The French Dispatch: Wes Anderson’s Ode to Journalism

Writer: Meiran Carlson

Disclaimer: this review contains spoilers, read on with caution!

Wes Anderson’s highly anticipated 10th feature film centers around an American printing press located in the fictional French town of Ennui-sur-Blasé. The French Dispatch is a blend of everything mystical and whimsy that Anderson has to offer, some saying the esteemed director has, “out-Wes-Andersoned himself.” The press is made up of its hard-working expatriate writers, all who seem to throw journalistic neutrality out the window, and their curmudgeonly yet endearing editor in chief, whose frequent epigram to his employees is, “Just try to make it sound like you wrote it that way on purpose.” Loosely based on The New Yorkers’ writers, editors, and journalistic approach of the past, The French Dispatch pays tributes to former editor-in-chief of The New Yorker, Harold Ross, as well as writers such as Rosamond Bernier, Mavis Gallant, and James Baldwin. Through his characters, Anderson captivates the audience by exploring the themes of love, exploitation, journalistic neutrality, and loneliness.

The film takes on the structure of a literary journal, with the pause between stories displaying artwork based upon the following narrative, as well as the title, author, and page number on which the narrative occurs. The page numbers serve as a visual guide throughout the film, creating the illusion that the viewer is simply reading an issue of The French Dispatch. Much of the film is also done in black and white, an interesting artistic choice on Anderson’s part considering his work is usually packed to the brim with color. For each story, the use of color versus black and white is a little different.

It begins with a narration by Angelica Huston, discussing the shockingly recent death of the beloved editor of the journal, Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray), and what is to be done about it. Huston narrates that the writers of the journal must decide how to put together the final issue of the magazine, complete with the obituary of Howitzer. The collaboration of all the writers who work for the publication alludes to Anderson’s love of the work behind the scenes, and how he recognizes the work that goes into the stories and the journal as a whole. Huston narrates that the final issue is to include an obituary, a travel guide, and three feature articles, all of which make up the structure of the film itself.

The first piece in the issue, titled, The Cycling Reporter, follows Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson) on a brief journey through the city of Ennui. The short and sweet piece lays perfect foundations for the rest of the film. The French Dispatch, however fictional, is centered in France and around French culture, so having an introduction for where the rest of the film will be centered is certainly important, not to mention highly enjoyable. Sazerac hilariously guides the audience through Ennui on his bicycle, despite falling off a few times, and discusses everything he sees with no filter, from “vermin and scavengers,” to, “choir boys, half drunk on the blood of Christ.” Wilson’s performance is certainly endearing and generates a familiar, quirky tone, similar to Anderson films of the past. The segment also foreshadows in the form of a sign titled, “Prison/Asylum”–discussed in depth in the next segment–as well as a café which shows up later in the film. After Sazerac’s re-enactment of the piece is finished, he discusses it with his editor, who shows up only periodically. Despite the piece being a rambling and somewhat oddball description of the town and its people, Howitzer refuses to cut any of it. Although he questions certain aspects of the piece, he never suggests to Sazerac that he shouldn’t have written a certain portion, a nod to his extreme support of all his writers. Regardless of the piece’s duration lasting only a few minutes, Sazerac provides a quaint and lovable introduction to the rest of the film.

Story One, The Concrete Masterpiece, on pages five through thirty-four is an enthralling tale of love, exploitation, and loneliness. Tilda Swinton plays J.K.L. Berensen, an eccentric art dealer who recounts on stage the story of Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio del Toro), a man sentenced to fifty years in prison for knowingly committing homicide. Although he is condemned a “Murderer/Psychopath,” Rosenthaler’s art is what gets him through his sentence, as he finds the beauty in the things around him.

The vignette illustrates Moses’ narrative widely left in black in white, only showing color when the camera pans to his art. This is indicative of Moses’ isolation from the rest of the world, and the loneliness he feels because of it. Many things don’t make sense to him, but his art does. It’s the one slice of autonomy he has left, his one true passion.

While The Concrete Masterpiece could be considered a story of love, it’s more so one of exploitation. Moses Rosenthaler, the tortured artist in this narrative, is manipulated by several people during the duration of his sentence. His relationship with prison guard Simone (Lea Seydeoux) is that of a tumultuous one, as the link between guard and prisoner is a dangerous and exploitative path. Berensen, the writer and narrator of the piece, comments on it within the first couple of minutes, saying, “something about the captivity of others enhances their own freedom.” Simone makes it clear to Moses that she does not love him, and in doing so inspires him to thrust himself into his work and simply create more. Simone’s supposed lack of love for Moses could be a cover for simply wanting him to grow his work and craft, which she knows would be beneficial to her in the long run as she is one of the people exploiting his craft, or it could be that she really doesn’t love him, showing how a prison-guard relationship that is already built on flaws is only going to be more detrimental to the incarcerated individual.

