The French Dispatch Review: Wes Anderson's Stylish Love Letter Never Buries The Lead

The French Dispatch Review: Wes Anderson’s Stylish Love Letter Never Buries The Lead

Owen Wilsons Cycling Reporter Herbsaint Sazerac is entrusted with the simple pitch of blogging about the residents of Ennui-sur-Blasé (which hilariously translates to “Boredom-on-Blasé”), however turns a slice-of-life fluff piece into an abundant tapestry of the drunks, whores, and drug dealers of the imaginary French city. Tilda Swintons self-important staff author J.K.L. Berensen is offered the job about writing of the elusive art of incarcerated artist Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio del Toro), and submits an indulgent erotic tale of a detainee in love with his prison guard (Lea Seydoux, at her icy best), and a harried art dealer (Adrien Brody, constantly game) who sees money in starting a whole brand-new art movement. Frances McDormands Miss Lonelyhearts reporter, Lucinda Krementz, falls back the picket line and into bed with a trainee revolutionary (a perfectly guileless Timothée Chalamet, making magic with yet another auteur director) after she is sent to report on their useless efforts for change. And for Jeffrey Wrights nebbish food journalist Roebuck Wright, what starts as a task to profile a premium chef for the cops (Stephen Park, speaking all of 2 lines?) become an exhilarating kidnapping case that includes mobsters, showgirls (Saoirse Ronan, injecting heat into a small role), and underworld accounting professionals (Willem Dafoe, likewise).
Each vignette is as packed with the exact same quantity of precise detail and immaculately clipped dialogue shipment as a full-fledged Anderson movie. The visual language modifications from vignette to vignette, some a pleasant pastel; some pop with intense, saturated colors; some in black-and-white; some a fantastical blend of both. Its Anderson, 25 years into his profession, bending every stylistic technique in his pocket, and then some..
All of Andersons stylistic peculiarities are turned up to 11 in this film; his pop-up book visual, however one where each page explodes with shine and flowers and tinny saxophone music, and in some way, genuine fireworks. Its like the beautiful art of a New Yorker cover crossed with the turmoil of a “Wheres Waldo” photo: oversaturated and overstuffed and synthetic and absolutely delightful to witness.
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