The French Dispatch: Film Review

Cast: Timothee Chalamet, Bill Murray, Frances McDormand, Owen Wilson, Jeffrey Wright, Benicio del Toro, Tilda Swinton, Elisabeth Moss, Lea Seydoux

Director: Wes Anderson

Wes Anderson's latest is a paean to journalism, assembled in a portmanteau that comes with all the trappings you'd expect from a film of his quirks.

But as the trail continues through the stories, some may feel it's one that offers diminishing returns.

Set in France, in a village called Ennui-sur-Blase (the name speaks for itself and is part of Anderson's droll wordplay), it's the loosely connected tale of the final edition of The French Dispatch magazine, helmed by Bill Murray's editor Arthur Howitzer, Jr.

Howitzer Jr's mantra of "Just try to make it sound like you wrote it that way" could apply heavily to The French Dispatch with its quartet of heavily verbose stories, that are very loosely threaded together in a way a magazine threads its own stories within an issue.

But all have Anderson's signature idiosyncracies coursing through their veins.

Whether it's the animated finale of the fourth episode "The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner" that apes Tintin's stylings, or the switching between black and white and coloyr of "The Concrete Masterpiece", or Owen Wilson's deadpan delivery and praftalls of "The Cycling Reporter", there's nothing that you've not seen Anderson do before in this latest.

As such, that makes The French Dispatch feel more like an Anderson homage throughout, rather than peak Anderson and his penchant for strong characters. Perhaps it's the ensemble feel of The French Dispatch that detracts, or the disparate nature of it all that makes it ultimately feel a bit slight. 

But be advised, every single story has something for someone - and has moments which will amuse, rather than result in gut-level guffaws. This is about whimsy more than anything, a salutary send-off to journalists of yore.

From Tilda Swinton's overbite-led presentation of her story to Jeffrey Wright's mellifluous tones that feel warm and like honey, each of the tales has something to recommend it, even if the whole tome doesn't quite fit together as you'd want. But much like any magazine, if you're not thrilled with what's before you, there's more to come.

While Anderson's style continues to be singular and obvious from the start, The French Dispatch may leave some puzzled at his continuing appeal. Certainly, its visual flair and aesthetics leave a twee feeling in one's mouth, whereas Anderson purists will adore it. (And Alexandre Dusplat's soundtrack is to die for, a perfect companion piece to goings-on.)

It may not be a masterpiece, and may be more of a mournful affair than perhaps Anderson intended - albeit one that's draped in idiosyncratic style, but The French Dispatch is certainly a cinematic missive to subscribe to.