Movie Review: The French Dispatch

4.5 stars out of 5

Or maybe 4 out of 5, but, somewhere in there. As I’ve said a number of times, there are a handful of directors that I am absolutely crazy about, and Wes Anderson is one of them. Perhaps I’m too soft on them or perhaps I hold them to too high a standard? Does it all even out?

I was really looking forward to this — a smart, funny, star-packed movie in a theater! The fact that it is loosely based on The New Yorker struck me as maybe a bit too precious/clichéd art-film, but what can I say, I subscribe to the magazine so I’m part of the problem. It starts and Owen Wilson (hey he was in The Life Aquatic!) is giving us a “front of the book” travelogue of Paris. It was kinda flimsy, no big laughs; basically a paint-by-numbers Wes Anderson throwaway piece. I should mention that this movie is anthology-style: different stories a la the Coen Brothers’… I want to say Legend of Bilbo Baggins? And my gut instinct is that these films are like fast food — easy to swallow but ultimately less satisfying than a full-course meal.

But perhaps I spoke too soon, and Wes was just warming up for the first substantial story. A very amusing Tilda Swinton introduces the tale of the gruffly funny prisoner artist Benicio del Toro (flanked by a deadpan, gorgeous Léa Seydoux), pursued for his works by a hilarious Adrien Brody with Bob Balaban and the Fonz in tow. It’s a study of art v. commerce, commencing in a slapstick brawl. A hoot!

Next, money-in-the-bank Frances McDormand (hey isn’t she married to one of those Coens) isn’t playing Fran Lebowitz but you get the idea. Her reporter character gets maybe too involved in covering revolutionary wunderkind Timothée Chalamet. Now, he was good in Dune but with a tight script and top-flight director, he really shines. A very funny performance. So in this segment we’re looking at young v. old, establishment v. The New.

Finally, Jeffrey Wright is profiling a police-department chef when, uh-oh, a kid gets kidnapped. I didn’t find too much to philosophically ponder in this entry but it really didn’t matter because Jeffrey Wright delivers a bravura, non-stop performance, aided and abetted by Liev “Junk Sleep” Schreiber. Things get so madcap it becomes animated and I was delighted.

And I didn’t even mention Bill Murray. There’s a boatload of other stars in this, in roles small and medium, from within and without Anderson’s regular stable, giving their all and having a splendid time. The wonderful little details you expect from Anderson, they’re all there, as is a very lovely soundtrack. I could imagine watching this again. Point, Wes. Your move, P.T.