The French Dispatch

 I saw The French Dispatch today. Wes Anderson has reached the point where famous actors line up to have cameos in his latest project--a few lines, a brief appearance. Look, it's Willem Dafoe! isn't that Angelica Huston doing the voice-over? Lots of famous faces--nudge nudge wink wink. The film is a weird ode to The New Yorker--structured as a special issue on the death of the cranky senior editor, with pieces by the stable of eccentric writers he indulges.  But it's displaced in two directions: the French Dispatch is a supplement to a Kansas newspaper so no New York, but relocated to a French town called Ennui sur Blasé (ha ha get it? get it?). The stories are all set in France but from the perspective of the American ex-pat, including a writer clearly modeled on James Baldwin. The production design is isually sumptuous but in the service of a series of stories that put a lot of energy into...what, exactly? I can't connect to his characters as people. The stories are energetic and I was mildly entertained but I have never been the biggest fan of his style over substance/style as substance mode of film-making. 

I feel crabby and I don't know exactly why. Or rather I know why but I'm too tired and sad to try to articulate it.