The French Dispatch — A Writer’s Thoughts on a Film About Writers

I have some things to say after having just seen Wes Anderson’s new film, The French Dispatch. I guess first and foremost, my review: I loved it. Is it better than The Royal Tenenbaums or Rushmore? No, I would say not. But in my humble opinion, I liked it much more than Steve Zissou (I can’t even feign the interest to look up the full title of that movie) and I would say it’s in the same league as The Grand Budapest Hotel and Moonrise Kingdom.

I feel a little bad for the Texas-born filmmaker (he graduated from St. John’s School in Houston in 1987). Was he going to be highly critiqued for this film about journalists and writers? Of course he was, given that, as a whole, journalists and writers can be a prickly bunch.

As many movies that attempt to offer a glimpse into a certain world, it’s generally hit or miss. The best example is Robert Altman’s hit The Player (his satire of Hollywood), while his feeble view of the world of fashion, Prêt-à-Porter, was a miss. Anderson’s film, on the other hand, is a loving ode to the life of writers and journalists.

The French Dispatch is like an updated (and more academic) version of the Airplane films (the 1980 original classic had a sequel in 1982). Both Dispatch and Airplane are chock full of notable actors. In the comedy disaster film’s case — Leslie Nielsen, Peter Graves, Lloyd Bridges, Julie Hagerty, and Kareem Abdul-Jabaar. In Anderson’s film, there are simply too many to list, but a few of my favorites: Bill Murray and Owen Wilson who are generally part of Anderson’s ensemble casts; Tilda Swinton; Bob Balaban; Frances McDormand; Léa Seydoux; and Benicio del Toro. Both films offer a zippy ride through 90 minutes of numerous laughs (some exceptional while others flat). Anderson’s film plays at such a fast clip though that even when the moments aren’t all that humorous, you’re quickly on to another.

I’m pretty far into my ramblings and you might have noticed that I have yet to really mention the plot. Well, who cares? To paraphrase the hilarious Saturday Night Live parody of an Anderson film trailer, “You had me at Wes Anderson.” I would’ve gone to see this film no matter the premise.

If Wes Anderson had decided to do a horror film, then sign me up for that. A movie on the mechanics of a farm tractor? Sure, why not.

Anderson picked a lane early in his career. It’s one filled with wonderfully nostalgic sets, quirky soundtracks, oft-overlooked solid actors, delicate cinematography, costumes that beg to be imitated on Halloween, and many cultural references for those in the know.

And by “in the know,” I mean the audience he knows intimately and creates films for. They are intellectuals (and pseudo-intellectuals). They likely went to a liberal arts college or a second-tier Ivy League school. They enjoy trying cuisine that they’ve read about in The New Yorker. At a dinner party, they will only mention binging a Netflix series that’s French (even though they are secretly enjoying more provincial fare like The Umbrella Academy, which come to think of it seems like a Wes Anderson superhero film).

In case you are interested though and need to know the plot before purchasing your tickets on Fandango, Anderson paints the picture of the final issue of a vintage news magazine of the fictional Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun with an outpost in the French city (again fictional) Ennui-sur-Blasé. Like a Sunday supplement, it’s based in parts with page numbers: The Cycling Reporter, The Concrete Masterpiece, Revisions to a Manifesto, and The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner.

My matinee was a thoroughly enjoyable bit of escapism. And I will admit, at the end of the film when the screen had a list of writers to whom Anderson was dedicating his film, I shed a little tear. It was a varied assortment with the likes of James Baldwin, E.B. White, and Harold Ross (founder of The New Yorker).

Catch The French Dispatch now — it’s a film best enjoyed on a big screen with a bucket of popcorn in your lap.