The sound design of “The French Dispatch,” enlivened by Alexandre Desplat’s playful and knowing score, is punctuated by the scratching of pencils and the clacking of typewriter keys. Maybe that’s a strange thing to say about an artist with such a recognizable visual aesthetic, but Anderson’s meticulous pictures are themselves evidence of his bookishness. He might be the most passionately literary of living filmmakers, the one whose movies are most like books. Anderson has inscribed a billet-doux to The New Yorker in its mid-20th-century glory years that is, at the same time, an ardent, almost orgiastic paean to the pleasures of print. What “The French Dispatch” celebrates is something more specific than everyday newspapering and also something more capacious. Moral crusades are as alien to Anderson’s sensibility as drab khakis.
#THE FRENCH DISPATCH MOVIE#
The movie is not Wes Anderson’s version of “ Spotlight,” in which humbly dressed reporters heroically take on power, injustice and corruption. Ever since it showed up in Cannes this past summer, “ The French Dispatch” has been described as “ a love letter to journalism.” This isn’t inaccurate - you love to see it when deadline scribblers are played by the likes of Jeffrey Wright, Frances McDormand and Tilda Swinton - but it’s nonetheless a little misleading.
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