Movie review: The French Dispatch

Bill Murray in The French Dispatch.

Directorial popinjay Wes Anderson presents an anthological collection of stories carried along by his reliably delightful aesthetic and a typically stacked cast all clearly having fun.

Structured as a cinematic extrapolation of five items from the final edition of the titular publication – a New Yorker-esque American magazine based in a small French town named Ennui – the film is never less than a visual wonder to behold.

Indeed, even within the context of Anderson's tendency for self-consciously intricate compositions and charmingly symmetrical framing, The French Dispatch distinguishes itself as perhaps his most purely visual work to date. Additionally, Anderson's sense of visual comedy has never been more effective - it's amazing how many jokes you can make without words.

The effervescent joy provided by the visuals is such that it sustains the film even as the narrative vitality peters out in the second half.

The first and fifth segments are short and sweet – the former a treatise on Ennui from the perspective of a cyclist played by Owen Wilson, the latter an obituary for the magazine's editor (Bill Murray), whose death has resulted in the magazine shuttering.

The second story is the film's unquestioned highlight, telling the hilarious tale of an art dealer (Adrien Brody) attempting to make a star out of a talented modern artist (Benicio del Toro) who happens to be in jail for double murder. Here, Brody delivers the film's next-to-funniest performance, second only to Tilda Swinton as the writer telling the tale.

Timothée Chalamet shines as a student radical in the third story, and Jeffrey Wright recounts a kidnapping story in the fourth, which becomes wholly animated towards the end.

Plenty more top tier actors (Frances McDormand, Edward Norton, Léa Seydoux) fill out this undeniably amusing, if perhaps somewhat disposable, movie confection.

Verdict: A deluxe pop-up greeting card of a film.