Bringing the World to Kansas: The Stark Emotional Insight of THE FRENCH DISPATCH (Patreon)

It’s easy to think we know who Wes Anderson is.

Perhaps that is just because we can easily spot the tangible details of his work. We all know the pastiche. The center-framed subjects. The perpendicular lines. The diorama-like rooms, often filled to the brim with immaculate details. Along with the familiar comic rhythms that give it all life. Thus, even for those who adoringly love his work (like me), there is this set of inevitable expectations that come along whenever we go to see his latest effort. Heck, you can even expect that the film will likely find an unlikely dramatic spot to mine some emotional depth within us. This is what he does. He’s not going to stop. Nor should he. But I must say that it’s been hard to imagine that the tenor of a Wes Anderson film could completely surprise me. And yet…

The French Dispatch surprised me.

Because it is, essentially, non-narrative. Going in I was falsely-expecting some grand story of interlocking vignettes about various reporters trying to get their stories. But instead, we got the end result of the stories themselves, all read mostly word for word by their “authors.” Which is perhaps a more daring approach than you’d think. Or, better to say, more risky than you’d think. Because it’s a valid reason for why so many people bounced off this new film in comparison to some of his others - like Moonrise Kingdom, which playfully offers the gentle emotions of two kids falling in love. But here we get labyrinthian walls of words, all read in unrelenting voice over. If cinema is built on the art of “show don’t tell,” then this is a film of “tell, tell, tell, and show some as you go.” Moreover, it really is quite dense. And somewhat exhausting. So for these reasons, I truly understand why it bumps audiences. Really. I do. But I would argue that it is these same qualities that give the film both its purpose and distinction.

Because that density of lexicon is what the film is. It is a sprawling story about the power of the written word, specifically how we use those words to examine the world around us. Heck, it barely even tries to characterize these stories through drama, but instead through the given author’s vision of what they are taking in. In doing this, The French Dispatch is able to get at something else. Something new. Something crucial. And thus ends up exhibiting a surprising guile and way with words - but much more affectingly, it showcases Anderson’s surprising powers of insight. Seriously. This film shows thoughtful depth on various subjects that I honestly didn’t ever think he’d be so direct about. And because of that, this film ends up being his most thematically-rich, most introspective, and maybe even his most sensitive. But to agree with that? It takes accepting that the highs of this film do not lie in dramatic catharsis, but instead rest in little moments, the inward glances, and powerful turns of phrase that often moved me to tears.

From the moment I saw this film I wanted to share what I saw in it. But at that same second, I knew I wouldn’t be able to write an essay until I could get a copy at home. I knew I had to sit there and pour through its density and write down every single probing reaction. It’s taken me months and I had over 4000 words of notes alone… But after all that and over 22,000 words, it’s finally done.

So let’s get to it.

1. AN OBITUARY - “AN EDITOR’S BURIAL”

From the start, Anderson tells you exactly what to expect of the film you are about to see, including breaking things down into his now familiar five act structure (which he almost always designates with title cards). It tells us that this “edition of the magazine” will consist of: An OBITUARY, a brief TRAVEL-GUIDE, and THREE FEATURE ARTICLES. Now, people often ask me why films do this. Is it wrong to break it up with title cards? Should every film do it? Well, a lot of times, it’s unnecessary. Particularly when making short, exciting movies where you want each scene to just keep leading into the next without the audience even really thinking about it. But for films that are more episodic or work in little chunks of focus? I’m a fan because it can help an audience contextualize “where they are” in the story and set expectations, rather than having it feel like just lumbering on (there’s a reason Tarantino often does it). So for a film like this, their inclusion is critical.

But this whole intro section also does three important things…

Mission Statement - One of the things the title card does is helps you finally notice that this film has an actual subtitle. The titular French Dispatch is “of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun,” meaning it is an offshoot magazine of a fictional midwestern paper. What may seem like a throwaway detail is actually speaking to the mission statement of the movie. One that Anderson will outright tell us just moments later when he tells us that this magazine “brought the world to Kansas.” When you don’t let that line pass by, when you really sit with it, it really evokes this beautiful notion of why journalism actually matters. It’s all those cliches, right? Broadening your horizons and what not. But those cliches exist because they are true. And Anderson believes them plainly.

Now you may also ask, “hey, wasn’t this inspired by The New Yorker, a fancy east coast magazine?” Well, this is the key of Anderson taking inspiration from things and turning them into his own fictional versions of them. It allows him to get at a closer version of the thematic truth that he wants to evoke. For him? The kid who grew in the midwest and dreamed of a bigger world? The decision to place it there takes on a new, powerful, and personal meaning.

A Sense of History - The other thing this intro section does is gives us context for the magazine itself. What hilariously “began as a vacation,” turned into Arthur Howitzer Jr. (Bill Murray)’s attempt to take a permanent one. Or at least enjoy the life of living as an expat in France (note that Anderson himself now lives in Paris) while trying in earnest to take his newspaper family’s money and know-how and set out to do something important. Maybe even meaningful. But as much as it talks about bringing Kansas to the world, Anderson also acknowledges that the French Dispatch is an “often discarded section in a Sunday picnic magazine.” But nonetheless, it showcases the very virtues it seeks to explore, “the arts, high and low, fashion, fancy” and more. It’s everything familiar to us in the details of Anderson's work, especially how often he’s explored that same juxtaposition of high and low, always crashing between people being both mannered and vulgar, while at the same time, showing a sympathy for the ailing and an abhorrence for the inhumane.

Starting at the End - But above all else, the opening section makes the curious decision to start at the chronological “end” of this story. Namely that this is the last edition of the titular magazine. Because Howitzer, the aforementioned editor and founder, has died. Again, this is not a dramatic narrative film. Just like all articles, it’s starting with the headline, the most important fact, and then working inward. The obituary is read to us (by Angelica Houston, no less), all to characterize the editor who is responsible for all the stories you are about to take in. At times, it’s achingly funny, telling us “he received an editor's burial” as we cut to a cramped, tiny, fenced-in graveyard with nothing else around for miles. If you’ve known and worked with editors, there’s just something you inherently understand about the herculean efforts they go through for complete thanklessness. And Horowitz’s style is characterized by his frequent note of “just try to make it sound like you wrote it that way on purpose,” which is honestly some of the best writing advice you will ever get.

Why? Because while you may not be able to articulate WHY you want to word something a certain way, the note creates an inherent mindfulness about how your words sound, especially whether or not it matches with that intention. Essentially, in trying to make it sound like it’s on purpose, you often find that very purpose. From there, more editorial jokes fly fast and furious, like “we asked for 2500 and it came in at over 14,000” and yet he shows his support in accepting (why, I can’t relate to people being begrudgingly tolerant of going crazy over word count at all!). Horowitz is also characterized by his “no crying” rule, but that is something we will come back to later. In the end, what most defined Horowitz was his love and support of “good writers - he coddled them, he coaxed them, he ferociously protected them. These were his people.” And because we know about his death from the start, his influence can hang over all that storytelling that follows. You get to mourn in the process. And by the story's end, perhaps feel a sense of loss for the thing you have just come to love.

2. A BRIEF TRAVEL GUIDE - “A TASTE OF ENNUI”

Where the initial section gives us purpose, the second gives us a setting.

Once again, Anderson is being very direct about this. He wants you to understand the place where the coming three stories will unfold. To best explain, he uses a familiar face in Owen Wilson, playing a writer named Herbsaint Sazerac (which is a hell of a name). Wilson is at once wide eyed and goofy, willing to make fun of himself, and yet lovingly enraptured by the space round him. And the sincerity works because Wilson always means it. There’s perhaps no one better to explain the mundane, yet somewhat coarse, whimsical setting of “Ennui, France.” Especially when we are treated to several amusing Jacques Tati-like vignettes where the city “comes suddenly alive” But he also characterizes the city by its snarling grit, too. There is something uniquely French about this. If you’ve never been there, there is this exact high-low quality to everything.

To be clear, I’ve gone often and i’s my favorite country in the world. But they would not care about such superlatives, nor any of the romantic characterizations I have to offer. It is like every country in the world in that way, both in terms of its range and capacity. But to the awestruck American, it’s immaculate and musty. Pristine pastries and unattended garbage bins, as if cluing you into what work is really important to the society around you. It’s that picturesque beauty being met with a complete lack of nostalgia. For they are in a mindset of perpetual revolution. Part of the great adolescent nation, which bears all the fruits and famines that come with such passion. Quick to judge, but if you try in earnest, equally quick to befriend- especially upon transcending their judgment. It’s a place out of time, ancient and stapled over. As Sazerac aptly puts it, it’s “a cluster of tradesman’s villages, only the names remain unchanged.”

Anderson also gives Sazerac a voice all of his own, often turning brilliant observational phrases like: “after receiving the host, marauding choir boys, half-drunk on the blood of Christ, stalk unweary pensioners and seek havoc.” To which, we see said boys run up and harass some elderly people… I rightly cackled. But at other times, Sazerac is unafraid to be casually devastating. A throwaway line invokes the same entire elderly population of the city as “old people… old people who have failed,” which seems to clue us into the static, ever present nature of death that hangs over them. It’s a place where “8.25 bodies pulled from The Blasé River each week, a figure that remains consistent despite population growth and advances in health and hygiene.” Once again, Anderson is being very direct with the naming conventions. He even uses a meta joke of Sazerac falling into the subway on his bike before he can name one positive thing about the arrival of cars to these old cities.

Granted, the setting of all this stuff is both crucial and thankfully short (for a five act, it just so happens the first two are ten minutes total). But they both set our expectations for the stories that follow. Sazerac writes the promise of the movie as such: “an air of promiscuous calm saturates the hour. What sounds will punctuate the night? And what mysteries will they foretell? All grand beauties withhold their deepest secrets.”

With those final words we go into what will be the familiar book end, where our editor Horowitz, seemingly just before his untimely death, reviews the very piece that was just read to us. This not only gives a sense of punctuation to each section, but a chance for some meta commentary. Here, the rougher and more somber parts of the guide seem to concern him a bit. But Sazerac can only reply “it’s supposed to be charming!” Itself, showing that he is charmed by the sadder realities that exist between the cracks of this fair city. Moreover, in describing Ennui, France he is literally describing ennui. But perhaps not as the emotionless vacancy that you imagine. But instead, an expression of the careful and curious eye, the lack of judgment, the incisive wit, and the empathetic evocation of what all these denizens are seemingly at war with within themselves. It’s the journalist’s brand of ennui. And wouldn’t you know it?

But that’s the entire approach of the movie going forward…

3. ARTS AND ARTISTS - “THE CONCRETE MASTERPIECE”

It begins suddenly, in the middle, and with a familiar sight.

An artist (Benicio del Toro) is painting a nude woman (Léa Seydoux). This is a visual that is familiar to us, even downright cliche. But as the two silently go through this artistic exercise, there is something off about it. There’s some odd, forceful stretching, a passive aggressive smearing of paint, and a slapping away of a brush. “What is this tete e tete?” we wonder. Things are not as they seem. But soon the strange bargain is unveiled: She’s a guard. He, an inmate. And this is the centerpiece of our first story.

Like the opening obituary, Anderson is once again showing the difference of how we tell a story narratively (which is often chronological) and how we tell a story for an article. Where it’s about the lede / headline telling you the premise of the story, then presenting the driving questions that make you want to dive deeper. Thus, we ask: what is this? How did they get here? And where does it all go? Please note that this will become the M.O. for all three featured “articles” of the movie, where we are essentially using the events to go on seeming tangents that actually help answer the “why” to the questions as we encounter them. Also, please note that the majority of these feature articles are filmed in black and white, which is done to help the viewer quickly understand what is “in article” and what is not.

Once this intro scene is done, we cut to one J.K.L Berensen (Tilda Swinton), who is the writer of this particular article. She seems to be giving some sort of presentation at an academic event, telling us the story with some accompanying slides. This is all shot in color to imply a time more current. Again, let us ask the basic question: why? Why tell the story like this? Well, it’s because it’s much more cinematic to have the voice of the author speaking in front of us, especially if they’re presenting to an audience. The other reason is that it also ties into Anderson’s penchant for theatrical behavior, along with his Brechtian directness. Apologies for  invoking Brecht for the billionth time, but it’s important whenever you bring up Anderson. Because he’s purposefully using stagey aesthetics to not just make things seem “funny,” but to give you a little distance from his subjects. Which makes these dramatic moments feel “less real” on purpose, so that you may see the idea and range of a subject without the manipulation of cinematic affectation. Sure, it may seem a bit more distant, but if you connect to the idea, it is no less meaningful.

