Rating: R
Runtime: 1 hour, 48 minutes
Director: Wes Anderson
Quick Impressions:
I had just convinced my husband that he would secretly love to watch a film that was a conversation between two couples, in which one couple’s son had murdered the other couple’s son. This took some work on my part—over a week of my most persuasive coaxing and disingenuous (perhaps even dishonest) descriptions—so I was very frustrated when we discovered that Mass had only one showtime in the mid-afternoon which we had already missed that day! I checked all over town looking for other options, then finally gave up and bought tickets to The French Dispatch.
I’ve wanted to see this movie for what now feels like five to ten years. (“Quarantine” is what I call the entirety of the past two years, each of which feels doubly long. And I know I heard about the movie at least a year before all that started. Didn’t I? Back in the before times, I remember seeing tantalizing promotional material for this film all over the place. And of course, I wanted to see it then. I’ve seen every single one of Wes Anderson’s other movies, and this film’s cast list could believably double as the complete cadre of any Oscar season’s acting nominees.)
Something strange happened, though. Once the movie actually came out, I got cold feet about watching it because I’ve been so out it lately, and the whole film is supposed to be an incredibly high concept meta reflection on The New Yorker. The idea of making sense of that on a school night just felt so intellectually exhausting.
I told my husband, “I don’t think I’m cultured enough to appreciate this movie.” (That’s bizarre, too, when you think that, as I said, I’ve seen all of Anderson’s other movies. How can you see every one of an auteur’s films and say, “I don’t think I’m sufficiently prepared to understand your work”?)
I know very little about The New Yorker. I know that there is a New Yorker. The end.
Just kidding, I know more than that. I do read articles from The New Yorker from time to time (but I’m not a subscriber because I can’t subscribe to everything! Not long ago, I went on a subscribing spree because I was unable to quash my desire to get my eyeballs on the full text of all these precious pay-walled articles, and I’m regretting that horribly now). (Maybe I will subscribe to The New Yorker, though. I just visited its website, and it does look pretty fun.)
At any rate, I’ve heard of Harold Ross, but early twentieth century American literature is not something I’ve studied in any depth. On my own (not for any class), I’ve read a lot of James Thurber, Dorothy Parker, and E.B. White, but I’ve never had occasion to sit around reading old copies of The New Yorker from cover to cover. So I knew going into this movie that all kinds of inside jokes and clever references would go whizzing right over my pretty little head, and I did not have time to remedy that before watching The French Dispatch. I feel that to prepare to receive this film properly, I should spend at least two days in the library pouring over old copies of The New Yorker. But when exactly am I supposed to do that?
The Good:
Perhaps the greatest strength of The French Dispatch is that you do not have to be familiar with the New Yorker writers and pieces that inspired this film to enjoy watching the movie. (I know because I just confessed my ignorance, and I did enjoy the movie. My husband didn’t even realize there were connections to be made, and he liked the movie, too, though he did fall asleep during the last story. That had more to do with sleep deprivation and Jeffrey Wright’s sonorous narration than boredom, though.)
If you like Wes Anderson films in general, you should like The French Dispatch, too. In some ways, it’s a return to form. (Maybe a better way to say that is, it’s a return to being outside the box. Moonrise Kingdom, The Grand Budapest Hotel, and Isle of Dogs all seem unusually accessible to mainstream audiences compared to most of Anderson’s earlier work. They’re inside the box, but it’s the special Wes Anderson box. If you like his style and his usual tropes, then those films hit all the marks perfectly to the point that more die-hard fans could criticize them as approaching self-parody. This movie is riskier and stranger than those even though it also features Anderson’s signature style and favorite tropes.)
What impressed me most strongly is that Bill Murray has one of the smallest leading roles in the film (in terms of screen time and dialogue), and yet somehow he manages to steal the whole movie. At least, for me, his scenes were (collectively) the best part of the film by far. Part of this is because Murray is just so funny, with brilliant comic timing (and obvious enthusiasm for Anderson’s work). Part of it is because the entirety of the film is a eulogy honoring his character, the editor who brings all of these writers together and allows them to flourish. I loved the brief moments after each story when he discussed possible revisions with the writers. Those interactions made the movie for me. Of course, I am a writer myself, so reactions to writing and suggestions for revision may excite me more than average. But beyond that, I found the soul of this film in those brief conversations.
