The French Dispatch, the 10th film by idiosyncratic American director Wes Anderson, is certainly not going to convert any Anderson-sceptics. For fans, however, there’s a lot to enjoy.
Presented as a New Yorker inspired anthology, The French Dispatch is centred around the fictional publication which lends the production its title. The portmanteau of stories which the film is made up of comprise the final edition of the magazine, featuring: a travel guide, three feature stories and an obituary.
As is so often the case with anthology films, some of these stories are stronger than others. The first of the feature stories, The Concrete Masterpiece, is a delight. A mordant tale of a condemned murderer and prison guard turned artist and muse, it’s bolstered by some fine comic performances from Benicio Del Toro, Lea Seydoux and Adrien Brody. The story is relayed to us by art critic J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton) a glamorous, buck-toothed woman with perfectly coiffed red hair and a dazzling orange kaftan, who slyly hints at a deliciously sordid past.
The second section, Revisions to a Manifesto, is less successful. There are inspired moments, for example, one character’s experience of conscription is presented to the audience through the prism of a fictional play and we are treated to a moving and theatrical rendition of a pivotal scene. 
It is unfortunate that the relationship between reporter Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) and Gauloise-smoking student revolutionary Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet) is so unrewarding, and at times, troubling. That said, the actors are not to blame here.McDormand is as excellent as ever, with her flinty strength and sardonic sense of humour. Chalamet, sporting a shock of curly hair and a wisp of a moustache, gives a performance that is finely attuned to Anderson’s particular sensibilities; precise, funny, and imbued with that adolescent commingling of arrogance and innocence.
Fortunately, the final chapter – The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner – is a doozy. A meticulously constructed kidnapping story, it features a stand-out performance by Jeffrey Wright as Roebuck Wright. Tasked with writing a profile of policeman-turned-chef Lieutenant Nescaffier (Stephen Park), Wright winds up witnessing the abduction of the commissaire’s young son, Gigi (Winsen Ait Hellal). From this point on, The French Dispatch reaches new heights of both comedy and melancholy.
Anderson has been justly criticised in the past for the absence of non-white performers in his films. A late-stage conversation between Nescaffier and Wright, wherein the two touch upon their immigrant status in the fictional town of Ennui-sur-Blasé, artfully addresses the issue but can perhaps be considered too little, too late. Nonetheless, it features moving performances from both Wright and Park.
Taken as a whole, The French Dispatch is both frustrating and enchanting. Anderson’s obsessive penchant for symmetry, luscious colour, and intentionally stilted dialogue reaches its apex here; is this the most ‘Wes Anderson’ film Wes Anderson has ever made? I would say, yes, and if this thought fills you with horror, The French Dispatch is certainly not for you. Devotees, however, have more of a chance than ever to immerse themselves in Anderson’s world.
Suffice to say, were The French Dispatch a real periodical, I would take out a subscription.
3.5/5 stars
