The world of self-obsessed “artiste” Wes Anderson is the anthesis of cinema

Wes Anderson

The rarified world of Wes Anderson has become more stifling with each successive release. Although he initially gave his audience a soupçon of acknowledgment and entertainment – the Stefan Zweig – inspired Mitteleuropa of “The Grand Budapest Hotel” or Alexandre Desplat’s charming closing credits in “Moonrise Kingdom” – with his latest opus, “The French Dispatch”, he has finally entered his own hermetically sealed noncinematic universe. A triptych about the workings of a New Yorker-like magazine in the French town of Ennui-sur Blasé – how wonderfully clever of you Wes – the boredom felt by the viewer watching the writer/director’s most onanistic work to date is amplified by the feeling that ennui was the desired effect! The Europudding ensemble in front of the camera is adrift as the the eccentric director obsesses over minutiae. Only Frances McDormand manages to maintain a trace of dignity while Tilda Swinton loses the last piece of respect of this particular fan as she gives yet another awful Anderson-directed performance.



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