Moreover, it allows this particular film to play with the notions of how our narrators relay the complex framings of “truth” within different, more appropriate settings. Because it’s exactly what allows Berensen to make various asides that are not in the article (which all hav very specific purposes within the story). But most of all, it helps characterizes Berensen’s authorial voice. We can see Swinton play her with this bright, sunny professionalism along with a forced, wide-toothed smile. She is often praising and effusive in her view of the art, sometimes even reveling in the attention. But she also has a very strong feeling of being put upon, along with all sorts of resentments bubbling under the surface. Ultimately, her character ends up being far more complex than you’d first think. And it is the in-person presentation that allows for this.

But betting back to the subject of the article, the artist’s name is Moses Rosenthal. And he is ultimately responsible for this famed work of 10 stunning murals, which again, is the movie doing the article-like thing where it’s telling you exactly where it’s going with this story. The real question is how. And in telling her story, Berensen breaks the telling along three parallel central elements, which I will separate to keep this essay more organized.

The Monster - From the very intro, Berensen describes Rosenthal as “the most eloquent and certainly loudest voice of his rowdy generation” Which is a demure way of alluding to the fact that Rosenthal is, in no uncertain terms, a monster. As in a literal murderer with anger and fury at the very root of him. Again, the question is why does Anderson make this choice? Why have her say that demurely? Why even tell a story about this character? Because it is an examination of the modern climate, too - and thus exists as a deep examination of the history of artistic industries and the way they always seem to embrace and uphold violent monsters. Which means it is a systemic examination, and a pretty in depth one, all being told through this particular parable.

One of the small, but telling details of Rosenthal’s monsterdom is that he is born rich. Which gets at this idea that there is an essential element of privilege and lack of consequence baked into his malice. But it also makes no bones about the fact that something mentally in need with Rosenthal from the very start. But, because he is enabled, he goes on a Sullivan’s Travels-like journey to be a real man of the people. Thus, his wealth is instead replaced “with squalor, hunger, loneliness, physical danger, mental illness, and of course, criminal violence.” It is this sudden, guttural violence puts him in jail. At the time, he is but a young man (Tony Revolori, the lovely second lead from Grand Budapest Hotel), staring wide-eyed in silent pain. Then the film does one of those Brechtian gestures, but I swear it’s one that I haven’t seen before. Rather than simply cut to Benicio in his older age, Anderson instead has two actors switch out completely. This allows us to see this awkward tenderness in their handoff, along with his delicate placing of the necklace. It seems to embody this whole, wordless story about exchanging time within yourself, and the inevitable sadness that comes from it.

Again, at his core, Rosenthal is filled with self-hatred and suicidal thoughts. With modern therapy we would find all the non-toxic ways of best treating these feelings, but this is early 20th century Europe. So in trying to explain the “why” he started painting, Rosenthal goes in front of his fellow prisoners and nonchalantly tells them that he’s been slowly trying to poison himself to death, which “makes me feel very sad.” He puts it simply: he “has to keep hands busy otherwise he will be suicide.” First off, I love the way he’s characterizing Rosenthal’s artistic inclination as keeping his hands busy because it means “creation as distraction,” which is just a temporary solution that will never work. But Benicio’s performance in this scene that’s fascinating. He plays it with this kind of dry, sullen playfulness. He’s being honest, yet almost boyish in his confession, as if making light of his shameful little thoughts. Just like the Brechtian staging, the thing I always try to reinforce is that underneath the theatrical performances in his films, THIS IS STILL REAL. And it’s why Anderson suddenly cuts to these silent shots of the other inmates crying upon hearing his works. They are crying not just out of sympathy, but genuine empathy. They know these thoughts well.

It hopefully makes you realize that where so many Oscar-bait films would have this be an overwrought, heartbreaking performance moment, Anderson instead stays away from such obvious manipulation (which would make you empathize too hard with the monster, anyway, as so many of those films often do through their dramatization). Instead, Anderson gets at the much more sad idea that he’s barely phased by his own inevitable doom. And in doing so, Anderson accurately characterizes the way so many pained artists find the way to “joke” about their pain in stark declarations. He’s keeping the audience centered. Which is why the film goes for a genuinely funny button when Rosenthal says, “anyway, that’s why I signed up for clay pottery and basket weaving” Again, Anderson wants you to be okay bouncing around with the tone, which is really just the range of the truth itself. He doesn’t want to drag you down into empathetic morass. That’s just one element. And he wants to show you all the sides of it.

Unfortunately for all of us, maybe even including Rosenthal himself, he discovers an aptitude for art, one defined by his willingness to be brazen and messy and not care what others may think. For this, he discovers near immediate success. But that success is completely alien to whatever emotion he is really experiencing. Because at his core, Rosenthal is still in “jail,” literally and metaphorically. Even though he has things he’s seeking as “answers” to his inner monster-dom (which we will get more into when we discuss his relationship), we just have to note that when it comes to his violence, he is still completely unapologetic. At his parole hearing later on, when asked if he felt any remorse about his casual murders, he insists these total strangers “had it coming” for whatever reason exists in his head. But if that is what is true in Rosenthal’s core, then so much of this story is the criticism of the system around him.

Which brings us to…

The Machine - Early in the story we meen Julian Cadazio (Adrien Brody, who gives what is probably my favorite performance of his entire career). The delight of this character rests in the way he comically bounces around between pretentious self-assuredness and these sudden, punctuated moments of doubt. Because he is, above all else, a huckster. A person born into the art business via his uncles and sees everything about art as having boom or bust potential. And as a shady huckster, he too has ended up in jail for but a brief spell of time. But it is there he discovers Rosenthal and his work. Cadazio’s enamored with the potential wants to buy. But Rosenthal doesn’t want anything to do with it, nor sell anything. But Cadazio insists: “all artists sell all their work, it’s what makes you an artist. If you don’t wish to sell it, don’t paint it.” It’s presented as a joke, but it is how things really are. It doesn’t matter if Rosenthal merely likes his art. He must be put into the machine. And when it comes to Rosenthal’s violence, Cadazio sees it as part of the fascination. Two subsequent quotes speak volumes. The first…

“How’d you learn to do it anyway? Paint this kind of picture? Also, who did you murder? And how crazy are you really? I need background information so we can do a book about you. It makes you more important. Who are you?”

This is a funny way of expressing the way we instantly try to narrative-ize someone’s life for appealing measure. But it’s also more layered than it may seem, too. Because Anderson has all these layers of artifice working at once. Because if he was telling some straightforward narrative of “Rosenthal’s life,” then it would be singularly defined. But instead, he’s using this style to poke and prod from different places. To show how and why certain people view him differently. To see the way his “success” in the field of art was both grabbed, propagated, and then defended. Especially during the aforementioned parole hearing, where Cadazio jumps to his defense…

“We all know this man is a murderer. Totally guilty of first degree homicide anyway you slice it. That’s a given. However, he’s also that rare once in a generation guy that you hear about, but never get the chance to discover for yourself: an artistic genius! Surely there ought to be a double standard for this sort of predicament. Supposedly he’s a psychotic by the way, that’s not his fault. Respectively, I submit, maybe we could think of some other way to punish him?”

Once again, it’s a “joke,” but he’s just saying the quiet part loud. He’s directly invoking the double standard as if it’s perfectly acceptable to inoke. And it’s indicative of the way everyone likes to uphold and excuse “genius” like it is a shield. Thus, perhaps the oddest part of all this is that Rosenthal is actually denied parole, for his murderous actions are genuinely a bridge too far (remember: for all the shiny surface, Anderson likes to keep that air of reality underneathe the veneer. Because this isn’t satire). But it also asks that question of “why” with Cadazio, himself. Why go to bat for this particular artist? Thankfully, Anderson does try to meaningfully explain that part, too.

When presenting Rosenthal’s painting to his uncles (played by the great Bob Balaban and Henry Winkler), Cadazio tells them he “found something new.” And suddenly there is the pop of color as he shows them the painting. This is a device that Anderson will use more in these three black and white feature stories, all for sudden, vivid effect (I’ll make note of when it happens). And you have to remember the timeframe of this story and Rosenthal is kind of a stand in for the first modern artist (specifically Picasso, who was also a monster). But he’s also trying to show a funny version of the way the industry reacted to all this, which is all expressed in a witty back and forth between Cadazio and his old uncles…

“Modern art, our specialty, starting now.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Of course you don’t”

“Am I too old?”

“Of course you are”

“Why is this good?”

“It isn’t good. Wrong idea.”

“That’s no answer.”

“My point. See the girl in it?”

“No.”

“Trust me, she’s there.”

They don’t get it, but then Cadazio shows that Rosenthal CAN do a perfect canary painting and tells them: “the point is he could paint THIS beautifully if he wanted. But he thinks this is better. And i think I sort of agree with him.” There’s something really interesting about that line of “sort of agreeing” with him. Because it hints at the fact that there is something about Cadazio that isn’t FULLY mechanical and commercial. There’s this sliver of appreciation in him that kind of understands, and in a weird way, even cares about art. There’s something gnawing. Something real. Something that will be an important part of his catharsis as an operator of the machine. But for now, Cadazio knows he has to sell the world on this new modern art. But to do that  “the desire must be created.” So the painting goes on a world tour to great success as people await Rosenthal’s next work. Unfortunately, his head is somewhere else…

The Relationship Bargain -  At the top of the story we were introduced to our model who is also the guard at the prison. Her name is Simone. And in trying to explain her decision, Berensen states that “certain women gravitate toward the incarcerated… I assure you, it’s erotic!” In time we will learn that this is a bit of projection on her part, one that perhaps belies a bit of her own feelings on the matter, given her eventual odd relationship with Rosenthal. But for Simone herself, it is a ridiculous simplification. And the film goes through a very important arc to accentuate what’s really going on with her.

The first is showing us that, unlike Rosenthal, she was actually born into the squalor he sought out, specifically the “quasi serfdom” of life on a farm. Though she may seem “icy,” it is not just a quirk of personality. There’s a fierceness of experience with her. A 1000 yard stare. And a longing for control. We see her as the kind of person who draws boundaries with Rosenthal. Even early into their relationship she senses his declaration coming and retorts: “I don’t love you.” Nor does she want to marry. She wants to keep a large part of herself separate. And she wants to grow. But she knows that she is also trapped in this particular station. And so their relationship comes to life as a series of conflicting archetypes. They are not just artist and muse, but jailee and jailor, or perhaps, felon and rehabilitator. Or any and all at once.

The scene that evokes so much about their relationship is the scene where Simone finds that Rosenthal has put himself in the electric chair. He tells her he can’t keep going on with the painting, “I can’t, I won’t, it’s too hard. It’s torture. I’m literally a tortured artist.” Again, Anderson is being comically direct about his mindset. But once again, the pain is also real. And it leads to sequence where she walks up and says something equally direct to him:

“I grew up on a farm. We didn’t make music. We didn’t write poetry. We didn’t sculpt statues. Or paint pictures. I learned arts and crafts technique from books in this prison's library and I teach them as a volunteer. I don’t know what you know. I only know what you are. I can see you’re suffering. I can see it’s difficult. It might even get worse — but then it’s going to get better. You’re going to figure out whatever your problem is… what’s your problem?”

She doesn’t even let him answer. Instead, Simone goes straight on to the visualization of exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to finish his work. And for good measure, she quickly shocks him in the chair. Deeply shaken by this, Rosenthal comically gets out of the chair as quickly as he can.

Now, this scene is really important to talk about, but also a loaded one. And to get stark with you all, it’s pretty personal. Because feeling suicidal is a very complicated process. And often, one that is hard to talk about with others, especially because you need a duality in support. On one hand, you need people to listen. To hear you with sensitivity. To offer delicate talk around a delicate thing. But it is also an acknowledgment that there is a way that that carefulness can become numbing. Like the whole world is walking on eggshells around you. Sure, you are heard, but nothing is really shifting inside (and I’d wager this can be particularly true for someone like Rosenthal, who is being hyper-enabled by people around who aren’t even actually listening). In this state, you sometimes need the “ass kick” approach to suicide talk. Keep in mind, this does not mean the kind of ass kick where you being misunderstood by some asshole who doesn’t get it (you know, like that people talk about suicide being “selfish” or some other horseshit). She completely understands him and knows what he’s dealing with. She even makes time to acknowledge his feelings with sensitivity. But then, she becomes direct. It’s the act of someone grounding you. Providing a literal “shock to the system” of reminding you that you are in a body, you are alive, and you don’t have to be completely trapped in the pain of your head. Real, meaningful treatment for suicidal thoughts often requires both approaches. And, as easy it would be for an outsider to see this scene as being flippant, I’d argue this scene characterizes that duality as beautifully as I’ve seen some do it. To be honest, I kind of can’t believe that Anderson showed that level of understanding (though we’ve seen him talk about this subject before in Royal Tenenbaums, etc), so it also makes me feel more empathetic to him in turn. Even though it may be presented as “funny,” like so much of his work, it’s verbalized in a way that is cut-to-the-bone real.

