The French Dispatch ★★★★☆
“The French Dispatch” is like a lovingly crafted diorama that’s been shaken up by a hyper-caffeinated storyteller. It’s a Wes Anderson film, which means the aesthetic is dialed up to “maximum twee” with no apologies offered—and none needed. Set in the fictional French town of Ennui-sur-Blasé (because of course it is), the film is an anthology, tied together by the final issue of an American expat magazine published in France. Think The New Yorker if it were run by Bill Murray, who plays the no-nonsense editor Arthur Howitzer Jr., a man who literally dies of a broken heart (or so we’re told).
The film’s structure feels like flipping through a magazine—there’s an obituary, a travel section, and three feature stories that are as eccentric as they are meticulously designed. The first segment takes us on a bicycle tour of the town, narrated by Owen Wilson’s Herbsaint Sazerac, who delivers snappy one-liners as casually as he pedals through its streets. From there, we plunge into stories that span the art world, student revolutions, and a police dinner turned kidnapping caper, each chapter more whimsically absurd than the last.
Beneath the pastel colors and perfect symmetry, “The French Dispatch” is Anderson’s love letter to a bygone era of journalism, one filled with strange personalities and stranger stories. There’s a deep, albeit nostalgic, reflection on the role of storytelling—how we document the oddities of life, how we romanticize the past, and how fleeting the written word can be. Anderson’s fixation on objects and nostalgia (he’s practically the hoarder of quirk) serves to remind us that, like the printed magazine itself, the world of “The French Dispatch” is a beautiful relic, fading but never forgotten.
If you’ve seen any Wes Anderson film, you know what to expect visually: immaculate symmetry, dollhouse-like sets, and color palettes that make even the dullest subject matter look like it was pulled from a vintage postcard. But this time, Anderson crams in more details than ever. Each frame is so meticulously composed that you almost expect it to shatter under the weight of its own preciousness. And yet, it doesn’t. The film is a visual buffet of artistic references, from New Wave cinema to cartoonish chase scenes straight out of a Tintin comic. Anderson even throws in some animated sequences, just in case you were somehow losing interest.
With an ensemble cast as starry as a celestial navigation chart, it’s hard to pick standouts, but Benicio del Toro’s tortured artist, Moses Rosenthaler, steals the show in the first vignette. He’s a convicted murderer who becomes a celebrated painter, using a prison guard (Léa Seydoux) as his muse, while Adrien Brody’s hilariously sleazy art dealer, Julien Cadazio, desperately tries to cash in. Frances McDormand and Timothée Chalamet are pitch-perfect in the “Revisions to a Manifesto” segment, where they embroil themselves in a chaotic, Godardian student revolution. Jeffrey Wright, playing a food writer drawn into a kidnapping, lends gravitas to the final act, anchoring the zaniness with his soulful, understated performance.
The film’s magazine-like structure, with its distinct chapters, keeps things moving at a brisk pace, though the middle section—focused on Chalamet’s student revolt—feels slightly less engaging than the bookending segments. It’s like flipping through an actual magazine: some articles captivate you, while others you skim. But overall, Anderson’s narrative flourishes keep you flipping the metaphorical pages, even when the plot meanders into absurdity.
As someone who still clings to the romance of print journalism (you know, back when people actually read magazines), this film struck a chord. Anderson’s portrayal of the eccentric writers and editors behind these bizarre stories feels like a nostalgic nod to a world that doesn’t really exist anymore, except in our imaginations—or in one of his films. The film doesn’t just celebrate storytelling; it mourns its inevitable decline, albeit in the most whimsically beautiful way possible.
“The French Dispatch” is Wes Anderson at his most Wes Anderson, for better or worse. It’s a visual feast and a dense, occasionally overwhelming narrative experience. But if you’re willing to embrace the film’s kaleidoscopic approach to storytelling, you’ll find plenty to admire—and maybe even love. Just don’t expect to digest it all in one sitting.
Who’s it for? Wes Anderson devotees, fans of The New Yorker, or anyone who enjoys watching the world’s quirkiest magazine come to life in pastel perfection.
