The French Dispatch - Review

 Nescaffier: (in explanation) I’m a foreigner, you know.

Roebuck Wright: (long pause)

This city is full of us, isn’t it? I’m one myself.

Nescaffier is aware of this. He says, slightly delirious:

Nescaffier:

Seeking something missing, missing something left behind.

Roebuck Wright nods in appreciation. He says quietly;

Roebuck Wright:

Maybe, with good luck, we’ll find what eluded us in the places we once called home.

I haven't tried to write a review for a movie in a hot minute.

I recently wrote a theatre review about a local production of Little Shop of Horrors, as I'm sure you all were privvy to (my apologies for bastardising your Facebook feed with a Bible chapter of text (and apologies once more, in advance, for doing it again)). I recently found myself in the fortunate position of having, once again, nothing to do with my time. No show. No work. No study. Nothing, except all the time in the world, and a mind that wouldn't stop whirring for an occupation.

And so, after a night with loved ones, I nestled down, and decided to once again watch Wes Anderson's The French Dispatch, an anthology comedy drama film, fittingly about the art of the written word, and the arts it sought to convey to its readers. And, in the spirit of the film's subject matter, I will blabber here about my observations of a film I inexplicably fell further and further in love with.

Editorial Staff (V.O.):

It began as a holiday.

Anderson opens upon the death of the editor, the writer's right-hand-man, and often his boss. Arthur Howitzer. Jr. It introduces his staff: Berensen, Sazerac, Krementz, Roebuck, the best living writer in quality of sentences per minute, he who never completed a single article but haunted the halls cheerily for three decades, he who was privately blind and wrote keenly through the eyes of others, uncontested crackerjack of grammatical expertise, and Hermes Jones.

From this introduction alone, my heart was with the movie. Names? Perfect, to a tee. The strengths of those without them? Odd and somewhat useless in the age of now, yet charming and having their place within the walls of the writer. It appears Anderson follows his heart through his pen, and if any of it is too odd, too whimsical, and too... Wes Anderson-y, he simply follows the advice of Mr. Howitzer.

Howitzer:

Just try to make it sound like you wrote it that way on purpose.

Before I cotinue gushing about personal "haha, I like that"'s, Let's get onto tangible strengths, so I can convince you to go to your local JB Hi-Fi and dust off a Blu-Ray of this film for yourself.

The performances are pitch-perfect. Every single one. From the non-spoken to the briefly shoved aside, every single character in this movie has been paid the appropriate dues in terms of detail and intrigue. A particular stand out, Jeffrey Wright as Roebuck Wright; a performance so believably enthralling and compelling, that I entirely mixed up the names in the first draft of this review.

The art of the visual frame is one that is of consistent quality in Anderson's canon, and deliver once more does Robert Yeomen, returning to his Wes Anderson duties once more since The Grand Budapest Hotel. The camera is a purposefully precise tool that captures no more and no less of every given set-piece, capturing the magnificent production design of Adam Stockhausen; no matter how thin a crack, the fictional French town of Ennui-sur-Blasé is constantly peering at you, and you, attentive as ever, try to peer back, in an attempt to capture every shred of its urban beauty.

Anderson directs with a keen eye, perfecting an art I like to call "blocking dialogue". Every actor speaks with a purpose; a common goal, shared by the film's vision. They speak plainly, with express purpose of conveying the dialogue, and nothing more. No vanity, no rushing for the next paycheck, none of it. It simply arrives when it needs to.

And beneath the spoken word, is the musical note, brilliantly composed by Alexandre Desplat, as his fascinatingly foreign yet grounded set of instruments assist in delivering you visions of the writers Anderson chooses to be embodied by.

The stories themselves vary, but all deliver in one way or another. Let's start with the prologue. Intro.

Legal Advisor: (defeated)

Impossible to fact-check. He changes all the names, and only writes about hoboes, pimps, and junkies.

Sazerac's "The Cycling Reporter" does what it says on the tin, and is tasked with introducing you to the fictional town, in a brief intro that does not outstay its welcome one picosecond, kept aloft by Wilson's banal charm. Nothing more to say; it makes it very clear what you will experience, and serves as the film's litmus test; if ya don't like it, you probably want to move on.

On we move to Berensen's "The Concrete Masterpiece".

Proofreader: (coolly)

Three dangling participles, two split infinitives, and nine spelling errors in the first sentence alone.

Swinton is a charming storyteller of any stripe she chooses, and this one is no exception. It is a talent also displayed by del Toro, Brody, and Sydoux, who become unrecognisably larger than life, propelling the story at such a speed, you wish they'd never reach their destination. The clever language of art, displayed through shifting colourisations of the frame, as a colorful illumination of the dull, grey life that surrounds it reminds us why we engage with it to begin with; we find colour, be it through book, screen, or the abstractified portrait of the real, to escape, and to cement our interest, in spite of whatever may hinder it.

Next, Krementz's "Revisions to a Manifesto".

Story Editor: (darkly)

We asked for twenty-five hundred words, and she came in at 14,000, plus footnotes, endnotes, a glossary, and two epilogues.

The vibrancy of youth and the monochromia of the old ways they are stuck within strike me the most. McDormands' Krementz is a sad reflection of the care us writers take and the notice we pay to the stake of something we are personally invested in. Most importantly, it mourns the young writers who are so busy combating the words of the old, that they never get to live the new. It doesn't necessarily encourage us to NOT be merely outward observers, but rather, to think about the personal attachment we may have to what we write. At the end of the day, a story is what we make of it. We are writing stories, not factual reports. And how much influence do you, the writer, hold over your story? Why worry about someone else's story, when you could scrunch it up, toss it aside, and ride off, writing your own?

Finally, my personal favourite. Roebuck Wright's "The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner".

Cheery Writer: (encouraging)

His door's locked, but I could hear the keys clacking.

Roebuck Wright is me. Roebuck Wright is not a victim of his story, nor merely the out-of-view writer. He is a subject adjacent to the subject. Roebuck Wright is a man who writes, not to merely report as instructed, nor to fulfill the quota, nor to be timely. Roebuck Wright writes what happens to him on his assignment, and recounts it, to your delight. And Roebuck Wright writes not to make sense to you, but to make sense to him. Only then, is he bound to remember any of it.

The door is locked to you, reader, and that door is my mind. And sometimes, I am inclined to invite you in, as I do now.

Roebuck Wright:

There is a particular, sad beauty well-known to the companionless foreigner as he walks the streets of his adopted (preferably, moonlit) city. (In my case, Ennui, France.) I have so often shared the day’s glittering discoveries with: no one at all. But always, somewhere along the avenue or the boulevard: there was a table. Set for me. A cook, a waiter, a bottle, a glass, a fire. I chose this life. It is the solitary feast that has been (very much like a comrade) my great comfort and fortification.

Consider this a table set, for you. An invitation to a dinner. The meal? The French Dispatch.

Indulge in it however long you wish. And, should it not be to your liking, feel free to break the spell, and push the plate away. Anderson is a cook, but like all cuisines, he has his enthusiasts, and those who do not care for it. And that's okay.

But I stayed, and I consumed every last morsel until not a scrap remained on my plate. And I felt full. Satisfied, and full. Yet... curious.

Roebuck Wright:

What happens next?

And so, to satiate that final pang of hunger, I cooked a meal of my own. That's what happened. Nowhere near as impressive a dish; a few paragraphs of my thoughts and opinions on something that I liked, to share among others.

THAT is the magic I found, watching The French Dispatch.