The other thing about Simone is that, as much as this scene is a big part of their “relationship,” we get the sense that her motivation isn’t actually centered around being there for him in this manner. For there is something still lingering in her. We see this expressed as her propensity for “standing still,” an artful evocation of her patience and 1000 yard stare. So we ask, where is this heading? But what’s perhaps most brilliant about this article is the way the three storylines within it: the monster, the machine, and the relationship bargain, all come to…

A Meta Crescendo - “It’s 3 years later” Cadazio declares (mostly to us, the audience) and he is hurling insults at Rosenthal. He also thankfully recaps us on the fact that he has been demanding his big follow-up work this entire time. Essentially, this is the part of the machine where you have to “feed the beast.” Because success creates enterprise, and enterprise needs more product in order to keep propagating itself. When you create the beast, you have to feed it, whether or not you even want to. Of course, Rosenthal resents this demand. It’s not why he creates art. Moreover, his own process goes at the pace it goes. He tells Cadazio “I could use another year,” and the look of aggrieved anger on Brody’s face is utterly priceless. So the insults come again and again, but the problem is that Cadazio knows he needs him in the end. And it’s Simone who insists the piece is ready.

Now, there is a meta portion of all of this in which Wes Anderson seems to be talking about his own relationship with making commercial art and working with producers. I mean, he too is a person who has a clear, unique voice. Who seems to genuinely care about the films he’s making. Who tells stories his own way, regardless of what some may think. And who always puts pen to paper for himself. And I’m sure he’s said “I could use another year” plenty of times. But he is also a person who has lots of people depending on his ability to feed the beast and be a success. Essentially, Anderson has to constantly justify his own absurdity. After all, he was once a director who got 50 million dollars to make The Life Aquatic pre-marketing, and very much didn’t make it back. There are real people who have to justify the financial investment of all this goofery. Especially as there is a whole league of people whose fortunes go up and down based on success. This is obviously a thing to keep in mind as the story unfolds.

For Cadazio, the plan is enacted: there will be an art unveiling within the prison itself, which would entail so much bribery. But it is a perfect expression of the sordid and scandalous appeal of art. Because all these rich folks will get to go on a little adventure in dabble in the seedy and low of society. The height of class tourism. And the potential big key to their success is the invitation of one, Maude Clampette, an American buyer and exhibitioner who is characterized by her broad Midwestern accent (even while speaking in french). This is also where Berensen herself enters the story as Clampette’s assistant type.. She speaks of Clampette glowingly, along with her own ability to help her, all before giving a cutting aside that “she did whatever the hell she wanted, anyway.” But with potential buyers now in place, everything actually goes according to plan. They all get inside. And the new pieces are finally unveiled…

The now familiar tactic of the color splash hits us. Cadazio begins comically shouting “quiet please!” repeatedly even though no is talking. It’s as if the art itself is so loud and the voices in his head must be going a mile a minute. But after all the insults, he turns to Rosenthal with glee and can only shout on behalf of himself: “I did it! It's good! This is historic. Open the champagne, I did it!” And everything about his reaction reminds me of the reason that Producers are the ones who are awarded Best Picture. Meanwhile, Rosenthal only seems to have one sheepish question, “do you like it?” as if Cadazio was the only one that he was trying to please. The question surprises him, because it’s almost irrelevant to their success. The point is that it’s big and grand and he can sell it and become a bigger deal… Or maybe he can’t.

Upon realizing that the art itself is a series of frescoes, meaning painted right onto the prison walls and thus immovable, Cadazio realizes he can’t sell this titular concrete masterpiece. Of course, his mood sours: “You fucking asshole! You ruined us!” / “I thought you liked it.” / “I think it stinks! You psychopathic suicidal no talent drunk!” We cut to things turning violent. Even as the insults fly fast and furious in the chase, Cadazio lets a part of his real evaluation of the art slip by saying the art is “crucial,” but that’s part of the heartbreak of the situation. It implies Cadazio understands WHY the piece exists. But to the huckster within him, art need not exist if you can’t sell it. He told us this from the very beginning.

But it also means that this is the very thing now being challenged within him. Sheepishly, Cadazio asks Simone: “why didn’t you tell me, guardian?” which is a very pointed way of showing how he thinks of their relationship, but she gives the only possible reason: “because you would have stopped him.” We see Cadazio try to bridge the gap of what he hoped the artist would make and what is. And soon he finally relinquishes: “We have to accept it. His need to fail is more powerful than our strongest desires to help him succeed. I give up. He’s defeated us. At least he finished the motherfucker.”

This is where the meta of it all is kicked up to 11, because that’s the most producer-y speech I’ve ever heard in my life. And you can feel Anderson talking so squarely with himself and not being able to help the fact that he might make something distinctly uncommercial (you know, like this very movie that’s a collection of articles). But it’s finally in this place of resenting acceptance that Cadazio can actually say “well done, Moses” and they share a  small hug. What may seem a little gesture is, in fact, quite telling. That along with the earlier statement of how the frescoes are “crucial,” shows that deep down, Cadazio does actually appreciate and love art. In some ways, it’s the worst part of all this for him. A true huckster who could be doing anything else, anything more lucrative, really. But he works in an industry that depends on having an eye for the indefinable, having patience, and having good luck. It’s the curse of this particular industry, really. And part of that curse is understanding that the Frescoes will have endlessly delayed sale to Maude Clampette, which is all part of the metaphor of how there is often an eventual appreciation for a given masterpiece that comes years later. Because there is just so much transformative art that was, at least when it was made, put into a system that didn’t know what to do with it. And at the center of ALL of this, the film is asking an even bigger question that I keep repeating… Why?

Why create art? Why go through these motions? Why propagate the artist?

We now understand Cadazio’s motivations, but the other two have their own complicated reasons, too. Rosenthal tells us that for him, “it’s all Simone.” But it is here that illusion is readily dispelled. For we soon learn this is the last night they ever saw each other. That this was all part of her completing a phase of her life. One that was about gaining know-how, balance, and financial security, so that she could reunite with a child she had in her youth. It is, needless to say, a hell of a detail to suddenly drop. One that Berenson seemingly never thought to mention, as if she never really connected the dots on what was going on here (itself, a careful choice from Anderson and co.). The details of this child are not divulged, but we can write a whole variety of sad tales that imagine what happened, some more mundane than others. But we still now understand the arc of Simone’s journey quite differently. Particularly when it comes to economic barriers and struggles she mentioned many times. Yet, she kept her clear want hidden from view. She had to navigate a system and play the muse, the jailer, and the rehabilitator, but then found her own selfhood and reconciliation with the past. Even a happy one at that, as we are told that she and her child “never lived apart” afterward. And it’s here that you understand that for everything in this entire story, the real victory is that she got away.

Rosenthal’s “victory” is much different. In the final Renaissance painting-style jail fight, it seems he saved some important rich people’s lives and thus was granted probation for life. But this freedom is implied was not so much a victory because he never actually solved anything about himself. He just “kept his hands busy” as a distraction. And when the machine truly inverted the monster into their hero, it’s implied that his behavior got worse. Which brings us to…

The Editor’s Note - Like the travel guide, each of the three feature stories in this film will end the same way: whereupon on the last word of the story it returns to the editor’s office where we see Horowitz go over his thoughts. In this case, his worries seem to be purely financial. For a story about the intersection of art and commerce, it seems Berensen had racked up many of her own charges including a stay at a seaside resort she once stayed at with Rosenthal. She says, “I had to go there to write it. We were lovers. I went back to remember.” Ever the loyal editor, Horowitz gives in. But this is a really telling moment about something that’s been happening the whole time..

Because so much of the piece is rooted in the way Berenson is poking around the seams of these events. And so much of it speaks to the powerful complexity of Tilda’s performance. We got to see her plastic, bright, and sunny voice, along the part that genuinely loves art with praising effusiveness, and that she enjoys some bits of self-aggrandizement. Perhaps the funniest moment of which is when in her slide presentation there is an inserted picture of her standing naked, glorious and assured, and she robotically announces to the crowd, “Good god. Wrong slide, that’s me,” with the not so subtle implication being that she was the one who put the slide in there (or in the least, is not really embarrassed). But there’s more to it. On second watch, you can see that Rosenthal is also in the picture. And while she no doubt makes acknowledgement of her relationship, you see the way she bounces up against his story with so many conflicting emotions, particularly when it comes to things much darker.

At one point she describes Rosenthal and his contemporaries as such: “The French Splatter School Action Group. A dynamic, talented, lusty, slovenly, alcoholic, violent pack of creative savages. they inspired and very often personally attacked each other for two decades or more.” And then when hit by those words, Berenson quickly announces, “I’ll have my drink now,” as if overburdened by said savagery. You even see a little bit of a shake in her hands. You get the sense that there is something bigger here. Something that is irrevocably true. She then moves forward for the most important aside of the entire in person presentation. She steps forward and tells the audience, in no uncertain terms, “he was crazy.” She does this in a way that cannot be ignored. But then she tries to tell about the time Rosenthal tried to “inappropriately fuck me” and she begins outright describing sexual assault. You can see her trying to maintain composure, as if trying to put up a similar air of nonchalance. But there is a deeper wound here, a way of laughing at this when really she wants to scream, particularly at the audience in front of her.

But instead of doing anything with this moment, we see the spotlight suddenly fade out, and the audience only meet her words with silence and a rogue cough. Anderson’s staging of this is more metaphor. Because society is outright telling her that this aside is not welcome, maybe even too “awkward,” so she has to go right back to being her composed self at the podium. This is a powerful bit of staging and not one to be ignored. Especially when we later see her in the editors office, looking out the window and seemingly trying to contextualize all of this. Please understand, Anderson is not trying to say this is about a gray area or morally vague. It is quite stark in its declaration of malice, and empathetic to the horror he caused. It more evokes how living with the space and history and wounds of it all is the part that’s complex, especially our own feelings of complicity. But all of Berensen’s asides have now added up. And we get the sense of someone trying to account for the entirety of a life - and their complicated role in talking about artists, artistry, and art itself.

For a story called, “The Concrete Masterpiece,” it’s really about how little feels that way. Again, this isn’t Anderson trying to be vague. The sequence is earnestly trying to unpack it all, especially the biting ironies. It’s about the clear problems of calling things masterpieces, or labeling murderers geniuses, and giving things an absolute narrative. Which is the reason so much of the article is about viewing the events from afar, while understanding that any attempts to remove a complication reveals that you can’t. To use the metaphor, it’s LITERALLY difficult to remove the piece of art history from the jail itself. It’s all tied together. Tied to an impossibly ugly story. But to that, I imagine there’s some theoretical movie that would tell this same story in a similarly ugly, dour, and virtue-signaling fashion. But it is in pulling out the scope with these layers of detachment and biting humor that Anderson actually gets at something deeper. One even gets the sense that Anderson, and hopefully all of us (myself included), is trying to get us to think about our roles in all of this, too.

In the end, I just know that when Berensen says she “went there to remember,” it seemed in part to mourn, to contextualize, to wax nostalgic, and maybe even to heal. All Because she had to write the “entertaining” article about a wild, broken time that involved a lot of people who were still broken within. But the real problem is that everyone was trying to consecrate something where it is impossible to really do so. For all the acclaim, it’s indiscriminate. Call any aspect a masterpiece. Call it trash. Or Genius. Monster. Accept it. Deny it. Love it. Hate it. All are presented in confusing measure, all true, all part of the history of art and artists that everyone’s wrestling with all of the time. But it’s not that these things are vague.

It’s that nothing is concrete.

4. POLITICS AND POETRY: “REVISIONS TO A MANIFESTO”

It is easy to think politics and poetry are best left to the young.

For it seems like both thrive off passion and require you to speak with absolute conviction. But adults, in their infinite cynicism, have a tendency to mock caring about both things as flights of fancy and youthful indiscretion. In reality, both are powerful and pure expressions of trying to fight for a meaningful future. The young know this. They know this in their bones. But the young are saddled with the unfortunate reality of being young. They are tragically inexperienced and full of fear, which often makes them build various suits of armor to try and compensate (lord knows I did). And it is in this brutal nexus where our story begins.

