The French Dispatch — Too Much Wes?

Perhaps even for die-hard fans.

Firstly, let me make my position clear: I love Wes Anderson — the colours, costumes, music, themes, sets, meticulously-crafted shots, rapid repartee between tragicomic characters — hell, the whole whimsical kit and caboodle. That being said, while I would throw up my arms in disbelief if somebody disparaged The Godfather, Dr Strangelove, or Céline Sciamma’s recent masterpiece, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, I understand why Anderson’s oeuvre is not to everyone’s taste. I get it — gritty realism it certainly is not.

While watching The French Dispatch at the cinema, my partner (perhaps an even more avid Wes fan than myself) turned to me and said, “It’s too good!” I nodded my head in agreement — it is excessively good. Mark Kermode used an apt analogy for the experience of watching it, likening the film to a box of fondant fancies: the first three are delicious but any more than that and it gets to be, well, a bit much.

In my opinion, Anderson’s previous film, The Grand Budapest Hotel was his masterpiece. The film has all the hallmarks of his uncompromising style but also manages to successfully juxtapose this with a poignant exploration of memory and grief. The French Dispatch is something different entirely. In this love letter to the heyday of print journalism, Anderson has…