THE FRENCH DISPATCH (2021) **

I’ve been a Wes Anderson fan ever since I first saw his debut feature, Bottle Rocket on cable back in the ‘90s.  Although that film remains my personal favorite, I’ve loved each and every movie he’s made since.  Until now.  I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.  

That’s not to say The French Dispatch is necessarily bad.  In fact, there is a lot to like about it (especially in the first half).  However, once the movie goes off the rails, it never recovers.  

Anderson has a wonderfully idiosyncratic style.  The best thing I can say for The French Dispatch is that no one else would’ve ever thought to make a movie like this.  Every bit of every frame just screams, “Wes Anderson” (in neatly typewritten font).  Since he is one of the most unique directors working today, it seems less than chivalrous to call the film “self-indulgent”.  I mean, why become a filmmaker if the films you make don’t allow you to indulge yourself creatively?  

I guess what I am getting at is that this is, for good or ill, the most Wes Anderson movie Wes Anderson ever made.  That sounds like a good idea, and I’m sure there were many other people that were a lot more taken with it than me, but this is the first time his precious style, just-so dialogue phrasings, and delicate set design made me want to pull my hair out.  I think if someone reigned him in a bit and tightened up the film, stripping it of its more Andersony-for-Andersony’s-sake passages, it might’ve worked.  

The French Dispatch is essentially an anthology movie.  Like most anthologies, the quality of the stories varies.  That said, this might be the most uneven anthology ever made.  

Essentially, the film is a filmed version of three stories (plus a prologue and an epilogue) appearing in the final issue of the titular magazine.  The prologue, featuring Owen Wilson is a lot of fun and sets things up on the right note.  (I especially liked the part with the roving gangs of choirboys “half-drunk on the blood of Christ”.)  The first story, in which a prisoner (Benicio del Toro) becomes an art sensation when he paints a nude portrait of his guard (Lea Seydoux), is charming enough, if a bit slight.

The last two stories, on the other hand, are a chore.  The second tale, in particular, is deadly dull and devoid of laughs, heart, or charm.  It’s in this section where a reporter (Frances McDormand) falls for a teenage rebel (Timothee Chalamet) and helps him to rewrite his manifesto.  It doesn’t help that Chalamet’s acting style is an ill fit for Anderson’s dainty form of world-building, or that McDormand (who is usually brilliant), just sort of sits there stone-faced without much of a character to play.  

The final story, which involves Jeffrey Wright relating his coverage of a kidnapping plot, is only slightly better.  However, Anderson’s constant digressions, arbitrary switching of styles (from color to black and white to animation), and odd framework choices (Wright tells the story verbatim while appearing on a talk show) strangle the life out of the tale before it can ever really begin.  It’s also unfortunate that the cast (save for Bill Murray as the editor, Tilda Swinton as an art critic, and Wilson) are mostly wasted.  

Wes Anderson apparently modeled The French Dispatch on The New Yorker.  If the film was indeed a magazine, I would cancel my subscription.  

AKA:  The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun.