Matthew J. Dinaburg

Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch (2021), an ode to Harold Ross’s New Yorker, will inspire a generation of filmmakers who value poetic experimentation. The staccato of short stories crescendos with themes of artistic triumph and youthful revolution. The symphony of indelible visuals build a cathedral to Wes’s preternatural mastery of the filmic medium – designed in symmetry with quirky steeples ornamented by the familiar faces of Bill Murray, Owen Wilson, Tilda Swinton, Adrien Brody, Benicio Del Toro, Frances McDormand, Timothée Chalamet, and Saoirse Ronan, among many, many others. These actors – rather than the characters – are who stand out, so, for clarity’s sake, let’s call the famous ones by their actual names.

Mimicking the stylistic range of a twentieth century newspaper publication: Owen Wilson rides a bike, Tilda Swinton gives a Ted Talk, Adrian Brody discovers a tortured, convicted artist (Benicio Del Toro), Timothée Chalamet plans a rebellion, and a chef (Steve Park) discovers a new flavor. The vaudeville anthology’s array of satire, drama, philosophy and poetry define the film as uniquely Wes Anderson.

This is the tenth film from the American auteur, whose signature aesthetic is so familiar that it’s almost repetitive. His world is like a sawed-off doll-house; the camera captures cloistered settings of childhood perfectionism and vibrancy. Most visuals appear before a flat-back drop with the camera positioned opposite subjects in the vacant “fourth-wall.” The camera assumes qualities of a witness; it peeks at the doll-house’s meticulously staged compositions of symmetry, balance and compressed visual space. There is unity and harmony to this aesthetic continuity and visual homogeneity, which is often exploited for deadpan satire and ironic commentary. Regardless, the sawed-off doll-house is stylistically invented, patented, trademarked, and perfected by Wes Anderson.  

But, The French Dispatch presents an auspicious elevation to his style; there is commendable innovation throughout. Quintessentially, in the third story, “Revisions to a Manifesto,” Wes stages a single-sequence play to represent the soldiers in the Mustard Region, complete with a stage, spotlights, and roll-away backdrops. The cadets discuss what they plan to be when they grow up, and Morisot (Alex Lawther) says, “I can no longer envision myself as a grown-up man in our parents’ world.” The camera dollies vertically from a medium shot of Morisot to a medium of Mitch-Mitch (Mohamed Belhadjine) in the lower bunk. We hear a window opening on the soundtrack, hear the wind howling outside, and see a body dropping through the frame. Mitch-Mitch whispers, “He isn’t moving, he isn’t moving,” as the camera tracks backwards, the frame grows, the boys in the Mustard Region slowly enveloped by darkness.

Without leaving the stage, we understand that Morisot has committed suicide. Here, Wes deftly deconstructs the boundaries between theater and film, both investigating the space and progressing the narrative through uniquely cinematic means: choreographed camera-work and off-screen sound effects. No longer is the director simply gourmandizing at the table of symmetry. He has staged a play and enhanced emotions without losing the basic appearance of theater. This is masterful, and should be the de facto guide on how to film the stage. Wes’s work is both visually stunning and dramatically revealing; it is undeniably the most affecting on-screen theatrical re-enactment to date.

Nevertheless, one must wonder about Wes’s reliance on black-and-white. Who does the lack of color serve? Can colorful writing ever truly replace colorful visuals? Does he wish to emphasize – to eternalize – only particular moments of beauty? There is an argument to be made that the film’s use of black-and-white represents the vanity of its creator, who craves having his prints preeminent and identifiable in every frame. But, irrespective of how this creative choice is judged, there is only one word that truly encapsulates it: experimentation. And experimentation is pervasive in this film: in the re-enactment, in the attention to storytelling rhetoric, in color, in the animation sequence, and in the settings of University revolutions and artistic resilience.

History has not been kind to cinematic experimentation; Hollywood has treated artists like Kenneth Anger, Francis Ford Coppola and even the great Orson Welles like nails that stick out too far. But The French Dispatch proves to young American filmmakers that artistic aspirations can reach global audiences. The film doubled its budget, was nominated for over a hundred awards (including the Palme d’Or), and won twenty five. Perhaps in this era of unprecedented accessibility, unique voices may be heard. Individuality may be appreciated. And to take the words from Wes Anderson:

“I did it. It’s good. Let’s celebrate. Champagne please.”

Words: 746