NYFF 59 Review: ‘The French Dispatch,’ Wes Anderson’s Ode to The New Yorker and Print Journalism
“That’s the whole reason for it to be written. Don’t cut it.”
Wes Anderson films are always cause for lively debate. Over the last decade and a half, his films have garnered acclaim for their unequivocally unique style. Storybook narratives, perfectly squared frames, charming dialog, and richly detailed productions are but a handful of traits that have made Wes Anderson into one of the great modern American auteurs. But in that same period, a reoccurring critique of ‘style over substance’ has been growing in a sect of the moviegoing population. Commonly, this boils down to a derision of Anderson’s style as a guise for weaker narratives.
It has become a thorny and tiresome debate, and one that I don’t find all that productive nor righteous, particularly because much of his films’ appeal derives directly from his irreplicable style. No one is doing it like Wes Anderson, simply put, and his latest film, The French Dispatch, is further proof of that he has no intention of changing.
Out the gate, The French Dispatch reminds you why Anderson's films are so beloved in the first place. A gleeful intro sets the stage for the film’s omnibus narrative while Angelica Houston narrates an abridged history of how a series of travel log columns written by Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray) turned in the titular paper, a “factual weekly report on the subject of world politics, the arts high and low, and diverse stories of human interest.” A tray of beverages is delivered throughout the office as expatriate journalists are introduced, and when the table is set, the film gets underway with an editorial meeting discussing which stories will make the cut for the latest issue. Those stories, three varied extended Sunday reads plus a short prelude courtesy of “The Cycling Reporter” played by Owen Wilson, compose the bulk of The French Dispatch.
The first of the stories is “The Concrete Masterpiece,” a commentary on the art world and the sensibilities of those who delegate (and profit off) taste making. Told by an animated J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton) during an unspecified lecture, this story centers on prison artist Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro) who paints “Simon, Naked - Cell Block Hobby Room” which draws the eye of fellow-inmate Julian Cadazio (Adrian Brody). Cadazio buys the painting and commissions a new series in the hopes that, once he’s on the outside, he can cultivate a reputation for Rosenthaler and reap the monetary benefits.
Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) reports from the scene of a student rebellion in her story “Revisions to a Manifesto,” a cheeky depiction of youth in revolt during the 1960s and the lofty ambitions needed for change. Zeffirelli (Timotheé Chalamet) leads this rebellion commonly known as ‘The Chessboard Revolution,’ an uprising among youths who demand the abolishment of mandatory military service in conjunction with university rules that prohibit boys in the girls’ dormitories — the conflation of the two may appear like it diminishes their mission, but its not without its basis in historical events.
The third and final story, “The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner,” begins with a food review of the Ennui police department’s head chef, Lieutenant Nescafier (Steve Park), by Roebuck Wright (Jefferey Wright), but evolves abruptly into a rescue mission of the Commisaire’s son after his kidnapping at the hands of the Chauffeur (Edward Norton).
These three stories are wrapped in a frame narrative that belongs to the aforementioned Arthur Howitzer Jr., a merging of The New Yorker’s editors Harold Ross and William Shawn. As the Dispatch’s resident editor and founder, he leads his writers with a guiding hand and a steady flow of constructive criticism. Curt in his suggestions but resolute in his backing of those he employs, Howitzer is a stand-in for the lofty ideals held by writing and print journalism, making his foretold death in the film’s opening a death knell for the medium itself and a parallel to what Anderson may assert is the end of an era for journalism.
Threading The French Dispatch together is its reverence for this craft. The film’s meaning is perhaps not as forward as other Anderson films, but the subtly with which this message is conveyed comes through in the orated efforts of Berensen, Krementz, and Wright — which eventually gets hammered home with closing credits that directly pay tribute to the writers who inspired the film.
All of this is addressed with the typical brand of Wes Anderson substance, meaning that glee and aesthetics often take precedent over thematic relevance, though it should not be mistaken that the latter is abandoned wholesale. Anderson’s style permits a lighter register, and that register is often enough to forgive the occasional shortcoming in his written precision. His scenes playful and charming, dressed in perfect frames and blasted with more mise en scène than one can take in on a single viewing. The allure of it all is a selling point, no doubt.
My stance on the long-running discourse can be summarized briefly by a small sequence near the end of the film. As Howitzer confers with Wright on the edit of “The Private Dining Room,” Howitzer notes his admiration for one of Wright’s best and sincerest lines that was left on the cutting room floor, a line derided by Wright for being too “sad.” Howitzer proclaims, “That’s the whole reason for it to be written. Don’t cut it.”
Whether you like Anderson’s aesthetic is a matter of personal choice, a point furthered by his continued disinterest in thorough and explicit cross-examination of his subjects or subject matter over the years. He is an auteur with auteur sensibilities, sensibilities that began in Bottle Rocket, were defined in Fantastic Mr. Fox, and were executed on with an increasing refinement in Moonrise Kingdom, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Isle of Dogs, and now, The French Dispatch. These sensibilities are the main attraction. So I ask, why cut it?
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