder.  One of the prison officers, Simone (Lea Seydoux) becomes the nude subject for his abstract paintings.   And soon the art world, via fellow prisoner and art dealer Julien Cardazio (Adrien Brody), beckons.   

Next is a document of student unrest on a college campus, led by Zeffirelli (Timothee Chalamet), whose manifesto is secretly being edited and expanded by Lucinda (Frances McDormand), a journalist who nonetheless espouses integrity in her reporting (she is also carrying on an affair with the young revolter).  

Finally, Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright) is a writer who recounts during an interview how he aspired to have his rather eventful tale of a kidnapping published in the Dispatch.  

Each episode is crammed with onscreen titles, shifts in color,  shifts to the theatrical, shifts to animation, fast, always witty dialogue, droll humor, awkward silences, and moments of insight.  Your typical Andersonian opus.  But this time the director is relentless in his stylings.  Nary a breath is taken before the next background distraction flickers onscreen, or the actors race through their impossibly clever lines.  I did find it a bit too much at times.  I also felt that the tone was quite uncertain, though humor was always the apparent goal.

And about that...THE FRENCH DISPATCH really makes no effort at dramatic meat.  Thus, I felt about zero emotional connection.  This for the first time in a Wes Anderson production.  To me, it was a conscious decision on his part.  I'm certainly not asking for sentiment.   Yes, this is a loving tribute to intellectual writing, and that bit at the end, as Dispatch editor Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray, of course) encourages Roebuck to retrieve what he discarded from the refuse basket because "that's the best part", makes the case for something resembling a heart, but in the end this is an academic exercise, a purely clinical carnival of film style.  Which I love, mind you, but I did need a wee bit more of human connection.  You know, like in THE ROYAL TENNENBAUMS (still my fave from Anderson).