We meet our new article writer Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand, ever on point) who is bearing witness to a student protest. It is yet another of Anderson’s on the nose metaphors that tell us what is going on from the very beginning: it is the fight for access to girls' dormitories for all male students. She comically writes that the whole thing “gave the superficial appearance of a vanity exercise for pimple cream and wet dream contingent.” But she also invites us to look at something deeper. Particularly as it centers the story on a passionate young radical named Zeffirelli (Timothée Chalamet, with a magnificent teen stache) and all the trouble that will come for him.

Now, my write-up of this section of the film is a bit more linear because Krementz is there to bear witness for all of it. And where Berensen spoke in grandiose praise with conflicting asides, Krementz is much more blunt. Terse to the point of comedy. But it is this juxtaposition that better fits when trying to write about the flowery passion of youth. She can whittle them down to the bare essentials, accurately calling their movement “a biological need for freedom, full stop,” and note that it’s of interest because the movement “has exploded into symbolism. And everyone is talking about it.” But Krementz also characterizes the funny way grown up society has chided away their concern by labeling the same movement: “the children are grumpy.” Once again, there is this invitation to go deeper than this. Krementz is going to bear witness to these events and in doing so, unpack a lot about the will of youth, journalistic “neutrality,” and push / pull of getting older. But it all begins with…

A Teary-Eyed Dinner - And it’s a more narrative-driven scene than any we have gotten so far. But this feels apt for how much it is really setting up, specifically for our author’s motivations. Krementz is having dinner with friends (their son is the aforementioned Zeffirelli) and they are trying to set her up with a suitor who is en route. But she has genuine resentment over this and speaks plainly as to her own wants…

“I’m not an old maid. Take me at my word, I prefer relationships that end. I deliberately choose to have neither husband, nor children, the two greatest deterrents to anyone’s attempt to live by and FOR writing… Why are we crying?”

She looks to find her fellow adults who are in tears and they can only offer, “because it’s sad.” The words hit her, but there is something more delicate going on here. Because we are seeing her friends project onto her the idea of who she’s supposed to be. For if she is not like them, then surely she must be lonely, and they must fix that above all else. But internally, Krementz knows it is nothing compared to the loneliness of having your wants ignored. Which creates this difficult irony because it just makes their concerns feel more true. And as she tries to insist upon this fact, they are, perhaps thankfully, interrupted by tear gas creeping in from the outside riots.

Krementz enters the bathroom and finds Zeffirelli, who was supposedly still out and about. He’s naked in the bath, bashful and curious. Him: “Why are you crying?” Her: “Tear gas… also, I supposed I’m sad.” There’s something immediate to the honesty of this interaction. For once, she’s actually being listened to now. And he is the obviously handsome student (I mean, there’s a reason you cast Chalamet), yet so obviously so scrawny and boyish. He clues into the sensitivity of this immediately and ushers one of my new favorite lines ever: “Please turn away, I feel shy about my new muscles.” He is also eager to get back to the barricades and fight the good fight. But at this moment, he is still busy writing his manifesto.

I feel like the term has been largely corrupted in the last few decades, mostly as a tool used by lone wolf terrorist types, but in the earlier part of the century a manifesto was “a public declaration of policy and aims, especially one issued before an election by a political party or candidate.” The power of a manifesto lies in specificity, the ability to shy away from generalization and make concrete aims of policy. In their ensuing discussion, Zeffirelli clues into something important to her: “you may seem sad, but not lonely.” She responds “Exactly!” with ecstatic agreement. What I love about this moment is there’s no romantic sparks, nor maudlin pastiche of cool to Zeffirelli’s behavior. It’s so plain and inculcated and goofy. In his youth, he just so happens to see an essential part of her - the part that none of the adults outside actually do. So in an act of reciprocity she says she’ll look at his manifesto.

Thus, the two enter the ever delicate arrangement of writer and note-giver. Which is even more loaded when the note giver is in a distinguished, professional place and able to evaluate work with precision and a lack of pomp. If you’ve ever done this, it can be a shockingly loaded exercise in both directions. But Anderson immediately gets at it with humor:

Her: “It’s a little damp.”

Him: “Physically or metaphorically?”

“Based on the cover and the first four sentences, both.”

“DON”T CRITICIZE MY MANIFESTO!”

“You don’t want remarks?

“I don’t need remarks, do I? I only asked you to proofread it because I thought you’d be impressed by how good it already is.”

“… Let’s start with the typos.”

Gahhh, Anderson is so good at writing young people. He gets everything about the thin-skinned, eager sense of youth. Because the ability to hear criticism is, like many things, a learned skill. In the field of writing, it’s something you want to build a callus around and eventually wear down into a nub. I honestly don’t know how many thousands and thousands of words I’ve written for criticism alone (just did some quick math and it’s millions at this point) and my entire approach with editors is basically: “do whatever you want, I’m just happy to have it off my plate.” Mostly because I have thousands of words bringing up the rear for the next thing. There is nothing sacred about any of this. At this point, it’s just the art of process. And in that, it helps to be as direct and blunt as possible. There’s just so little time and the work is moving too fast. The experienced writer knows this. The new writer fears the devastation of any judgment, getting swallowed up in the speed, or even starting in the first place. So whatever credit you can give to the naivety of Zeffirelli, he at least put it out there.

After this interaction, Krementz returns to the table to find the very person they’re trying to set her up with seated at the table. Turns out it’s none other than Christoph Waltz AKA one of the greatest actors of our generation. But his appearance will barely exist as a cameo. It is in itself an amazing joke because we see her pointed feelings of not wanting to even engage with this person. The second he gives her a hello kiss on the cheek she responds, “your beard is scratching me.” This is also another metaphor. She is being forced to rub up against a kind of stately, professorial adulthood that is an affront to her being. She is tired of these boring dinners. They don’t listen to her and are just trying to shove her into a state of convention. She, like the rebellious students she is writing about, wants freedom from this, full stop.Thus, the moment she sees Zeffirelli putting on a gas mask and going out into the trouble of the streets?

She finds her youthful heart and goes out there with him.

The Squeaking Bed - We then cut to a squeaking bed and the not so subtle implication they hare having sex. Now, I get where it’s going in terms of the larger, more personal story about looking back at youth and understanding her own role within the arc of time. But this detail requires an important aside. Because the two female writers of this film have just had sex with two of the main subjects. If you’re unsure why this is a problem, it’s because it’s a shitty, inaccurate, and damaging trope of journalism. A hideously popular one at that. Which means female journalists have to deal with it in a way that’s often assumed - and even encourages them to be more pressed upon by male subjects. Again, I get the thematic WHY it’s being done in both these particular stories, along with the sensitivity of what it’s going for - But one can assume Anderson and company didn’t even think about it. And when presented like this, that is with no alternatives, it makes it seem like this is what you actually think of the world. And needless to say, it fucking shouldn’t be.

So… we then go into Krementz’s empty, blank little apartment with a big pile of books (and look. I genuinely like decorating other parts of my place, but oh god it's my bedroom). We see them in bed, sitting upright, both writing. She’s knee deep into describing what the larger political protest has created in the city. And fuck, it’s almost as if she’s writing about the world in the process of dealing with the Covid crisis:

“March 10th. City services at a halt. One week and counting. Public transportation, suspended. Piles of garbage, uncollected. Schools on strike, no mayor, no milk. What will normal reality be like? Next week? Next month? Whenever, if ever we get the chance to experience it ever again? Anyone’s guess.”

Once again we see that casual ability for these written words to cut to bone (and please note Anderson made this film before the pandemic). Then we see that she’s already working on mentoring him in his process. She’s moved on from note-giver to revisor. At first, Zeffirelli’s incredulous about the way she did it: “You finished my manifesto without me?” She responds “I made it sound like you, I think. Just more clear, more concise. A bit less poetic. Put it this way. This isn’t the first manifesto I’ve proofread.” Again, this gets directly into something most writers have had to do with each other. But the exchange characterizes two things so damn well.

The first is the way “poetic” writing is kind of a double edged sword. New writers often try to dress up their words in as flowery and ornate a use of language as possible. This is because they want to show they have an advanced way with words. But so often it’s also a mask. A way of dressing up your prose to distract from the fact there is a complete lack of clarity and specificity to the actual thing being communicated. In the end, they’re just being cryptic because they don’t actually know how to verbalize the damn thing. And there’s a reason most writers, article writers specifically, use terse and plain language. It is precisely because they do not want a single obstacle of vagery between the reader and the clarity of the idea. They want to be understood. Not thought of a certain way. But having said that, it’s equally important to understand our great poets - AKA the ones who manage to both get at the utmost clarity of idea while showing a beautiful ability to turn a phrase - are the greatest writers we have. I am in deepest awe of them. But I imagine the journey to them being so was first littered with all sorts of cryptic hiding and embarrassment. Perhaps that is just how it goes.

The second thing this exchange characterizes so well is the difficulty of giving notes / revising when you’re used to a machine-like approach to the whole process. You volunteer because you genuinely want to help. You want them to come off well. You want them to take their swirling thoughts and make them concrete and understood. But you also have to work efficiently. And often, the amount of words that it would often take to explain what to do, and to coax out the writer to go in the right direction, would often take time you don’t have (unless it was expressly your full-time job). Thus, there is this inherent desire to skip to the end. To write the end result, then go back and talk about how you got there. Fully understanding that they will either not use what they don’t want - or soon they will get to work at the same speed. But the problem is the new writer is always in a rush in a much different way. They want to be immediately perfect. They want to do it without the trials and tribulations of years of getting crossed out and re-written. And all of this splashes about between the scenes of Krementz and Zeffirelli. No wonder the following thought rushes to her as she continues her own article: “Impossible to imagine these students, exhilarated, naive, brave in the extreme, returning to their obedient classrooms.”

This is also the moment where Zeffirelli discovers she’s writing an article about their revolution. It is also the moment his mother learns that he’s having an affair with her. Krementz’s reaction to all this poker faced, though one imagines she’s unafraid to gum up these works with the friend who tried to railroad her life into Christoph Waltz. But I also want to praise Chalamet’s performance in this scene, too. He ping pongs around the many feelings of the adolescent male, fully imbuing each: “WELL I AM UPSET! I don’t know how to feel. Am I in trouble? Why would my mother be so calm? Is this proper? This is all off the record. Everything, my whole life… What am I supposed to do now?” Ms. Krementz, trying to maintain some semblance of evenness, and perhaps feeling a touch of regret for getting involved with such a ping ponging young man, coolly offers a catch all excuse of: “I should maintain journalistic neutrality.” Heh. But rather than dwell on that, Zeffirelli instead replies with a comment on how it all reflects back on him: “I like how ruthless you are, It’s part of your beauty I think.”

For now, we must understand that what is at the crux between them here is something that will be unpacked in time. And Anderson, often maligned for being surface level and glib, is actually showing an outstanding penchant for psychological nuance in this scene, evoking characters that have whole shapes and personalities within their heads. Ms. Krementz knows this about him more than anyone. And where others would chide away his youthful unsureness, she instead looks at the stoppage outside and makes it known to every reading adult in her article: “The kids did this. Obliterated 1000 years of republican authority in less than a fortnight. How and why. Before it began, where did it begin?”

Once again, it’s all about going deeper.

The Past, Now In Color - Here, we get the first flashback that goes into the origins of the student revolution, all of which is shown in brilliant, dazzling color. This implies a sense of romanticism, especially now that Zeffirelli is the one recounting the story and thus with more vivid flair. It’s all very Umbrellas of Cherbourg, really. And like that film, it starts with the status quo. We see a cafe full of smoking teens, hip dancing, and collegiate youths playing a non-stop game of playing devil’s advocate. Cue: “I completely disagree with every single thing you say!” In this world, Zeffirelli says that every click had a rival and it’s soon implied his  “rival” is Juliette, a girl he spars with (and they are obviously attracted to each other). This is the framework. All it needs is an inciting incident. Which in this case is their friend, MItch-Mitch, getting drafted and going off to be in the army.

Let’s note that it’s also hilarious Anderson calls being in the army “martial chores,” but it’s one of the many playful jokes about something he will ultimately treat seriously. Not by turning it into some dramatic war story. But by recognizing the complicated feelings such duty would bring up inside the young soul. It’s about the end of innocence. Specifically, confronting them with mortality because now there’s actual stakes to the game of life being played. At the start, his conscription is mere cause for argumentation. Zeffirelli and Juliette go back and forth on the morality of being drafted. Her: “where were his principles when he agreed to fight on behalf of an imperialist army in an unjust war of totalitarian aggression?” /  “It’s required” / “It’s the same” / “Easy for you to say.” Look, I’m not going to unpack the morality of the armed forces in a single aside, but pure-heartedly speaking, she’s right of course. And Zeffirelli seemingly has difficulty with the fact he’s coming out more to the center of that. But then things are exacerbated when Mitch-Mitch comes home. What happened?