I’ve always liked Owen Wilson (even before my son’s obsession with Cars), but I like Anderson’s work slightly better when he writes with Roman Coppola. Those films seem more focused to me (though that may have nothing to do with Coppola’s contributions. I don’t know for sure). Some of the lines in this one are heart-breakingly superb. (I mean that hearing them broke my heart because I was in the movie theater, not at home. I couldn’t pull out a notebook or my phone and write down great lines when I heard them.) (I guess they do allow notebooks, but it never occurred to me to bring one along.) In Owen Wilson’s piece, the lines describing the altar boys are so fantastic. I wanted to write them down so badly. I would watch the entire movie again just to get another chance to hear them (and record them this time). (Seriously, I almost pulled out my phone and took my chances because I wanted to write them down so much.)
Every performance in this is good. (Not all parts are equal, of course. Christoph Waltz, Edward Norton, Saoirse Ronan, Willem Dafoe, and others simply show up in order to be there, like, “Surprise! I’m in this movie, too!”) I personally could not wait to rush home and make my daughter guess that Timothée Chalamet and Frances McDormand play lovers in one sequence. (There’s no reason they shouldn’t, but I knew I would surprise her, and so much collective energy has been expended in this household rooting for their performances during various Oscar seasons. We always jokingly call Chalamet my daughter’s Oscar crush. (We also call him Timmy because Saoirse Ronan did.) Not a fan of most leading men, my daughter loves Chalamet.) As I watched the story featuring him and McDormand, I first thought, “I’m not sure I like this as much as the others. This is kind of weak. This is going on kind of long. This is getting a little weird.” Then as it ended, I realized with a gasp, “Oh my God! That was the best one!” (McDormand’s character writes in such a Spartan room and expresses herself with such laconic restraint, yet she lives such a full, passionate life and views the events around her with such a profound perspective.) (Moments that provoke mini-epiphanies like this are one reason I always watch Anderson’s movies. You think, “Oh this is all style and no substance,” and then F. Murray Abraham says a few quiet words, and you’re weeping, thinking, “I never understood life before now!”)
The story about the artist may have been my favorite as I watched it unfold (though, like I said, that Mrs. Krementz one really packs a punch in overall effect). But the art one was consistently cracking me up as I watched it, partially because I just love Tilda Swinton so much. I really liked her in Michael Clayton and We Need to Talk About Kevin, but ever since she was sleeping in that box, I just began to love her in a way that I can’t seem to articulate in human words. This story seems so relatable. For one thing, I feel like I’ve been to that lecture. I also enjoyed the weird energy of the scenes with Benicio Del Toro, Léa Seydoux, and Adrien Brody.
Jeffrey Wright’s story put my husband quickly to sleep. I tried to wake him up once, and then I felt bad, thinking, “Maybe he’s not enjoying this movie.” (It is quirky.) Then after the movie, he exclaimed, “I can’t believe I fell asleep! I wanted to see the ending! I liked that movie so much!” And then I felt terrible for not waking him more aggressively. (Wright’s voice as he narrates is incredibly sonorous, and my poor husband never gets enough sleep because he’s very close to this disturbed insomniac who always wants to talk to him.) Liev Schrieber is a surprisingly entertaining listener in this sequence.
I see no point in saying too much about the superb visual aesthetic of this film. The detail in these scenes is staggering even for Anderson. You have to see it for yourself. I also loved the structure of the story. (I’m always a sucker for long films made up of short ones, but in this case, the movie is The French Dispatch. It’s hard not to appreciate that kind of narrative artistry.
Also, I was almost angry about how much I liked Alexandre Desplat’s score. (I was mad because I left Dune raving about the score, and then I left this film also raving about the score. And I lack the musical vocabulary to explain what I find so rave-inspiring.) I hope this doesn’t turn into yet another year where I leave every movie gushing vaguely about how much I loved the score. (Why does that happen to me so often? Maybe I need to learn more about music.)