While the love narrative between Simone and Moses is going on, Julien Cadazio (Adrien Brody), an art dealer, formerly imprisoned for tax fraud at the same institution as Moses, is working on his own schemes to exploit Moses and his work. He “discovers” Moses’ work while they are imprisoned together, and upon his release, turns Moses and his art into a worldwide sensation, completely severing the last tie between Moses and his autonomy. When Cadazio originally offers to sell Moses’ work and Moses refuses, Cadazio says, “It’s for sale. All artists sell their work. It’s what makes them an artist.” It’s a highly manipulative thing to say to someone who’s in no position to say no. While Cadazio does provide plenty of comedic relief, it’s difficult to watch the exploitation of a creative person who simply desires to be understood. Moses’ constant pleas to be listened to are ignored, and even if he is a condemned “Murderer/Psychopath,” Anderson wants us to see that Moses’ work shouldn’t have been exploited in the first place.

Under the pressure of Julien Cadazio, Cadazio’s uncles, and his lover/prison guard, Simone, Moses continues to churn out work, much to his own dismay. Eventually, the pressure becomes too great. In one scene, Moses straps himself to the prisons rickety old electric chair, awaiting someone to come and execute him. Simone stumbles upon him, only to tell him he is acting childish and pathetic. Moses’ response? “Work is too hard. It’s torture. I’m literally a tortured artist.” A tortured artist is something that has become quite the aesthetic, with films like Black Swan and Whiplash, as well as shows like The Queen’s Gambit romanticizing them. This line pokes fun at that idea, perfectly encapsulating the hilarity and solitude conveyed in this scene. Simone tells him that he will struggle and work through it and his new work will be complete, again ignoring his cries to be listened to, a common theme in tortured artist media.

While the vignette is illustrated with bright spots of comedy and companionship, the viewer is left with a significant amount of melancholy. Moses goes on to live and die alone, experiencing these feelings of loneliness and pain throughout most of his life. Once he is released from prison he is rather forgotten about, and his art is eventually transferred to Liberty, Kansas, in a private art installment in the middle of a corn field, never to be seen again. Others profited from his work while he gained nothing, and was left behind by society and popular culture, something that unfortunately tends to happen to the most brilliant of minds. Anderson’s critique of this is ever-so relevant in 2021, where we tend to gloss over moments of the past, and instead let them take on a symbolism that is often superficial.

Story Two, Revisions to a Manifesto, by Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand), takes up pages thirty-five to fifty-four in this final issue of The French Dispatch. Despite being placed in the Politics/Poetry section of the journal, the story is more a parody of a political movement, with the “revolution” being young college students fighting for co-ed access to all dormitories at the local university. It’s young revolutionaries against conventional grown-ups in this parody of the May 1968 youth uprisings in Paris. Krementz, with her satirical, deadpan style of speaking and writing, is supposed to represent Mavis Gallant, a former writer for The New Yorker who covered the actual Paris uprisings in May of 1968 in her piece, “The Events in May: A Paris Notebook.”

The piece shows color only when discussing backstory or metaphorically colorful moments. Color could be representing the difference between young life and the mortality we face as we get older, as scenes where Krementz is left out of are shown in vibrant color, and scenes with Krementz remain black and white. Revisions to a Manifesto’s take on color is different than that of the previous narrative, because it leaves more of the explanation of color choice to the viewers imagination.

Krementz reports on the young revolutionary, Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet) and his friends, all the while quipping about maintaining journalistic neutrality. However, this idea of maintaining neutrality is quickly cast aside when she enters into a love affair with young Zeffirelli after offering to edit his manifesto. Krementz adds an introduction, an appendix, and a few paragraphs to make it sound more like her version of Zeffirelli, much to the dismay of other revolutionary members such as Juliette (Lyna Khoudri), a young woman keen on playing Devil’s Advocate in every instance. The irony of the situation, and why other leaders such as Juliette are so upset, is that the young rebels are now using a manifesto mostly written and edited by their “enemy,”–old people. Anderson’s critique of the “touchy narcissism of the young” through Krementz is ever present in this perfectly cast vignette.

Krementz and Juliette disagree from the outset, with Juliette believing Krementz is exploiting and coercing Zeffirelli and Krementz believing Juliette is the face of the “touchy narcissism of the young,” but they reconcile their differences toward the end of the narrative. Apologies are exchanged, with Zeffirelli ironically playing peacemaker between the two, and they learn something from one another. The entire piece, more so than the other vignettes in the film, alludes to the idea that maybe writers shouldn’t always maintain journalistic neutrality. Working together on an issue can be advantageous, and although writers inserting themselves into certain areas could be considered inappropriate, it allows the writer, and therefore the reader to grasp a deeper sense of what is going on in the piece. By placing themselves in the narrative, they lose track of their original purpose and gain something more–a deeper, more thoughtful understanding of the world and the people around them, which to Anderson, seems to be the magic and whimsy of being a journalist and something he deeply appreciates.

