The French Dispatch

It was a Monday afternoon, the last Monday before The French Dispatch would leave our theatre and, dare I say, leave a dark void in its wake. Work? Sure, I had work, but nothing was going to stop me. Why? Because I fucking love Wes Anderson.

I don't know when my love for Wes Anderson films started exactly. Fantastic Mr. Fox, perhaps? It wasn't my first Anderson experience, but I was too young to fully appreciate the art of his films when I was a kid. Truthfully, if I think about it, Isle of Dogs was when I officially went a little crazy over him. The style, the dialogue, the music, the everything. I could watch these every day. It's a chemical reaction.

The French Dispatch, while not the first, nor the last, is the first Anderson film that made me realize why I will see every film he ever pops out: they make me feel like a better person. I feel changed. I feel inspired in ways that I need, and in ways I rarely feel. Maybe that's the depressive in me talking, or maybe it's the writer, who is always there, but often dormant, and quite sad about it. It's an experience.

The French Dispatch is a love note to writers and theatre nerds alike. With a stellar cast, as always, Dispatch is broken into segments, enacting stories published in their paper. And I'm going to play favorites, despite enjoying everything about this film, the Benicio Del Toro story was the one I ship the hardest.

Whatever. Go see it. I'm going to go brood in a corner and work on my volume of poetry that's been waiting for publication since 1884. Bye.

My Grade: A

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