I can't stop thinking about The French Dispatch
Love, loss, hunger and beauty in a dazzling array of frames
Every time I have watched Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch I end up fixated on a different part of the film. Most recently it has been Simone, Naked, Cell Block J Hobby Room, the portrait produced by troubled artist Moses Rosenthaler that jump starts his story within this pantheon.
It’s a remarkable piece of art, one that feels like it’s done a grave injustice by being presented on celluloid. As brilliantly as Robert Yeoman’s camera work is in showing us the texture of this painting, something that seems to transform without fanfare as filter, colour and aspect ratio are swapped out with nary a fanfare, I just want to reach out and touch that canvas. Just once. Please.
Like many of the props seen throughout the film it’s the work of artist Sandro Kopp, and what’s remarkable about it is that if you had told me that Benicio del Toro had painted it himself, I would have believed you.
Everything about the painting is fake, and yet at the same time it’s all very real. Kopp channelling the spirit of a fictional murderer desperately tormented by the unrequited love for his beautiful gaoler, effectively brings that character to life just as much as del Toro does himself.
This is the thing that all those charmless parodies of Wes Anderson’s body of work we’ve been seeing recently always seem to get wrong. He’s a director characterised by the most sterile, shallow interpretation of his work. If you didn’t know any better you’d think him a man who makes twee, static, emotionless vehicles fuelled only by the incredible star power he manages to wrangle.
This is not to discredit legimate criticism of his films, of course. The man does have an unwavering signature style, and a penchant for casting the whitest of white actors. I would be remiss if I didn’t recognise that, for some, the sun most certainly doesn’t shine out of his arse.
I’m not even particularly a fan of his work. I liked The Life Aquatic and The Grand Budapest Hotel but found The Darjeeling Limited somewhat lacking. I haven’t seen either of his animated works. But there’s something about The French Dispatch in particular that really grabbed me in a way that i’ve struggled to put into words.
An anthology and a eulogy, Anderson’s 2021 effort details the final issue of the titular magazine following the death of it’s editor Arthur Howitzer Jr, a send off that includes the recollection of three of its most memorable articles about the lives and events of fictional French town Ennui-sur-Blasé.
These stories, The Concrete Masterpiece, Revisions to a Manifesto and The Private Dining Room of the Police Commisioner, are supplemented by moments inbetween detailing the relationship each respective journalist had with Arthur, and how each story affected them.
Art, Politics, Cuisine, the building blocks of a wonderfully unctuous reader’s digest, and the staging grounds for some absolutely breathtaking storytelling. Anderson’s not alone in the creation of this, it’s a work of all arts: Kopp’s prop work, Yeoman’s eye for the frame, the frankly absurd attention to detail and texture on every set, the wonderful score by Alexandre Desplat and some truly mesmerizing performances.
Jeffrey Wright is the undeniable star of the show here for me, overly verbose but beautifully impassioned as a man who has seen the best and worst of Ennui-sur-Blase, it’s haute couture and it’s ugly prejudice. His words on the loneliness of giving up what once was home in pursuit of new horizons hit me with the force of a freight train.
A storytelling beat highlighted further by the undeniable best line in the entire film, a shared moment of solidarity with Steve Park’s understated chef extraordinaire Nescaffier:
“Seeking something missing. Missing something left behind. Maybe with good luck we’ll find what eluded us in the places we once called home.”
Anderson’s go to casting director Douglas Aibel has a brilliant eye for picking actors who slot effortlessly into the tableau’s weaved throughout his career. Of course a deranged artist would dedicate his craftsmanship to capturing the enduring stubborn beauty of Léa Seydoux. Of course twink jackass extraordinaire Timothée Chalamet would become the face of a student uprising. Of course Mathieu Almaric makes perfect sense to play a giddy French commissioner.
There’s not a single person out of place in in this film, including a blink-and-miss-it quite remarkable one liner from Alex Lawther (Nemik from Andor) that stuck in the dark recesses of my brain.
It’s a remarkable feat to understand exactly where to place an actor not only by their capacity for performance, but also their indescribable vibes. It’s the reason why everyone and their grandmother are stampeding over one another for the chance to work on one of these projects. As stated this is but one of the aspects of The French Dispatch that has kept it in my thoughts even after multiple viewings.
At times you might forget even that this is a piece of cinema. It’s somehow immersive despite the fantasy enveloping it. A stage play expanding out far beyond the reaches of the aspect ratio. Not content with being just one medium, Anderson and his cohorts have collaborated in something that celebrates everything joyous that art has to offer.
At one point it becomes an incredibly slick and charming animation, explained in universe as a representation of events produced in a comic strip after the fact, and even in this Herge-esque state it retains still that sense of drama and expression. We have French animation studio Werlen Meyer, who previously worked on Isle of Dogs, to thank for that.
The only one whose input is not asked for is the audience, and honestly, thank Christ.
The French Dispatch plays with your expectations of not only what a film should be, but also what Anderson’s body of work has been leading too. A tender, funny, charming, ever so slightly twee but overwhelmingly moving study of the totality of human life, from birth to death, and a film that I have fallen head over heels in love with.
Bring on Asteroid City. My body is ready!