Story Three, located in the Tastes and Smells section of the journal contains the third feature article, titled, The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner, by Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright), on pages fifty-five to seventy-four. Despite Roebuck being a food critic, the piece is hardly about food. The piece is also less of a political one, which one might expect considering Wright is channeling James Baldwin, and more of a contemplation on loneliness.

The tale is told in a similar way to that of Story One, The Concrete Masterpiece, with Wright orally explaining the story on a 1970s style talk show. His interviewer (Liev Schriber), asks him to recite his own piece to prove his typographic memory. While the interviewer isn’t necessarily portrayed as maniacal, a parallel could certainly be drawn between this fictional interview and a 1969 interview on The Dick Cavett Show, where James Baldwin “debates” Paul Weiss over discrimination in America. The discussion topic is different, but the subtle condescending undertones are present in both examples. The chosen piece, The Private Dining Room of the Police Commissioner, follows Roebuck, who is supposed to be profiling the Commissioner’s five-star chef. When stereotypically “evil” 1960s gang members kidnap the Commissioner’s son, Gigi, a wild chase ensues, and the path of the story changes. It’s a tale of love between father and son, but also one of compelling loneliness. This narrative shows color only when food is being discussed and when the focus is on the interview taking place. The rest of the piece being in black and white alludes to Roebuck’s loneliness and the way in which he is distanced from others.

To fill the audience in on how he got into this situation in the first place, Roebuck recounts how he found himself writing for The French Dispatch. As a Black, gay man living in Ennui in the mid-sixties, he finds himself arrested and jailed for a night or two on the account of love. Wright so vehemently states, “Love the wrong way and you’ll find yourself in great jeopardy.” This statement is a testament to what Jeffrey Wright and director Wes Anderson are subtly trying to display throughout this vignette. The loneliness that writers and creative people often feel, especially those in Roebuck Wright’s situation, is not uncommon. Jeffrey Wright himself stated about the character, “He’s running from the limitations of a Black, gay, intellect at a time in America where there’s not a lot of room for that.” Roebuck’s character embraces the search for beauty in all things, despite running from a complicated past (and present). Upon having no one else to call who lives in Ennui, Roebuck calls Howitzer, the editor of The French Dispatch, who promptly offers him a job, leading him to the wild tale involving the Police Commissioner and his son.

It's curious that Roebuck is so graciously welcomed to the police commissioner’s private dining room only three days after his unlawful arrest. Roebuck was arrested and brought to the commissioner’s very precinct, but because Howitzer, the white, male editor-in-chief of The French Dispatch, bailed him out and got him “on his feet,” he is suddenly sophisticated enough to be dining with the commissioner. Had a white man not vouched for him, he wouldn’t have found himself in such a position.

The feelings of isolation from the people who surround him mount when Roebuck is placed into an emotional scene with Lieutenant Nescaffier, the very chef he has been profiling this whole time. To save Gigi, Lieutenant Nescaffier prepares a poisoned meal for the kidnappers, but when they get suspicious the food may be tampered with, Nescaffier is forced to eat it himself to soothe their worries. Luckily, he recovers, and has a meaningful conversation with Roebuck. He reveals that however strange it may be, he’s actually disappointed he won’t be able to taste the poison again. Even though it nearly killed him, it was a new flavor, something special, something bold. This revelation leads him to utter perhaps the best line of the film: “Seeking something missing, missing something left behind.” The line is coupled with Wright’s spiel about how being a person of color in a place like Ennui is difficult and isolating, despite it not being much different back home.

The very last piece of the issue, titled, Declines and Deaths, occurring on page seventy-five, ties the entire film together. The audience is brought back to Howitzer’s office, where all the writers and employees of the press are sitting together, silently. The writers are left with the task of how to structure this final issue, and how to write the obituary for their beloved editor and mentor, who never shut them down or cut their work because he believed it was “too much.” He knew the value of each one of his employees and their work, and the mutual respect and bond between himself and each writer was what made their press so special. When Herbsaint Sazerac begs the question, “What happens now?” the writers begin their scrambled discussions, encapsulating again just what Anderson wants to convey with this film. It isn’t chiefly about the outcome. It’s not about the final cut of the film or the published article. It’s about the people behind the scenes, the writers and journalists whose work goes under-appreciated and overlooked, who work so hard to make their mark and say something significant about the world around them. In the words of James Baldwin, “Nobody wants a writer until he’s dead.” The French Dispatch is truly a perfect little time-capsule and ode to journalism of the past.