The only thing wrong with “The French Dispatch” is the size of its font.
Otherwise, it’s one of those loopy, glorious Wes Anderson films where Bill Murray waltzes through while a bunch of blue-chip actors do the heavy lifting.
Murray plays Arthur Howitzer Jr., the man behind a supplement to the Liberty, Kansas, Evening Sun. The publication is a bit like the New Yorker, but you can see why it didn’t survive his demise. It’s so specific, so quirky, a mainstream audience would never bother to pick it up.
To demonstrate as much, Anderson details several stories (and an obituary) that might have been found in the publication if it had an online presence.
In those highly detailed accounts, we meet goofy characters, like the prisoner who creates expensive art (and uses a naked guard as his model), a poet on a bicycle, a police commissioner’s chef and a young revolutionary. That folks like Frances McDormand and Tilda Swinton are the storytellers only makes this even more inviting.
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But if you’re not an Anderson aficionado, this may be a difficult sit, particularly since there are so many inside references few have access to. The journalism jokes, however, are choice.
When Jeffrey Wright turns up as Roebuck Wright, an erudite columnist, he claims he has a “typographic” memory, then has to demonstrate what he means.
Timothee Chalamet is the beneficiary of that writing, too (“I feel shy about my new muscles,” he says while bathing). He’s the young revolutionary who “hooks up” with McDormand, one of the Dispatch correspondents trying to make sense of the situation. Both lean into the world quite nicely, but none is as effective as Swinton who plays a lecturer telling the story of the artist (Benicio Del Toro) and his guard (Lea Seydoux). Dressed in a ‘60s op-art caftan, she makes wild statements that encourage a second listen just to enjoy.
Much of “Dispatch,” is like that: You want to go back and re-experience what you thought you heard. Naturally, it’s played out on one of those dollhouse sets that Anderson has used in several films. As characters move from room to room, there’s constant activity (and a game of “spot the star”) that makes this endlessly engaging.
While you’d be hard pressed to say what the film was about, you probably can’t stop talking about its nuance. Like Mel Brooks’ films, this is very specific to its director. It attracts a host of stars (you won’t even guess who’s in some of those pass-through moments) and an attitude that puts it distinctly in a class of its own.
Although Anderson’s films are often marvels of production design, this one deserves a nod for its writing. His script is like Bo Burnham’s coronavirus special – filled with minutiae that makes you both smile and think.
Toss in that cast, the film’s unique look and its high style and “The French Dispatch” is a missive worth savoring.
Its title card typeface is too small but that can be rectified by watching the film more than once.
