The French Dispatch

Wes Anderson pays homage to the world of journalism.

Wallace Wolodarsky, Bill Murray and Owen Wilson

In the sense that stars flock to be in his pictures, Wes Anderson now attracts actors in the same way that was once the case with Woody Allen. His tenth feature, The French Dispatch, surely sees this at its zenith (just consider the cast list below) and by all accounts those who engage in his projects have a great time. The same can certainly be said of Anderson’s audiences when he is on form as in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) and Isle of Dogs (2018) and some critics have been equally enthusiastic about The French Dispatch. The new film is no less personal - indeed, it’s arguably even more personal - but, sadly, I can only regard it as totally misconceived.

Anderson himself has spoken about his aims in making this film including his long-held desire to make a portmanteau picture and that’s what we have here, albeit one linked in an unusual manner since its individual segments are presented within a story about a magazine that is closing down. This is The French Dispatch of the title, a French supplement of a Kansas newspaper. Its founder and publisher is Arthur Howitzer Jr (Bill Murray) and Anderson’s film starts with the announcement of his death which will also mean the closure of this publication. What then follow are three full episodes which illustrate features written for the magazine by its leading contributors, art correspondent J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton), news reporter Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) and ace writer Roebuck White (Jeffrey Wright), the last a character clearly based on James Baldwin. Their pieces are the film’s central offerings while a shorter segment entitled ‘Local Colour’ features the magazine’s cycling correspondent (Owen Wilson) reporting on the imaginary French town in which the Dispatch has its offices (one of the neatest jokes here is that Anderson names it Ennui-sur-Blasé). Ultimately the film returns to the demise of the founder and the preparation of his obituary, but this is more than a coda since it is a key moment in a work which is first and foremost Anderson’s fond tribute to journalism and to such publications as The New Yorker. For all the humour, it is evident throughout that this was the driving force behind the film, and it is indeed confirmed by the inclusion in the end credits of a dedication to editors and to writers.

The concept behind The French Dispatch may be unusual but in itself it sounds promising. That it works so badly in practice is down to several factors. The most fatal of all is the way in which there is a clash between the words and the images. Each of the three main sections finds the reporter in question narrating the tale, be it as an on-screen lecturer in Swinton’s case, as a voiceover in McDormand’s or as an interviewee (Wright talking to TV host Liev Schreiber). When added to the dialogue this makes for a torrent of words and the audience is expected to take them in while at the same time catching all the details to be found in the images. Jacques Tati would always allow the time for the eye to search out and relish his visual jokes, but Anderson moves at a pace and, in consequence, the audience confronted by this huge amount of words and images demanding close attention simply feels bombarded. Because of that even when the jokes are good ones they go for less than they should.

Despite the misjudged approach, the film might have had other aspects that could compensate, such as interesting characters or strong storylines. It can be said that three players do manage to make a mark by giving some life to their roles (McDormand firmly establishes the character of Lucinda Krementz, Murray in a shorter role has some of the choicest lines as the paper’s owner-editor and Wright gains from the echoes of Baldwin in his role). The other characters, in contrast, never engage us much which is not the fault of the actors. It’s down to a lack in the writing - if you want to ponder what is missing here just compare these people with those so appealingly played by Ralph Fiennes and Tony Revolori in The Grand Budapest Hotel. Unfortunately, the stories told here amount to little in themselves. The first one, ‘The Concrete Masterpiece’, is a satire on the art world with a dealer (Adrien Brody) promoting the work of an artist (Benicio Del Toro) who is serving a prison sentence as a killer but it makes no strong impression. Similarly, the next offering, ‘Revisions to a Manifesto’, set during the 1968 student uprising, feels feeble although the period atmosphere is well caught both visually and through music. Again it fails to impress even as it bizarrely reduces the revolt by the students to a chess match. The third item, ‘The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner’, features a kidnapping in which the young son of a police commissioner (Mathieu Amalric) is seized as a hostage for the release from prison of an underworld accountant (Willem Dafoe). An Asian chef (Stephen Park) also plays a role in this story and, while this episode is all bits and pieces, it is probably the best of the three. A chase scene at the climax turns into animation suited to the nonsense of the tale while, in contrast to that, the chef is heard talking of wonderful unknown flavours in food, what we miss in life and what it means to be a foreigner. These comments possess a serious touch in keeping with the film’s love of the journalism of a past age.

There are, of course, times when Anderson’s style gives pleasure, not least his eye for production design, but too often there is too much. In addition to the elements already mentioned, we have a few subtitles, several split-screen images and changes in the ratio as well as occasional switches from black and white photography into colour. The reason for having certain bits in colour is not always apparent, but one moment does stand out when, within a black and white sequence in which Saoirse Ronan briefly appears, we have a single shot of her in colour in which she is more glamorous than we have ever seen her before. Yet another aspect is present too. It stems from another of Anderson’s stated aims in which he declared that the film was also intended as a homage to French cinema. I did find that in the third segment there were moments that reminded me of French policier films and in one instance I thought of the silent cinema of Feuillade. Indeed, I feel certain that elsewhere in the film there are many more deliberate echoes of the cinema of the past that passed me by. But here again too much is happening even if Anderson might argue that some of these references are there to be picked up on a third or fourth viewing. Some may welcome that opportunity but, despite having approached this film with high expectations, for me one viewing was more than enough.

MANSEL STIMPSON

Cast: Benicio Del Toro, Adrien Brody, Tilda Swinton, Léa Seydoux, Frances McDormand, Timothée Chalamet, Fisher Stevens, Morgane Polanski, Lyna Khoudri, Jeffrey Wright, Bill Murray, Mathieu Amalric, Alex Lawther, Griffin Dunne, Denis Ménochet, Steve Park, Owen Wilson, Christoph Waltz, Edward Norton, Jason Schwartzman, Liev Schreiber, Elisabeth Moss, Willem Dafoe, Lois Smith, Saoirse Ronan, Cécile de France, Tony Revolori, Wallace Wolodarsky, Hippolyte Girardot, Rupert Friend, Henry Winkler, Bob Balaban, Winsen Ait Hellal, and the voice of Anjelica Huston.

Dir Wes Anderson, Pro Wes Anderson, Steven Rales and Jeremy Dawson, Screenplay Wes Anderson, from a story by Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola, Hugo Guinness and Jason Schwartzman, Ph Robert Yeoman, Pro Des Adam Stockhausen, Ed Andrew Weisblum, Music Alexandre Desplat, Costumes Milena Canonero.

Searchlight Pictures/Indian Paintbrush/an American Empirical Picture/Studio Babelsberg-Walt Disney Studios.
108 mins. USA/Germany. 2021. Rel: 22 October 2021. Cert. 15.