I think we’re getting to a point where we are desperately taking Wes Anderson for granted. Now is this my favourite Anderson film? No way, as  matter of fact it’s probably further down the list than any of his new releases. However there is certainly the case to be made that on a technical level and in regards to a pure cinematic feat treat this may be his most accomplished film to date. It’s no great ability to stuff a frame, but to fill a frame with precision and craft so that every single detail is profoundly beautiful or relevant may be the most difficult task in any director or cinematographers arsenal, not mention set designer. On the podcast I have talked before of how my favourite Andersons are indeed the ones where this impeccable craft is used to utilise a specific narrative or story, aswell as of course the always inevitable intriguing characters. In the case of French Dispatch there is really no such long-form narrative to speak of, instead there are multiple different short films and over-arching love journalism to lead us through, and yet the technical achievement is such that my usual gripe is overpowered by what is on the screen.

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Yes, the word is ‘twee’. Yes, the quirkiness of it all could drive a man who didn’t like such things to go quietly insane. But time and time again Anderson has exemplified that his films really are so much more than style over substance (not that phrase works, because style is substance). French Dispatch is another such case where craft serves interesting stories and great characters, however in the overall sense this does feel somewhat like a smaller film in the cannon. Despite its cast, its epic nature and its breadth of different worlds it enters, the running time and brevity with which the film tells its tale does lead one to feel like a smaller meal has been consumed rather than the usual bountiful buffet we usually get. However of course this is by design, for what else is filled with such incredible craft time after time, but yet seems easy to throw away to the average reader/viewer – an issue of a magazine. Anderson has assembled some of the greatest stars of all time. Amendment: LOTS of the greatest stars of all time, and given us these stars in delightful stories and yet we seem willing to deem this ‘lesser Anderson’ or throw it away. Whether by design or not, Anderson has emulated his love-letter to The New Yorker down to even to the manner in which it is consumed.

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It is perhaps of note to mention that to me not all of the stories and characters were equally interesting, however every element that I disliked was resigned to one specific story that I outline in the postscript below. Much like in the case of Dune I don’t wish to write a list of actors here only to comment that all of them were great, which by the way they were. So I’ll just discuss a few personal standouts. Adrien Brody as the same brand of aristocrat as Anderson as lovingly adopted him as is delightful. Murray, always Murray – beautiful and touching work here as another father figure. As a matter of fact everybody involved in the first story were standouts, from the minor to the major. The first two stories set up and overall theme of “the future” that sort of fall aside in the third story and a vague intrusion of this theme into that story could have led to the film feeling a touch more cohesive. Beyond the first story and Murray’s over-arching hand, the finest performance of the film would have to be Jeffrey Wright as a pseudo James Baldwin figure, interviewed by a wickedly dry Liev Schreiber as a pseudo Dick Cavett figure. Wright’s touch in his narration and his presentation of his tale added a sincere warmth and humanity that has coloured so many of Andersons best characters prior to this film and colours some in this one, but mainly Wright.

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One of the most visually astounding films of the year, a fine 8/10 that perhaps serves us more beautiful visual art than it does consist narratives or the like. But the wonderful characters are abundant and the humour is prevalent. Anderson has made it know to all that this is love letter to The New Yorker, and where some filmic love-letters can seem over-indulgent or saccarhin, this film does exactly what the best should do – make you fall in love with the subject also, even if in this case it is through the fictional lens of The French Dispatch, of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun.  

P.S. My favourite section was most probably “The Concrete Masterpiece”, with my least favourite certainly being “Revisions to a Manifesto”. In the case of every small element of this film or short story I felt like I could watch at least an 80 minute feature in that world. That was unfortunately not the case with “Manifesto”.

-        -  Thomas Carruthers