Best Scene:
Tragically, the best part of the movie is what my husband missed while he was asleep. It’s the part when Murray’s character discusses Wright’s character’s article with him. They talk about something he left out (and we get to hear some wonderful dialogue between Wright and Stephen Park as the brilliant chef Nescaffier). As I mentioned, I love all of Murray’s chats with the writers, but this one is the best. It’s deliciously meta, too. What Murray says about the part Wright cut could also be said about this scene. And Wright’s answer also shows us the entire point of the movie (affirming its premise and justifying why a film with such a premise should be made.)
Best Action Sequence:
The cartoons in this are pretty inspired, but I think I like all the action on the night Moses Rosenthaler’s new work is unveiled even better.
Best Scene Visually:
Trying to single out any one best scene for its visuals in a Wes Anderson movie is what I’ll probably end up doing one day if I ever get stuck in Dante’s Inferno. (And then if I move up to Purgatory, I’ll have to explain what it is I like so much about any movie’s score.) You could look at any scene (probably any frame) of this film in isolation and immediately recognize it as Anderson’s work.
I like the film’s use of black and white to tell the stories. I want to watch again to take note of every moment (during a story) when things change to color. To be honest, I felt a bit overwhelmed by all the visual detail in The French Dispatch. Bill Murray’s office alone looks like it could be someone’s greatest artistic achievement. I can’t imagine the work that went into crafting these scenes.
Maybe this is an uninspired choice (especially given all the options), but I actually loved the look of the set of the talk show where Roebuck Wright gives his interview. For some reason, I found myself thinking about this space often while the film’s other visuals were simply washing over me.
The Negatives:
This is a very unusual film. Even for a Wes Anderson film, it’s…
I don’t know. After the movie, I said to my husband, “I would hesitate to call that self-indulgent because it’s giving a magnificent tribute to a piece of our culture, but I really do feel like I just watched someone being obscenely indulged.” (I’m all for obscene indulgence, though.)
I wouldn’t call the film uneven because it is of almost unbelievably consistent quality throughout. Each scene feels as meticulously crafted as the last. But tonally, it is quite unusual. I laughed out loud (loudly! but briefly) like five times, so it is funny. But it doesn’t provoke consistent laughter. Often, if you’re like me, you’ll sit there making bemused faces, not entirely sure how to react to what’s going on. This is not because the movie is hard to follow. Even though I know having greater knowledge of the subject would enhance the film for me, the movie is perfectly easy to follow on the level of plot. It’s carefully (and well) constructed and presented clearly so that you can’t possibly misunderstand what you’re getting. But sometimes it’s hard to know how to react to what you see. Well, I mean, you do react. Just naturally, you do. The scenes provoke a reaction. But you feel your face contorting in ways you don’t necessarily understand. I enjoyed the movie, start to finish, but I’m pretty sure it’s not for everyone. (If you like Wes Anderson’s other films, though, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t like this one, too.)
The one thing I didn’t understand was why Tony Revolori played the young Rosenthaler. I liked him in The Grand Budapest Hotel, but it just seemed like a way to cram him into this movie for no reason. Was it necessary to switch actors at all? (But this is a really minor complaint, and perhaps there’s a reason for it I don’t understand.)
The main thing that frustrates me is that I feel The French Dispatch demands more of me than I can reasonably give it. Watching, I realized, “Okay, it’s not just that I need to take a deep dive into classic issues of The New Yorker. To properly appreciate this film, I also need to watch it approximately 700 more times.”
So much detail is packed into every single scene, and it all gives the impression of meaning more than I could ever possibly imagine. Just waltzing in there and watching it cold like I did feels like the equivalent of reading the complete works of T.S. Eliot without any other knowledge of literature or history. I don’t just need to watch this movie again. I need to watch it again and again and again and again. Quite frankly, I’m not sure I want to sit through quite that many encores, even if I somehow miraculously find the time (which I won’t).
We have to watch it again at least once, though! My husband needs to see the ending, and my daughter needs to see Timothée Chalamet. Plus I want to write down those great lines about the altar boys.
Overall:
I liked The French Dispatch more than I expected when I went (because I had grown terrified of my ignorance) and as much as I originally hoped that I would. Before I can say anything too useful about the film’s visuals or performances, I’d need to see it at least twice more. But I can say that if you like Wes Anderson’s other films, then you should like this one, too. (I feel like this the last line of every review I write about a Wes Anderson movie. I should just start copying and pasting it and save myself some time!)