The next scene suddenly begins with a version of a play called “Goodbye, Zeffirelli,” which is once again one of the many changes of presentation style and narrator that this film makes. It’s all creating disambiguation. Though not so coincidentally, Krementz alludes to the fact she also had a hand on this play as well (it seems she’s always a crucial guiding hand with artists a la Polly Platt, and likely with similar obstacles). The thing that spurs their moment of realization is not an act of war, but suddenly thinking about job hunting. Mitch-Mitch’s character  watches on as a number of boys (including Sam from Ted Lasso) think over all of the future. A few of their words include:

-“I shall be an assistant pharmacist” / “Will you be satisfied?” / “It won’t depress me.” Which feels a tacit agreement to be slowly drugged by life.

-Another muses “I supposed I shall continue to be an attractive wastrel like my cousins on both sides of the family” which is just telling a whole story of privilege and malaise with a single line.

-But it is another man who insists he will be a protestor. Because he won’t do it. He says he “won't do that 48 year period of my life. I can no longer imagine myself as a grown up man in my parents' world.” And as his chief act of his protest? He dives out the window, committing suicide, and we are left with the haunting remnant of the theater staging.

This event haunts Mitch-Mitch, who, gobsmacked by the commitment of this young man to his ideal, has returned to the cafe and says “I can no longer salute this patch.” For this act of desertion, he is promptly arrested. But this act of rebellion also prompts action from the rest of the youth. Thus, the cafe, once home to dancing, “became the headquarters for the movement of young idealists for the revolutionary overthrow of reactionary neo-liberal society.” A phrase which may seem like a joke, but is also laser focused and right on the money when it comes to problems of the world, specifically the ennui of the supposedly-caring establishment. It is the understanding that the status quo is woefully inadequate.

I keep thinking about Anderson’s decision to tell this part of the story this way. It would be so easy for him to make it about some clear inciting incident where there was an obvious wrong doing, like their same friend dying in an unjust war or something. But this story - and this film - is utterly uninterested in the simple, pat narrative. If only because it is inaccurate. After all, how many of our own youthful political passions were created by some clean motivating incident which spoke to the EXACT issue we are having? There is no neat narrative. There is a general feeling within. And the truth is that at this time, the proverbial leaking gas that gives fire to revolution was spilling everywhere. For these kids, all it needed was a spark.

Of course, this immediately leads to infighting over how to use this spark. Juliette and Zeffirelli go toe to toe, arguing which leaders to model themselves on are best, along with who is more owned as a commodity. It’s what Krementz describes as “a brisk, unpredictable tit for tat.” But they also do the work. They protest. They go on pirate radio. They invade dorms. They take on the world itself (and amidst the flurry, there’s a brief Mitich Mitchs’ party upon being released from custody, with all these adults eating cake, and it’s one of those classic Anderson shots that tells an entire story. You just feel the forced, pleasant tenor of the entire event). But the pressure on the world is mounting. Krementz characterizes their passion, while seeing the core problem: “in spite of the purity of their cause, to create a free, borderless, utopian civilization. The students, nevertheless, split into factions before fully uniting in the first place.”

Which brings us to…

The Chessboard Revolution - Big surprise, Anderson is once again speaking in plain, comic metaphor. Because there is an element of chess in any political exchange like this. You can play the game well. You can play poorly. But either way you often crash against unfortunate realities. Here it’s all being meted out in a literal game of chess being played by the students against the mayor and the armed forces (complete with shouting instructions across the barricades) - which is why much of the scene evokes the way we bide time and fight over power. But it’s Krementz’s understanding of their passion that speaks loudest. While the world wants to tut tut the grumpy children and have it all be done with, she puts it plainly:

“One thing is now finally clear, they are answering their parents. What do they want? To defend their illusions, a luminous abstraction. I am convinced they are better than we were.”

But in that courtyard, the real conflict between the three main characters comes to a head. Juliette reads from Zeffirelli’s manifest (complete with this lovely touch of her mumbling as she scans through it first) and they end up arguing over a pressing detail. It is here that it is revealed that Ms. Krementz had a hand in writing it, which is an affront to Juliette. But there are so many conflicting elements here. There are the supporting boys who recognize the power of her words. There is Zeffirelli’s defensiveness, insisting it is his words, mostly. And there is Juliette’s shock, rightfully questioning why she has participated in this at all. The implied subtext being that she is an adult and a member of the establishment. Meaning she is a corrupting force who has come in and maybe twisted Zeffirelli’s mind, along with his heart. She’s right to be suspicious, though it’s obviously hitting something personal.

But instead of that part coming out, it gets discussed as a question of “journalistic neutrality,” which even Juliette knows is a discredited concept. Krementz knows that, even though she may sometimes evoke it, she can’t be neutral. She knows she threw out the illusion of such objectivity a long time ago. She also knows the story that is unfolding here is a human one. One that matters. And one that she is trying to find her place within, literally and figuratively. She does not want to be part of the establishment. Like them, she does not want to be her parents. But most of all, she knows what’s really going on underneath the surface between Zeffirelli and Juliette. She knows that they are in love with each other. Even if it is love that exists in that absolute, puerile, dysfunctional, and yet altogether precious form of adolescence. The two students argue: “your job is to play chess” as she rips up his manifest - yet we see the slightest bit of misgiving when he tells her that “I inscribed that to you.”

So, as the adult, Ms. Krementz has to try and get them where they need to be. But she does not handle it perfectly, nor even well. Again, she’s trying to skip to the end. She’s trying to get them to see the idea that a coalition is not a monolith. That voicing specificity is critical, yet perfect political agreement is second to the ability to make a move when it clearly matters and so much loss is at stake. But it is easy to say these things and for them to come off as patronizing to the young and fiery. But having offended Juliette in the process, it prompts the following exchange:

J: “I’m not a child, Mrs. Krementz. I always think for myself. We all do”

Ms K genuinely thinks, hears, and responds: “That was impolite of me. I’m sorry”

“Noted”

But this coldness will not do: “… You’re sure you’re not a child?”

Juliette shakes her off.

“Then learn to accept an apology, that’s important.”

“Important for whom?”

“Grown ups.”

I think about this sequence a lot because it’s so much more complex than at first glance. Teenagers (and many adults) always seem to think that apology is a matter of decorum. A way of making nice and being pleasant, even in the face of unpleasant things. And sometimes, they’re right. But it’s also the art of genuinely relenting. Because adulthood (hopefully) beats the art of relenting into you. Of knowing that it’s okay to cede. Of recognizing that there are more productive things that come. And most of all, it is in relenting that you often realize you are actually very, very wrong. But for adolescents it is so much harder to get in that space. Your brain is so built around the fight that you can’t figure out how to stop fighting. Apology, and even accepting apology, are tantamount to surrender. Juliette sees Ms. K’s genuine apology as a way of the world finally aligning itself to her righteousness, a confirmation of her anger. Which can be the worst part of the armor we build. She simply cannot be seen in a patronizing way. She has to be seen as a grown up. So Juliette gets upset, and even though she knows she shouldn’t say it, she invokes the vulgarity of old maid with Ms. Krementz. The words hurt. Not because they are true. But because they are part of the thing that has been forced into her head. The thing that society uses to hurt her, all wrapped up into the current predicament of her trying to find her place within the ongoing revolution. In that hurt, Krementz’s only response is a request: “Kindly leave me my dignity.”

Granted, Zeffirelli tries to defend her (badly, and confusingly). But as she does, it’s the look upon McDormand’s face that tells the story of what happens next. She has wrapped herself into this story in a way that makes their armor worse instead of getting them to open up. Mostly because she’s failing to recognize the most important thing about Juliette: that they are the same. When you think back to their first interaction, it was Ms. Krementz who chided her for accidentally having her shoes on the hanging art. And it would seem like it was an act of resentment, but that’s not the case. This whole time, it’s been the way she saw herself in Juliette. Mostly, the wanting of her to be better. It is, essentially, Krementz wanting to go back to speak to her adolescent self… She’s just been taking the wrong tact. And so, in yet another metaphor, as they all have missed their window to make their move and the tear gas finally starts firing, Krementz turns heel and gives another moment of skipping to the end. But this time in a way that’s about praise and releasing their inner freedom, she says the supportive truth:

“She’s the best of them. Stop bickering. Go make love.”

It’s the entire heart of the story. Juliette really is the best of them. The smartest. The most forth-right. The most unwavering. It’s what the world needs to see, too. And having said all this, we see the tough armor between the two students melt away. It even comes with that most un-adult of confessions. Her: “I’m a virgin.” Him: “Me too. Except for mrs. Krementz” (but his face when she saw “I thought so.” is so precious). It’s okay to be insecure. The truth is that being okay with insecurity is the only thing that really helps heal it. I mean, I spent years in denial with my insecurity to disastrous effect. But naivety is ultimately not a lack of understanding. The young see the shock and horror of the world exactly as it is. They are not numbed to it, nor have they been made safe by bargains. They’re right, dammit. About everything. In fact, they’re only wrong about one thing. Which is the part of them that wants to skip ahead to the part where they are old. To be at the part where they have learned the lessons, while often denying that they’re stuck in the malaise of the now. They spend so much time pining, beating themselves up in heads, and losing the proverbial chess match while having the army roll in. It is perhaps part of the lack of understanding that every second is so insanely precious. Or maybe they are just getting paralyzed by that very thought. Even the depressing moments are precious. Because, oh, there can be such consequences. Which brings us to…

The Crashing Comet - Here, we come to what seems like the epilogue of this story and details some of what she found written in a letter from Zeffirelli to her. It’s told along with some sweeping, fully in color images. She reads:

“March 15th - poetic, not necessarily in a bad way, reads as follows: ‘post-script to a burst appendix. An invincible comet speeds on its guided arc toward the outreaches of the galaxy and cosmic space time. What was our cause? Recollection of two memories: you” (Ms. K, now shown in color) “Soap scented and drug store shampoo. Ashtray of stale cigarettes. Burnt toast. Her.” (Juliette, also in color) “Perfume of cheap gasoline. Coffee on the breath. Too much sugar. Cocoa butter skin. Where did she spend her summers? They say it’s the smells that finally don’t forget. The brain works that way. I never read my mother’s books. I’m told my father was really quite remarkable during the last war. Best parents I know. Girls dormitory, the first time I’ve actually come inside except to vandalize it during demonstrations. I said don’t criticize my manifesto. She said “take off your clothes.” I feel shy about my new muscles.” (perfect callback). “Her large, stupid eyes watched me pee. A thousand kisses later, will she still remember the taste of my tool on the tip of her tongue? Apologies, Mrs. Krementz, I know you despise crude language.’ Then additional sentence at bottom of page completely indecipherable due to poor penmanship.”

There’s something so evocative about the way Anderson writes all this. It’s not just Zeffirelli’s chaotic, cryptic, flippant voice. It’s the insight into Zeffirelli’s head. The way it shows how he thinks of the two of them, even drawing the line on the parallel of time. It’s the way he’s not even really thinking about his parents as humans, not contextualizing or understanding what they have thrown into their work, and yet, because he is HIMSELF, and thus has to be great, they are still the “best parents I know.” Then there is his crass, toddler-like language of base sexuality. His clear resentment of Juliette’s “large, stupid eyes” and the way they see him be vulnerable and human. And his memory of sex is both crude and, yet, in it’s weird way, yearning to be remembered. And of course, there is the perfect line about his last words being unreadable due the poor penmanship - there is nothing more adolescent. Which is why I see this and keep thinking “he’s so young. He’s so young. He’s so young.” Something that is best characterized by his words of the comet, and the belief this can, and certainly will, go on forever.

A belief that gets crystalized in the next scene, where still using pirate radio, he goes to fix the tower with the dangerous air of stupidity. And there, cigarette and hand, it makes me think about how many stupid things I’ve don that could have killed me - Then, right when you unfortunatley expect it… Bang. Silence. Crash… Ms. Krementz writes what happens next:

“He’s not an invincible comet who speeds on its guided arc toward the out reaches of the galaxy and cosmic space time. Rather, he is a boy who will die young. He will drown on this planet. In the steady current of the deep, dirty, magnificent river that flows day and night through the veins and arteries of his own ancient city. His parents will receive a telephone call at midnight. Dress briskly, mechanically, and hold hands in a silent taxi as they go to identify the body of their cold son.”

