![]() If anything, it’ll further widen the gap between fans and detractors. The French Dispatch won’t settle any disputes about Wes Anderson or his unique artistic sensibility. This last flourish, in particular, has become a directorial hallmark many viewers have long pointed to with an equal degree of admiration and derision. ![]() It showcases one symmetrical tableau after another, impeccable “living pictures” of statue-still, camera-facing figures. It substitutes a traditional flashback sequence with a full-on theatrical restaging of a past event. It twice swaps live-action footage with animated sequences. It shifts from a striking pastel palette to black-and-white and back again. Wes Anderson’s latest opus, number 10, is by far his most aesthetically singular and extreme. ![]() The mundane task of transporting some potent potables from here to there is presented with such exactitude, something akin to a Rube Goldberg contraption, that the maximalist message it conveys is clear and unapologetic. What sounds like a perfectly bland exercise belies the complex mechanics shown onscreen, from the tight shot of painstaking mixology, to the cuckoo-clock-like precision of stiff drinks lifted vertically on a dumbwaiter and then through the winding interiors of an office building. The French Dispatch opens with a tray of cocktails, prepared in front of a building and then delivered to a room filled with journalists.
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