If Wes Anderson hasn’t already been ordained as the king of twee, he certainly will be with The French Dispatch. There can never have been a film so entirely marked and dominated by preciously perfectionist compositions, arcane detail, meticulous camera moves, ornate décor, historical and design minutiae, styles of typography, precision diction, arch attitude, obsessive attention to cultural artifacts and loyalty to Oscar Wilde’s notion that art needn’t express anything other than itself.
This is Anderson in full flower, one that only grows in a rarified altitude. As such, it will provoke the full range of reactions, from the euphoric among pure art devotees to outright rejection by, shall we say, those not on speaking terms with.
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