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The French Dispatch
I’ve been doing this for seven years, but still, each and every time I sit down in front of the keyboard to wrestle with my thoughts and feelings on a movie, it’s a challenge. I’m pouring everything I have into it, each and every time. Sometimes the results are fruitful. Sometimes I walk away thinking I never really got to the heart of what I wanted to explore. I think that means it’s working.
The subtitle of The French Dispatch could have been: Wes Anderson makes me feel bad about myself. Modern (useless) Facebook meme pop-psychology would tell me that no one but me is responsible for the way I feel about myself. And yet. As someone who tries to move through the world with a reputation of being a cinephile, it took me watching about 20 minutes of Mr. Anderson’s new film to realize (as I do when I watch any of the director’s other films) how little I really know about this art form that I claim to cherish.