There is a gutting aspect to the way Anderson shoots these moments. It was among the first (of many coming moments) where I was suddenly moved to tears. But Anderson works like this often. He’ll use the comic artifice to keep you at bay, and then suddenly, he picks his spot to go for it. To show you how real it all is. But it’s always been real. For all this hoopla, libido, and gamesmanship, it’s ultimately a eulogy for a young man. A space where all the politics and poetry of fighting for tomorrow, of not living in our fathers’ world, are drowned in the inevitable tragedy of chasing that reality with your own life. But Krementz knows his death will likely be condensed down into a convenient nugget of “narrative” that does not evoke the many divergent qualities that she knows he possessed. She alludes to this, stating “his likeness, mass produced and shrink wrapped packaged, will be sold like bubble gum to the hero inspired, who hope to see themselves like this…. The touchy narcissism of the young.” She calls it what it is, but still counters it with kindness and grace. The reason she tells the rest of the story is so that we will remember what came before the loss. So that it will have life. So that it won’t be forgotten. And the last words of her piece evoke the emptiness of what is lost…

“March 30th. Across the street: a glaring metaphor. Bell rings, pupils scamper inside, back to their obedient classrooms. A creaky swing sways in the deserted school yard.”

With that, we finally come to…

The Editor’s (Lack of) Notes - We see Ms. Krementz, tapping away at her keys, presumably finishing this very piece (or as part of the machine, working on the next one). Burnt toast at her table. She’s always working. Our editor Horowitz walks in and begins reading the manuscript on the chair, all as she just silently goes way, way over her word count. He knows she is doing this. He knows there is no point in arguing. He doesn’t have to skip to the end. They’ve worked together a long time. He doesn’t need to say a word.

And so I can only ask, what does this story really want?

On the surface, it is Anderson's way of characterizing leftist politics with a playful guile, essential understanding, and, most importantly, his unwavering support. And, for all the protestations, his characterization of “politics and poetry” is more just a story about the inner life of all three characters who are trying to come to grips with their own. There is the crude, touchiness of Zeffirelli, desperate for approval. There is Juliette, headstrong, actually ahead of her years, quietly in denial in the ways she’s not, and perhaps jealous of all the wrong things. And in the middle, there is Ms. Krementz, trying to make peace with own age, her own changes, and her own role within all of it. Mostly, she learns that she cannot be neutral. That you cannot opt out, especially if you see the passion and pain for what it really is.

In some ways, it’s funny to see Anderson write from this place now. He’s come so far from Max Fischer. Because now, he’s not seeing himself through a character like Max Fischer, he’s more the hardened, weary adult who is trying to talk to him. To tell him so many of the important things he wished he knew. Perhaps all part of the fact Anderson himself is now a parent. I cannot say. But most of all, Anderson and company seem like they are trying to express the pain of trying to write from such a place. “It’s a lonely life, sometimes,” Krementz tells us. And I can’t tell you how much time you spend with only what exists between your ears. Your own thoughts ricocheting everywhere, that nexus of brutality, all trying to be turned into letters on a page. But the key word is “sometimes.” Because sometimes it all spills into your life with a sense of electric purpose. A powerful thought that cannot be contained. In that way, this is the story of Krementz remembering her own “need for biological freedom, full stop.”

But what I hope comes from that is not us realizing the obvious idiom that “youth is wasted on the young,” but how often age is so wasted by the old. To have all that power, all those ears, and all that capacity, only to do nothing. One must realize that the passion of politics and poetry are for all. To realize that it’s much more than “the children are grumpy.” To realize that they are fighting for an essential idea of the future. Sure, we will bemoan them if they are not careful, but we were not careful with their world in turn. We gave them a literal “City of Ennui.” and expected them to settle in. This will not do. We have to do better. Which is why the key word of the article’s title is “revisions.” Because it’s not about editing the manifesto, but being willing to revise our own personhood.

That’s what it actually means to be a grown up.

5. TASTES AND SMELLS - THE PRIVATE DINING ROOM OF THE POLICE COMMISSIONER

Before anything, we have to talk about the importance of James Baldwin. Because he is arguably the greatest writer of the 20th century, though such superlatives are meaningless. He certainly made some of the most essential work, often about the intersections of being both gay and black in America, before leaving to Europe. He saw the scope of all of it. And there was a seeming fearlessness to him, along with a seemingly effortless eloquence to how he discussed these issues in stark terms (if unfamiliar with his, watching I Am Not Your Negro might be a good starting place?). And all of this must be mentioned because Baldwin is one of the clear inspirations for this character Jeffrey Wright is playing in this story. And there is perhaps grand cause to raise an eyebrow at the idea of Anderson even attempting this.

To wit, there was a popular TikTok trend recently of people walking forward in normal clothes and getting the prompt: “When you forgot you go to Wes Anderson High School” and then suddenly they’d be dressed in some Anderson-esque kitschy outfit. Naturally, when a number of black TikTokers engaged the trend, they simply took the prompt as a cue to step out of frame. Point being, they don’t exist there. Point also being, Anderson is arguably one of the whitest filmmakers we have - and to a near comic degree. This, of course, leads to a whole varied discussion. Should he be tackling this more? Certainly he should be casting more non-white actors? Or maybe it all fits in with Ira Madison’s old take on the Coen Brothers, where he says he really doesn’t want to see what the Coens think about black people and just wants them telling the stories they know? I don’t know. Basically, I just keep reading what others think and who can speak to it all with much more insight, especially when it comes to things like discussions of colorism in Wright’s casting of a Baldwin-inspired figure.

But what I can say is that this is all where the layer of separation between Baldwin and “Roebuck Wright” becomes critical. Because it’s not a 1:1. Anderson takes inspiration and then very pointedly puts it all into a fictional space. And to whatever credit, Anderson seems incredibly careful about what parts of Roebuck’s experience he’s comfortable exploring and what parts he is not. Namely the experience of being an American emigre, along with part of Baldwin’s life enamored with France, food, and his uncanny observational eye. Which is actually the part a lot of people remember less. I mean, honestly, Baldwin was probably the greatest food critic of all time. And this is the version of Baldwin that Anderson is comfortable portraying. But when it comes to the things below the surface that are more complex? I actually think Anderson makes an attempt to show surprising levels of thoughtfulness. But I also understand I’m probably the least apt person to make any real call on this. I can simply evoke what I think Anderson is trying to do, along with the positives and negatives of each.

So now then…

Setting the Scene - The third and final “article” of the film is interesting in that it is certainly the most action-driven and farcical But at the same time, it’s also the most affecting. Not necessarily because of our investment in the story, but our investment in how Roebuck sees the story (BTW - since the actor has the same last name I will use the character’s first name when referring to him). Specifically, we see insight in what the character does and does not write about. But to make that really work, Anderson has to establish the set-up…

We begin with yet another way of “reading the article” in a more cinematic way. This time, Roebuck is a guest on a kitschy 60’s-esque TV interview show seemingly in the style of Dick Cavett. They even cast Liev Schrieber in the role, who has the ability to knock it dead even though he’s merely playing “Talk Show Host.” But even then, I’m almost immediately taken with Jeffrey Wright’s performance. It’s not just his effortless, melodic way he weaves these eloquent words, but this way he acts with simultaneous assurance and introspection. When Roebuck is pressed about his photographic memory, he quickly chimes back with a beautiful expression of, “That is false. I have typographic memory, I recollect the written word with considerable accuracy and detail and in other spheres my powers of retention are distinctly impressionistic. I’m known to my intimates as most forgetful man.”

We see his face imply so much in that last line, but there’s something about this overall statement that hits me. For one, it helps you realize so much of this movie is about writing and, given the fact that it's how I spend my life and pay my bills, it’s something that I think about a lot, too. But you don’t often see it represented in cinema like this. It’s usually more along the meta lines of Adaptation or something made into genre in the Stephen King-y kind of way. You see so little that is just professionals making these casual insights or talking about their process. And as for Roebuck’s statement about his typographic memory, I admit that I am the opposite. I barely remember a word I wrote, just the spirit of sentiment behind it. If I was asked to recite an old essay, the truth is I could just tell you the essential crux of my thoughts, and likely write the better version of the essay now given all I’ve learned. But at the same time, I have had a good visual memory (historically at least). When I studied my notes in school I would literally picture the notes I was staring at in my head, as if pulling up a PDF file in my brain for the test. Just as I have a good capacity to remember the specific frames of movies, shots, moments, but very little of the audio itself. But what makes me nervous is that age is starting to creep in, along with the lasting effects of depression and bouts of alcoholism - which have effectively turned a lot of my short term memory into Swiss cheese. Seriously, I can’t remember if I told you something or not, but why can I still remember world capitals? Cambodia is Phnom Penh by the way.

This may seem like a whole tangent of thought, but this is exactly what the movie is good at. It wants you to reflect, to go off on similar thoughts and tangents, just like the characters themselves. The whole moment for Roebuck is about the war of memory going on in all our heads. To that, he ruefully admits he no longer recalls poems and plays, but wistfully acknowledges, “Unrequited valentines, sadly I do.” Again, they have this ability to tell whole stories with a single line.

But, of course, the talk show host wants to test him. Specifically asking about his own favorite article, “The one about the cook and the kidnappers who get poisoned.” Once again, the film is telling us the headline of the story before getting into the why. But without a second of delay, Roebuck promptly launches into his parlor trick…

“Do students at the table dream in flavors?” That was the first of the questions that this reporter of this magazine had diligently prepared in advance of his encounter with Lieutenant Nescaffier, ranking chef at district headquarters on the narrow river peninsula known as the (I wrote all these quotes by ear and I can’t spell it, sorry), all such queries were to remain unanswered in the course of that eventful evening.”

In many ways, it is a story of what is supposed to be versus what actually happens (just as prior articles were about what supposedly happened versus what actually was). And Roebuck begins setting the scenes beautifully for a series of comic, farcical mix-ups at the police station. But all the joy is in Roebuck’s telling, like the way he informs us that he “arrived insufficiently early,” a hilarious way of saying you didn’t have enough to account for a hiccup. Which leads to this comic aside, “it was nigh impossible to locate, at least for this reporter, a weakness in cartography, a curse for the homosexual,” which is honestly a perfect phrasing which I promptly threw around with some of my friends. But soon we realize that he is there to enjoy the dinner of a beloved chef who is cooking for - and a member of - the police.

For the seemingly hundredth time, Anderson is coming at us with a completely on the nose metaphor. Specifically, the acknowledgement that art isn’t always fostered by the most noble of patronage. As Rosenthal’s story already told us, it exists at intersections that are often ugly. And here, he’s getting at the notion that the police, the literal protectors of high society and high society alone, is what pays for this immaculate food. I don’t think Anderson is trying to be glib or even flippant about this. Like so much of this film, it’s a dark joke, well pointed.

But I also want to mention that food is probably the most important art to me in the world. More than movies even. Because it's the thing that I most look forward to each and every day. These are the moments where I get to cook and find my calm, punctuate my world with vivid flavor, and just get outside of the noise in my head. Even as I write this sentence, I’m literally eating Ahi with lemon and mint pearl couscous and spring vegetables. Please forgive the blunt morbidity of the following statement, but without a love of food, I would be likely be hanging from my bathroom. I don’t say that to be crass. I say it because it happens to be true. But loving food often means crossing swords with the delights and demons of fine dining. An arena paid for by the rich, curated by the extravagant, and a space where those who could most appreciate it are often kept just out of arm's reach. Perhaps for these reasons alone it is an arena I refuse to let intimidate me. To the point that I’ll pay most of my money to go places I cannot afford and do not technically belong. But the inescapable thing about delicious food is that it is delicious. I can’t help it. And Anderson, going full tilt into the complication, understands the moral problem of cooking for an establishment like this. Heck, given the last article’s take on politics, it’s practically baked in.

