I entered a showing of The French Dispatch mostly blind. I knew little of the plot, only that it centered around the French outpost of a fictional Kansas newspaper, and that it was directed by Wes Anderson.
Once again, the grip of auteurism on the box office had worked. I was a fan of his films and idiosyncratic style, and thus immediately was 100% ready to sit through one of his symmetrical, Academy aspect ratio, offbeat masterpieces, despite knowing literally nothing.
It ended up being a film that touched me so much, I struggled to put into words what I thought or how I felt about it. As we left the cinema, my fellow film-viewer immediately launched into several enthusiastic remarks about specific scenes and interchanges. I could only nod and open my mouth, unable to even vocalise how exactly I felt.
I felt a strange sensation inside me. Anderson had touched a nerve so sharply, so wittily and astutely that I had scarcely even felt it before the credits were rolling.
The French Dispatch is a beautiful examination of how connections can be made, even for the briefest of moments, in the darkest depths of human loneliness.
It is acutely crafted, in true Anderson style. The comedy is timed impeccably, the settings and costuming are a visual feast. Every crafted shot looks like a photograph or painting. I particularly loved the actual ‘photograph’ segments, which were tableaus of extras trying very desperately not to move, filmed in real-time.
But I was expecting a visual treat. I knew it was going to be sublime and hilarious. What I was not expecting was to be so completely emotionally overwhelmed. By both playful joy and the cutting bittersweetness.
Anderson described it as ‘a love letter to journalists’. But I would also describe it as a love letter to exiles. To those who are isolated in the places they call home and struggle to find a space in new cities. To those who feel lonely, even when they may appear to belong.
Existential loneliness is something I have felt for years. It doesn’t matter just how many friends you may be surrounded by. If you feel out of place, that feeling is nearly impossible to shift. To see that sensation so expertly handled, in a way that was both humorous and harrowingly raw, was really something remarkable.
The film is organised into three main vignettes, each centering around a story told by one of the numerous journalists of The French Dispatch newspaper. Each individual story tells of the quirky exploits of an idiosyncratic group of characters in seemingly unconnected ways. Anderson’s usual ensemble cast of Lea Seydoux, Saoirse Ronan, Bill Murphy, Owen Wilson, Tilda Swinton, and others are present, and every single performance lands perfectly. It is a joyful tour-de-force in subtle character acting and witty repartee. It is exactly what you come to a Wes Anderson film to watch.
My favourite segment, however, was the final one. It followed the fictional food journalist, Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright), as he recounts his meeting with the legendary police chef Lt. Nescaffier and their involvement with the recapturing of the police commissioner’s kidnapped son. Roebuck is an African American, homosexual man who has moved to his ‘adopted’ city of Ennui to find a place of belonging.
He delicately weaves his loneliness into his narrative, in moments so desperately visceral you can only flounder for a moment before the narrative is swiftly swept onwards. As he recounts his tale on a chat show, the host asks him why he has chosen to write about food. He replies:
‘I have so often shared the day’s glittering exploits with... no one at all. But always, somewhere along the avenue or boulevard, there was a table set for me... I have chosen this life. It is the solitary feast that has been very much like a comrade, my great comfort and fortification.’
He stares off shot for a moment in silence. We are left in a moment's silence to sit in the heartbreak of what he has just said, isolated as both a gay man and a black man in post-war France. And then -
‘Do you remember where you placed the bookmark?' asks the host suddenly, impatiently prompting him to continue.
‘Of course I do, silly goose,’ Roebuck replies flippantly, misty-eyed, and begins cheerfully to recite his tale again. The moment has passed. But the harrowing loneliness of Roebuck’s life continues to haunt the screen.
It is Anderson’s masterful snap between deep human experience and lighthearted humour that makes this film so powerful. This flux of connection and disconnect, of intensity and flippancy, is also highlighted visually. Anderson creates scenes that begin barren, then within a matter of seconds become overrun with characters and action. It happens in reverse too, as busy scenes become suddenly empty, leaving us to focus on a single figure. It echoes people experiencing a single, cutting moment of honesty before they are swept away by the noise of the world again.
Roebuck and the chat show host are an example of a missed connection. But within each segment, many characters experience a single fleeting moment of similarity. Roebuck and Lt Nescaffier share a moment, in which they discuss both being foreigners in the city. ‘Seeking something missing. Missing something left behind.’ mutters Nescaffier. ‘Maybe with good luck, we’ll find what eluded us in the places we once called home.’ replies Roebuck.
Two foreigners leading completely different lives briefly bond over their shared loneliness. And then swiftly move on.
This is exactly the crux of The French Dispatch.
A spark of the revolution shared by an awkward, hot-headed young academic and the world-wearied, astute older female journalist. An understanding of art between a mentally deranged prisoner and a fine art dealer. A gentle lullaby duet sung between a criminal showgirl and the young boy her gang is holding captive.
Even between the journalists themselves, a ragtag bunch of lonely outsiders, they are all connected by their love of writing and telling the stories of others finding transient bonds.
It is a movie depicting a great unification through the desire to tell the stories of others. Of finding meaning, connection, and beauty in seemingly unrelated moments and people.
It is indeed a love letter to writing and to journalism. But also to fierce human love in unusual places, to finding one’s sense of belonging. To exiles and the isolated struggling to make contact around those around them.
‘It was so lovely,’ was the only thing that came to mind when I sat staring at the rolling credits.
And it is. It is a gorgeous delight of a film. But it is daringly crushing in its honesty and visceral exploration of human relationships.
It is, off the bat, worth watching for any Wes Anderson fanatic. But to others, enter with an open mind and heart. It’s strange, it’s perhaps slightly overly long and convoluted in parts. It’s pretentious and artsy - but isn’t that what we love about Anderson?
I can say nothing more than please, please experience this masterpiece for yourself. See what you glean from it. You won’t be disappointed.