A Dispatch, for Better or Worse
A review of Wes Anderson's newest film, The French Dispatch (2021)
The last film I saw in the cinema was Robert Egger’s The Lighthouse (2019). It was a night out with my cousin, and after some quick nibbles, we took our seats at the Curzon Soho for one hell of a sensory experience—an event that was almost a year and a half ago. To anyone who knows me—a socially diagnosed cinephile—this gap between cinema attendances would be staggering. Even as the cinemas began to re-open in the UK, nothing really drew me to the screen. But there, on the horizon, was Wes Anderson’s newest film, The French Dispatch (2021), which looked to combine literary leanings (the film being a homage to The New Yorker) and, of course, Anderson’s own cinematic style. A worthy and agreeable title to get myself, and my partner (she’s paying because, well, see my PhD post) back to the big screen. So, masks went on, seats were taken, the lights dimmed, and the film began.
Everything you’d expect from a Wes Anderson film was there. Big stars, vibrant colors and sets, symmetrical frames, and tracking shots—if you know a Wes Anderson film when you see one, Dispatch won’t hold any surprises for you, perhaps its detriment. At times, I thought I was watching a Roy Andersson film—pushing far into the Avant Garde, bizarre, self-satirizing—only for Anderson to remind me with another track and smash-cut (with an interlude of strings) that no, it was his film. Rarely did the camera really sit with any singular moment (linger, yes, but dwell, no)—a frustration that percolated throughout. This would be familiar to anyone who’s seen a Wes Anderson flick, but that chaotic energy was often grounded by a well-framed and simple plot with characters who were anything but simple.
Steve Zissou wanted revenge, Royal Tenenbaum wanted to reconnect with his family, and Gustav H. wanted to clear his name—these clear motivations are the heart and soul of an Anderson film, but Dispatch (a 3-part anthological narrative) lacked the grounding of a centralized narrative. Yes, it followed and mirrored the film’s subject matter—a magazine—exceptionally well, but ultimately, it was a film about a material item, an object, rather than the people that produce it (thought try as he might to the contrary). It was a valiant effort on the part of Anderson and the amazing cast, but without a central, beating heart to the narrative, it all just felt a bit soulless, regardless of the peppered aspects of humanity that were scattered throughout. To that end, the 1st and 3rd articles (because they are narratives that are reported rather than inhabited) were the strongest of the three, with Benicio Del Toro’s and Lea Seydoux’s unconventional romance in the first part, and Jeffery Wright’s take on James Baldwin in the third part, the main standouts of the ensemble cast.
Still, given the film’s format, it was difficult to grasp onto any single character. Just as a narrative developed, you were whisked away to the next scene or punch line—narrative whiplash. The film rarely slowed down, and that was reflected in the brief sub-two-hour run-time, but in the cinema, I swore that it was closer to three, so I was surprised to exit and find the sun still up. But credit where it’s due, the performances were exceptional, even if certain cast members didn’t get much to work with (Elisabeth Moss and Saoirse Ronan getting the shortest straws). That shouldn’t detract though from some of the standout moments, a particular monologue from Jeffrey Wright was some of the most impactful writing in the film. He delivered it with a palatable sense of distance, a somberness which cried out for acceptance and companionship. I would’ve been more than persuaded to have a whole film dedicated to his character alone. And therein lied the overall crux of the piece—in pursuit of the form which the film was based on, it lost itself to that identity. The French Dispatch (2021) was a magazine, not a film…or if it was, not a singular one.
There were three separate films there, each of which likely deserving of their own full narrative. But instead, were given snippets—bi-lines—to those characters and their lives when they deserved more. Imagine taking the character-turn beats of each of Edgar Wright’s Cornetto Trilogy, cutting them into a supercut, then having the overall narrative be the assemblage of that supercut, then you’ll get the idea of what I’m referring to.
Perhaps that says more about me, then the film. Because as someone who used to be subscribed to numerous magazines, and rarely ever finished an entire issue front-to-back, then maybe the film just wasn’t for me. Still, I had the rare pleasure of going into this film blind (having been exposed to none of the reviews or coverage), and perhaps I would’ve enjoyed it more if I knew it was an anthology. Regardless, I was happy to be back in a cinema, with the lights down, and the big screen illuminated in front of me once more.