Now, along the way to meet the chef named Lieutenant Nescaffier, there are a million little things being set up in the story. A whole series of Checkov’s guns ready to go off. We meet Willem Defoe in jail, along with a little tease that “Roebuck Wright was here” written on the seat below him (something that certainly clicks more second viewing). And then we meet The Commissaire (Mathieu Amalric), our head policeman, along with his stalwart son Gigi. Because hey, it would not be a Wes Anderson film without a hyper-precocious boy detective. But Anderson builds their bond quickly, centering around his lost mother and their bond “cemented together by their shared grief.” We’re taking in all the set up and then dinner begins. Thus, we get one, brief shining moment where we actually get into the cuisine of it all. The world comes again with the splash of color and Roebuck writes it so:

“The drink: a milky, purplish aperitif, ferociously fragrant, overtly medicinal, ever so faintly anesthetizing, and cool to a glacial viscosity, served in a miniature version of the kind of vacuum flask normally associated with campsites and school groups, cast a spell, which, during the subsequent 60 second interval was to be mortally broken…”

I want to double down and remind you of something very, very important… WES ANDERSON WROTE THIS. And it is beautifully put. I can’t tell you how many fucking storytellers try to write about food with this air of making fun of it, offering up a mish-mash of word salad that aims to make fun or cuisine’s seeming pretentiousness, but only belies their own. There are few things I hate more in fiction. But Anderson is showing perfect acumen. And it speaks to my understanding (and perhaps fear) that so many of our best, academically-minded storytellers would likely make some of the best critics in the world. Thankfully, they show us a kindness by being team players and refusing to talk crap out of solidarity. But from there, the narrative hurtles forward, as all the checkov’s guns start being loaded.

Kidnapped! - Roebuck goes through the story like clockwork: “on three overly dramatic timelines, these dramatic events came to pass,” but rather than describe them (they’re too complicated), I will note three interesting things, one about each.

1. Regarding the cooking, Roebuck writes: “Monsieur Nescaffier began his mysterious ritual. I can neither comprehend nor describe what occurs beyond a kitchen door. I've always been content with the issue of artistic talent without unveiling the secrets of the chisel and the turpentine.”

This is perhaps the biggest difference between what is expressed in the film and how I approach things critically. But I genuinely understand the reasoning. Such investigation can ruin the magic, especially considering most viewers enjoy the purity of the final expression on screen. Besides, so many writers can write a million times better than me, so they are good at evoking the spirit of the art with sumptuous characterization. But for me? I can’t help it. The chisel is where I find that the magic really rests. Or that is to say how the artist uses the chisel and constructs that beautiful space between us. And to me, it is also the part that is most human.

2. When The Commissaire learns of his son’s kidnapping, there is such a perfect expression of stoic fury from Alaric, who is giving this workman-like, wonderful performance throughout the film. But there’s also this very telling detail where, when he picks up the police phone to get the bad news, we see that his mom is also listening on her own phone. This implies so much more about this “family business” they’re in, and where he still clearly gets advisement. Again, it’s just this small detail that’s barely called out, but like so many things in Anderson’s movies that are like that, it tells you so much.

3. There’s this big tone shift moment where Gigi is kidnapped, where there’s this sudden,  comparatively violent moment where the officer looking after him shot in the damn head. Anderson shoots the scene sparingly, but as I keep saying, it’s still real. And immediately after this beat, the kidnapper called “The Chauffeur,” played in a cameo by Ed Norton, does this goofy little run after Gigi that suddenly made me cackle. I think this moment really characterizes how Anderson likes to put extremes in juxtaposition. By keeping everything in this tone of general amusement, it’s precisely what allows him to “go there” with a sudden bit of harshness - but not have that harshness drag us down. I know some people may dislike that monotone sense of amusement, really, but I think it’s deployed so thoughtfully. Case in point, I don’t think Anderson would ever want a moment of violence “rooted for,” or indulged in, or to feel cathartic the way an action movie would. He likes letting it play as a dark joke, where the text of the event speak for itself, and you can make your own mind. Which is also why I think Anderson also gets the best out of Norton. He understands the actor’s inherent boyishness, along with his ill-fitting goofiness that can’t help but spill out, especially when he’s trying to be serious.

Anywho, the rube goldberg machine of the plot goes on, but it’s not important to explain, For it is but a serious Russian nesting dolls, these interlocking actions, which even give rise to the set up of comic strip aside, along with explaining more about who Willem Defoe is AKA the guy stuck in the chicken coop. But it is the mention of him that leads us to…

Two Most Meaningful Asides - It is here that Wright mentions, “as it happened I knew the chicken coop,” and then upon getting mournful, follows it up with an explanation of “this is not in the article.” He describe the event as such:

“It was my first week in Ennui when I suffered the misfortune of being arrested in a drinking establishment at the fringes of the flop quarter, along with a number of newly found companions” / “What was the charge?” / “Love… you see people may or may not be mildly threatened by your anger, your hatred, your pride, but love the wrong way and you’ll find yourself in great jeopardy.”

The expression of this is rather pointed. Not just because he’s accurately talking about people’s homophobia. But because Roebuck is using flowery language precisely because he’s talking about a flowery thing: love, and the innocence to that love. It’s the establishment itself that is trying to make it seedy. That would take the description of that night and his incarceration and make it sound sordid. But he is not given them that power by wallowing in the obvious misfortune, nor their malic. We know that’s there. Instead, Roebuck focuses on love. And then on the indifference that follows. He tells us “no one came, no one came to scold me,” a most telling insight about the way we often expect punishment to be emotionally loaded instead of a cool, uncaring part of the machine of society’s malice. Especially when they know we may have no one we can depend on. But to save himself, all Roebuck had was his typographic memory, and a number memorized from a rejection letter. Thus, he applies for a job at The French Dispatch.

In terms of pure sentiment, his subsequent meeting with Horowtiz is deeply affecting. He, like Roebuck’s description of his arrest, does not give the circumstance power. He conducts the job interview as if nothing was different. He just goes over his resume. To his credit, Anderson seems to really understand the power of normalizing things, specifically as a positive side of civility. He understands the negative side too, of course. If anything, the difference is the entire thematic centerpiece of The Grand Budapest Hotel, specifically how “civil” people dealt with the rise of fascism. And here, Horowitz understands Roebuck’s circumstances plainly. But he is going to engage it as he would in any other circumstance. He doesn’t even allow for interruption from the jailor. Even when he compares their histories, Horowitz acknowledges “my father owned the paper, of course” showing an understanding of the privilege of his family business. The only moment he acknowledges the circumstance of Roebuck’s arrest is when he hires him and mentions that bail will come out of salary for the gig, and more importantly, the funds that will be given to him to stay and continue writing. The generosity of this is evident, but also not the important part. The important part is that he is able to have his life. Gobsmacked by the display, Roebuck offers a tear and a thank you.

But Horowitz only replies with his familiar refrain: “no crying”

We cut the present day Roebuck, sitting with a bit of thoughtful introspection. And so do we. Now, we’ll get to the general theme of what the “no crying” rule means later, but right now I want to talk about my two fighting reactions to this scene. Because, first, there is an obvious complication to the idea of some dignified white editor swooping to “save” Roebuck, especially when it holds up the racial and sexual ideal of indiscriminate professionalism (which tends to be a white fantasy). In fact, Baldwin went out of the way to point out how differently (read: better) France treated him in legal matters exactly like this, which just highlights the nature of its fabrication. But, secondly, there is naked emotional experience of what is being expressed here that I can’t NOT feel. For it is a thing that hits deeply. Not in terms of me feeling like Horowitz, god no. But feeling like Roebuck. Because there is something so powerful about the feeling of being given dignity while in the shame of undignified circumstance. Of not being treated like charity, but instead having people normalizing and helping you through the trouble of the now. In that space, I know the people who have helped me. I know what that complex thankfulness feels like. Thus, I cried in commiseration. And as present day Roebuck thinks about all of this with a wry smile, there seems to be a kind of awareness of all these complications in every direction.

But the host quickly shoves us back into the story, and what Roebuck describes as “The Night of 1000 Slugs,” an allusion to the massive amount of police brutality that followed. Roebuck may be playing coy about the use of “tools of the trade,” but there’s no doubt he understands the implications. And despite Anderson’s seeming Boy Detective-like portrayal of the police establishment, you have to once again remember this guy has just written about the obvious perils of fascism in the last story (and last feature). He knows this is barbaric. Which is why Anderson shows us that they got their “lead” by coldly throwing a guy from a plane and threatening to do the same next. And, forced by the so-called civility of television not to indulge this part of the story, Roebuck presses on…

“Who were they?” We reveal our rogues gallery and the one little prisoner in Gigi who is trying to get out and “relieve tax payer expense” (because of course the only “good” cop would be a sensitive, idealistic child?). But this leads to this nice little quiet moment between Gigi and Saoirse Ronan. One that offers up that Andersonian dialogue we know and love, like “you’re not a criminal, you’re just a mixed up showgirl,” where, you know, it’s funny because a kid is saying it? But it all leads to this quiet little lullaby and the cinematic power of just stopping to be in a moment. Similarly, back in the station, the police do the same because they, of course, still need to eat. Thus, Nescaffier springs into action the suddenly the fine dining courses start flowing. But pointedly, Anderson is juxtaposing high art of colorful food via split-screen with the regiment of arms being stacked and police brutality being prepared. Again, making the connection of art and ugly patronage more overt. Along with the clear case that we should be living for the dazzling joy of food and not the rote, mechanical, dour hell of violence.

But just as Roebuck goes into vivid detail about the meal, the Talk Show Host interrupts and asks a question that prompts the second meaningful aside of the sequence. He asks:

“More than anything all these years, you’ve written about food. Why?”

“Who, what, when, where, how? Valid questions, but I learned as a cub stringer” (read: novice journalist) “to never under any circumstance, if it is remotely in your power to resist the impulse, never ask a man why. It tightens a fellow up.”

“I apologize, but I’m going to hold you to it-”

“Torture.”

“If you’ll agree?”

“…Self-reflection is a vice best conducted in private or not at all… Well, I'll answer your question out of sheer weariness… But I truly don’t know what I’m about to say…”

For one, I disagree and kind of think we should be self-reflecting all of the time, though I do understand the different demons he’s alluding to here. For two, I agree that “not know what you are about to say” is the scariest thing a writer can entertain. Seriously. I genuinely don’t know how people can just, like, talk without drawing upon something that is already concretely thought of inside. Everything in my brain needs to be organized and felt, all as part of a process, before they can properly be turned into pesky things like words. I’m awful at talking off the cuff. And being caught off guard and unsure how to put something is hell, which is why I often use the written page to organize that hell into something manageable. And for three, Roebuck is also on the money. Even though I’m obsessed with writing about the “why,” you never actually ask the why. You get at it through all the other details. I’ll prod and poke and guess and write thousands of words about a film and its intentions - but never ask why. Precisely because it takes away the very thing about art that matters, which is the way we bring our own minds to connect to the art itself. And the words of the artist, once the art exists, is an obstacle in many ways to doing that. Alas, it is in that reactive space on both counts that Roebuck begins to think… the lights go low, even eventually to black, for we understand he is going in his head to write and answer the host’s dreaded question of “why food?” His answer:

“There is a particular sad beauty, well known to the companionless foreigner as he walks the streets of his adopted, preferably moonlit city, in my case Ennui, France, that I have so often shared the day’s glittering discoveries with… no one at all. But always somewhere along the avenue or the boulevard there was a table set for me, a cook, a waiter, a bottle, a glass, a fire… I chose this life. It is the solitary feast that has been very much like a comrade in my great comfort and fortification.”

In the dark, Roebuck looks down and thinks about these words, part of the lonesomeness of writing… Because that’s the problem… it always happens in your head.

At this moment, I was just a pile of audible sobs. I even get teary eyed thinking about it now. The words just hit something so primal. I’ve already spoken about what food means to me, but it is this expression of food’s comfort and its intersection with loneliness that hits dead on. It reminds me of this time I stayed up all night writing, was famished, had a weird craving and thus made myself one perfect pancake. I happened to show it online …only to have some rando respond that this was the saddest thing in the universe… It wasn’t to me. Not then. It was solace… I didn’t feel that sad about it until I was made to by someone who couldn’t, nor wouldn’t even try to understand. And honestly, it runs hand in hand with how many times I finish a day of writing, having never uttered a word even to myself, often for days at a time, and thus need to spill into some late night haunt, one often familiar. I need a place I can go. A place I can sit. Where I can hear people talk, not look at a screen, breathe, and let go. Sometimes it feels like a cathartic, hopeful splash into freedom. Other times, it just becomes an eddying swirl into the guilt of years past and a life, wrongly lived. But, in the least, it gets me out of the cacophonous words in my head. And in doing that, it provides a comfort almost impossible to describe.

As Roebuck thinks upon the expression of what he said, we have now sat with the second large pause of the film. Wright’s performance has, again, moved me to tears. It says so much that it was the silent moments that did this. For they are moments that are loaded with meaning, built to with guile, and armed with description that aims to give us a space to reflect in turn. These are the spaces where hearts open. But rather than linger for but a second too long, the host asks: “Do you remember where you pressed the bookmark?”

“Of course, silly goose!”

