The French Dispatch

This film was as Wes Anderson as it got. All his distinctive style, intricate framing and composition, and quirks were on full display here. Unfortunately, in this case, it was style over substance. As gorgeously shot as the film was by Robert Yeoman, and as great as the score was by Alexandre Desplat, the anthology format just did not work for Anderson's vignettes of journalistic story-telling. The film lacked cohesion and was - for the most part - emotionally vacant; a series of Anderson's absurdist irreverence masquerading as human feelings and emotions. It would work well on paper as a collection of short stories/essays - think Haruki Murakami or David Sedaris - or even as an offbeat television mini-series in the vein of Room 104, but as a cinematic experience, its disjointedness, constant voice-over, and limited screen time for its actors, it ultimately depth and complexity, replacing human emotions and connections with superficial style and technical expertise.

However, there was still much to be admired in a new Wes Anderson film. He has one of the most distinctive visual style in modern American cinema now and his fans will have a field day dissecting the film frame-by-frame. It was meticulously shot and composed with each frame overfilling with Easter eggs, ennui and metaphors. This was a film maker that clearly knew how he wanted his films to look and feel and sound. 

It was just that I wished he could have reined it in somewhat.

The film started promising. An interesting concept and an idea with a great introduction starring a subdued Bill Murray that carried on to a quaint and funny prologue - travelogue - introducing the fictional city of Ennui-sur-Blase via Owen Wilson's deadpanned, acerbic narration.

Then we went into the first story proper, The Concrete Masterpiece, starring Benecio del Toro, Adrian Brody, Lea Seydoux and Tilda Swinton. Narrated by Swinton who was in essence acting alone and giving a long monologue. However, the editing meant that her role ultimately lacked impact. And her lack of screen time with other characters/actors was a wasted opportunity (recall: The Grand Budapest Hotel). Benicio del Toro was, on the other hand, a great addition to Anderson's roster of rotating ensemble. His face was made for an Anderson film - front and center, unique. Just like his co-star, repeat actor Brody, who has now found his rhythm in an Anderson film. The cadence of an Anderson dialogue, the maniacal energy paired with sudden periods of recessiveness, and eyes that just light up even a black and white screen. Seydoux was an excuse to use French and titillate. Her relationship with del Toro's character was part magical realism and part misogynistic fantasy-fulfilling that, again, looked good on paper - like a Murakami-dream girl - than on screen (this was no Drive My Car).

The second story was the biggest disappointment. Revisions to a Manifesto starred Frances McDormand, Timothee Chalamet and Lyna Khoudri. As meme-able as Chalamet's performance was, he is not really suited to play a Wes Anderson character. He was too pretty and his face undistinctive. Further, he lacked the maniacal energy to leap off the screen. Even actors who only appeared briefly a cameos like Christoph Waltz and Edward Norton (in the next story) made more of an impact in their brief seconds. Perhaps, Chalamet may be better off playing the straight man if Anderson was to reuse him. Then we have McDormand, another wasted talented actress, relegating to narrating, providing insights as snarks and snarks as observations. There was no chemistry between her and Chalamet, and her emotional void was mentioned but never explored. I would rather have the whole story about her and her failed dinner blind date with Waltz. Now, that would make an interesting article. Khoudri, played the Seydoux role here, and again, why did she have to have her breasts exposed? She was interesting at least but her role, again, was more an enigmatic love interest rather than a real person.

Finally we have the third story, The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner, which thankfully was the best of the lot. Anchored and narrated by Jeffrey Wright who was given so much more to do and react to/with/against than Swinton or McDormand. Further, his role was given the additional dimension of a (sympathetic) backstory. The use of animation - paired with one of Desplat's better scoring - coupled with over-the-top performances by Mathieu Almaric and Stephen Park, and standout cameos by Willem Dafoe, Edward Norton and Saoirse Ronan,  also made this instalment a highlight. Perhaps, the most distinguishing factor was the lack of a love interest. But then again was it because Wright's character was gay?

Yeoman's cinematography was gorgeous, though some of the black and white segments felt less distinctive which does lead one to wonder whether the film was initially shot in colour first. 

Desplat's score was a true standout and will likely score - hah! - him another Oscar nomination.

Speaking of which, I am not overtly optimistic about the film's Oscar chances. Other than Best Score, it seems a slightly longer shot for Best Original Screenplay and Best Cinematography. There might also be some hope for Best Costume Design and Best Hair and Makeup. 

The French Dispatch may not be Wes Anderson's best film, but his fans will surely embrace its whimsical nature and overlook the lack of compulsive and engrossing storytelling. Casual viewers may be initially charmed his style, but likely to soon grow bored of its superficiality.