To The Climax! - Bam! We’re back into it. Gunfights. Split diopter shots. More renaissance painting-style action. All things that are better left to cinema instead of analytical essays. But the stand-off hits a point of ingenious finagling where they agree to send in our article’s subject, the cook Nescaffier, to serve Gigi a snack (because what French soul would deny this to a child). He brings along blackbird pie and radishes for all of them. Fearing a trap, they make Nescaffier himself try food, thus he eats the very poison that’s designed to take out the lot of them. Many of them parish. But “thanks to all the cooking and slowly poisoning of superhuman stomach,” Nescaffier survives. But the action isn’t over. There’s a lovely animated, cost-saving finale with art by Gwenn Germain, all of which can best be described with two greatest words in playwriting history: “they fight” Father and son are tearfully reunited, even if Gigi socks him with a rueful punch. And before it all ends with a perfect button of them finally feeding the starving accountant who was left in jail.

Ta da! The prestige of this wordsmithed magic trick has been unveiled. And we are left to be amused by the fun lark of the crazy story we have just witnessed.

An Editor’s Change - But now we return to Horowitz, our editor, who is suddenly giving a more pressing set of notes to the article at hand (certainly more than any prior). He expresses his dismay: “it was supposed to be an article about a great chef.” Roebuck answers “it is, in part.” But Horowitz notes that “Nescaffier only gets one line of dialogue,” as if he is seemingly looking out for the thin nature of his portrayal. Roebuck, looking to be agreeable, relinquishes some information and tells him, “Well, I did cut something he told me… It made me too sad.” He then goes to recount the post-poisoning moments when he spoke to Nescaffier, mostly being sure that he was okay. But the cook had something else on his mind…

“They had a flavor… the toxic salts in the radishes, they had a flavor. Totally unfamiliar to me. Like a bitter, moldy, peppery, spicy, oily, kind of earth. I never tasted that taste in my life. Not entirely unpleasant. Extremely poisonous, though… A new flavor… That’s a rare thing at my age.”

There’s something so powerful and introspective about this. The notion of how an artist spends all this time creating, and with more time, can often feel less and less of a sense of discovery in that journey. It makes Nescaffier sad, and perhaps sadder to realize how long it's been. And saddest still that this new discovery is one he cannot entertain without causing grievous harm to himself. But really, the big moment of insight comes in the exchange that follows it.

Roebuck: “I admire your bravery, lieutenant”

Nescaffier: “I’m not brave… I just wasn’t in the mood to be a disappointment to everybody. I’m a foreigner, you know.”

“The city is full of us, isn’t it? I’m one myself.”

“Seeking something missing. Missing something left behind.”

“Maybe with good luck, we’ll find what eluded us in the places we once called home.”

It then cuts back to reality with the editor: “Well that’s the best part of the whole thing. That’s the reason for it to be written”

And Roebuck replies: “I couldn’t agree less”

This is at the center of just everything. Not just in this story, but perhaps everything in Anderson’s approach to his career. And it honestly shows a level of understanding that I kind of can’t believe he was able to express. Because what he’s dramatizing here is the way people use other people’s stories, specifically outsiders and people of color. For Horowitz, our white editor, he’s coming at it from the seemingly good intentions of wanting to center Nescaffier. But given what is revealed, what he would really be asking for is for the piece to center on Nescaffier’s pain. To offer up his vulnerabilities, his sheepishness, his confession of societal pressure and “not being in the mood to disappoint everybody,” which would only exist to be served up to the presumably white reader as powerful insight. And Horowitz is not thinking about the cost of doing so. But to Roebuck? Including this is offering up something too distinctly personal. Not just in their commiseration of being two immigrants of color in a strange place, looking for solace, but trying to make peace with biting ironies of their entire lives. Roebuck is also completely satisfied in letting Nescaffier be the legendary, mysterious hero of the story (perhaps on a meta level, note that actor Steve Park gets poster billing). To Roebuck, that’s the best part of the whole thing, the reason for it to be written. But in the end, he has to relinquish to his editor. For the powers that be demand it. But for Anderson and the viewer? This crucial scene where they argue over its inclusion is exactly what gives the necessary framing for the entire discussion. We get to understand why this moment is powerful, but why it should be private. Just as we get to plainly understand the criticism of such portrayals. And reflect on why. And does all of this so damn gracefully.

Which all gets at Anderson’s own approach in telling a story through a Baldwin-inspired figure. Because Baldwin, as powerful as he was at talking about the racism in homophobia in stark terms, also often talked about how much he tired of talking about them, too. Specifically, how much he loved talking about art just in terms of food, or literature, or whatever beautiful curiosity came into his sightline. These are the titular “Tastes and Smells” of the things we enjoy, and the things that can evoke a deeper, more powerful memory. And as a storyteller, Anderson can trust that depth of things like sorrow can come out in the small glances of Jeffrey Wright’s performance that make for careful allusions (it’s arguably one of the best things Wright has done, and certainly the most moving performance in the movie). For Anderson, it’s his way of showing some of his understanding of the hypocrisy of what to include not include in a story such as this. Perhaps trying to account for the sins of films past. And something that at least shows that he’s now infinitely more aware of so many more things that we’ve perhaps given credit to. Because a lack of inclusion isn’t necessarily a lack of understanding, and sometimes, like in Roebuck’s protestation, it’s more knowing what is and isn’t yours to say. For good or ill, “Roebuck Wright” is the part of Baldwin that Anderson is comfortable exploring. And in telling it this way, Anderson also makes a plain case for why he probably likes to aim for the fun and games of a cute, rip-roaring yarn, well told.

All that being said, even though this take is there in the text, I have no idea if any of that actually translates plainly to a viewer. Just as I have no idea if I’m giving too much credit. Just I have no idea what Baldwin would think of such a portrayal, were he still with us, but it would probably be a million words of truth that cut to the bone. The only thing I really know is that Anderson has certainly tapped into something powerful here. And I believe he tried to be incredibly careful with how he dealt with it. And maybe that is the only real point he can offer in this story. Outside of all the millions of points Roebuck seems to make along the way. But, we also know that he’s tried to offer so many thoughts throughout the film from the very start…

EPILOGUE - DECLINES AND DEATHS

And so it comes back to that very start. We’re there in the moments after Horowitz’s death by heart attack. He’s unceremoniously covered on his desk. But now we’re with all the writers we’ve come to know, sitting together, in his office. And they can’t even seem to move his body because “there’s a strike at the morgue,” which is just an amazing, telling joke. Just as we’re treated to more dark jokes of lines like, “Don’t light the candles, He’s dead” while Wilson still asks for the slice of his birthday cake. But when one of them bursts into tears, we get to the final allusion to the “no crying” rule and have to actually reckon with what this means.

In life, it is easy to deify stoicism. Particularly in white male society where the “stiff upper lip” mentality has long reigned supreme. It’s important to remember that so much of this was built as a form of denying emotions in and of themselves, but also part of reaction to the fact that trauma was kind of everywhere all of the time. But in a pre-therapy society, the solution was basically “don’t feel it” because it’s an added burden. And well, you can see how well that’s gone. But even in the modern day, there is an inescapable problem of society where some jobs inherently demand “the stoic” from us. At least at certain times. A doctor trying to save a life rarely has time to emote in the moment. Same for a soldier on the battlefield. But the profession of journalism is one that is not often included in this conversation, mostly because it does not seem as obvious. It’s one of those touchy, feely humanities jobs! But both journalists and editors often have to deal with swarms and swarms of words that often deal with terrible, terrible things.

To wit, you likely know the effect doom-scrolling through twitter has on your brain, but imagine that’s not just your unfortunate five minute view while pooping or something, but instead your job. Day in, day out. It means you constantly face the perils of the world. In interviews, you are often asking people about the worst days of their life. I know journalists who have had to report on the worst of the worst and it can eat them up. For some, it becomes easy to be jaded and cynical and numb, even when doing their informative jobs to the best of their ability. For others, therapeutic strategies become a key part of them doing that same job. But it obviously hits the points where professionalism has to take over, often out of care and providing stability for the subjects themselves. And even though The French Dispatch is very willing to be a silly movie, it is, as I keep saying, also real. And all five stories involve some level of mourning sentiment of remembering people who are now gone. Even the post-script is “death and declines.” It’s every part of this, like the bodies always being pulled out of the river in Ennui. Thus I can’t help but feel every invocation on screen of the rule of “no crying” feels less the appeal to stoicism, and more the innate understanding that given the sadness is at the heart of everything that’s happening. They care about this. They write about all this. Heck, it’s why they do it. But the rule seems more part of the rueful admission that if they all let it all out, they’d all be crying all of the time.

And so, as they eulogize Horowitz and collectively write the obituary that started the film, I sense that they are reflecting my own feelings about the film. Namely, that it’s not emotionless, it’s actually dripping with emotion, held back in purposeful earnestness. As journalists, they are not going to make that emotion singular, nor overt, nor forced. Nor will Anderson do the same. He is not going to make the movie that cajoles you into feeling what you’re supposed to feel. He will instead give you the Brechtian conceit of artifice that maybe lets you see the things for what they are. And he will give you a variation of presentations and forms with which to view them. And he will make the most powerful moments when he breaks the “conventional narrative” for a momentary, thoughtful, humane aside. And ultimately, he wants you to understand where the heart of his intention lies, which is a simple ending dedication. A loving ode to the following names, many of whom have work found in The New Yorker…

Harold Ross

William Shawn

Rosamond Bernier

Mavis Gallant

James Baldwin

A.J. Liebling

S.N. Behrman

Lillian Ross

Janet Flanner

Luc Sante

James Thurber

Joseph Mitchell

Wolcott Gibbs

St. Clair McKelway

Ved Mehta

Brendan Gill

E.B. White

Katherine White

Please know that I haven’t read all these people. It’s honestly more like half. And it’s okay if you’ve read none. After all, many of them seem like goofy, ornate old coots that of course would be favorites of Wes Anderson. But many of them were also the most electric and forward thinking minds of their time. And in making a film dedicated to their respective senses of vision, Anderson ended up making a whole film about all the secondary arts outside of cinema. There’s the travelog. The broad application of art, artistry, and the state of monster-dom. There’s the mediation of being old and young and political. And there’s the beauty of food set against a garish violence and larger questions of identity, especially over what stories we have the right to tell. And most of all, an understanding that none of these things are simple, even if we can appreciate those things for the most pure parts about them. We live in a world where art is made by patronage, thus he understands that loyal efforts of magazines like the fictional “The French Dispatch” are, in and of themselves, a miracle.

It is also easy to forget that Anderson’s movies exist much the same way. We live in a show business that’s Ahab-like in its chasing of the Marvel tentpole juice or the Netflix streamer share. No one is even trying for anything else anymore. But these mid-tier movies have found their little corner of the sandbox. Granted, it took Anderson learning a lot of lessons. For one, The French Dispatch looks like it was made for 100 million dollars but it was made for 25. It’s a miracle of craft and production, often using models, cgi, constant sleight of hand to make its slightly off-kilter world feel beyond impressive. And yet, we’ve become so accustomed to his style that it’s easy to dismiss the professionalism and constant creativity of this artifice, whether its acclaim or technical awards or whatever else. I don’t know. Maybe that’s fitting for a movie that was about showing you  “what seems to be” and then peeling back the layers of the onion to show what it really is.

Again I understand why you bounce off it. I can’t say what speaks to you.

I can only try to evoke what I believe this film is saying.

And The French Dispatch is not just an ode to journalism. Through its central conceit of the editor being buried, it offers a broad characterization of a world, already changed. Even in recounting the past, it’s accepting of what is gone and buried. It even tells us so, as it is an “oft discarded” Sunday magazine. The whole thing is a funeral. Perhaps a stoic and darkly funny one, but under the surface, a deeply loving one. One that places us in the literal state of Ennui, before creeping into that beauty of those held onto secrets; evoking a romanticization of a past we never really knew. But maybe it was always like this. And maybe we’ve always been confused about our relationship to so many different kinds of art. But in the end, our thoughts on them are not vague - just sometimes conflicting - and still deeply felt. In making this film exactly as he did, Wes Anderson, one of the great, if singular visual stylists of our era, actually gave a sudden, vibrant testament to the written word. In doing so, he and his co-writers revealed their own shocking abilities. And revealed what I see to be a deep, sincere, aching poetry within him. One capable of shifting about to many different voices. Stuffed with every thought he seems to have. But above all else, it is this film’s ability to tell a whole story with a single line that feels, in some ways, unparalleled with anything the last few years. And it does it again and again and again and again throughout the movie. And when you do that, it’s how you bring the world to Kansas. And, in Anderson’s case…

How you bring Kansas to the world.

<3HULK