The Arrival of the Blockb-Wes-ter
Cineastes were bequeathed two treasures this week, both at least partly sensational for their aesthetics, one unprecedented, the other hyper-anticipated. Parasite’s Best Picture win proved the first, the subject of dozens of think pieces and Oscars critiques—does the victory mean everything for the future of the industry, or nothing? Probably neither. Following record-low viewership, the Academy now stresses again over relevance, but media attention is another litmus test, and it has been sizeable, maybe responsible for the hundreds of thousands of followers Timothée Chalamet gained over the weekend, after presenting with Natalie Portman and partying with Billie Eilish.
On Tuesday, Chalamet—along with just about every American entertainment outlet— posted the first glimpse at Wes Anderson’s new feature The French Dispatch, due July 24. The film is inspired by The New Yorker, and the poster resembles one of the magazine’s covers, complete with pricing, listed in a mix of French and English, out of confusion or deference to domestic audiences. (The New Yorker had the juicy privilege of presenting the first images from the film.) The second treasure could be defined multiple ways—as the poster itself, or the trailer that dropped the next day, or the mere rendering of Chalamet in a bathtub, clad only by hair towel, brought to life with a scream and Frances McDormand. The treasure could certainly not be defined as the new Searchlight Pictures logo, absent “Fox.” Does Disney, which resented the name’s ties to the right-wing news outlet, lack all faith in its viewers’ discerning abilities?
The French Dispatch trailer drew over a million views on YouTube in under twenty-four hours, and Twitter experienced a minor earthquake. This unquestionably mainstream reaction seems to be the result of a few important factors: Anderson’s long sabbatical from live-action narrative projects (The Grand Budapest Hotel premiered nearly six years ago!), Chalamet’s peak star status, and the utter indulgence in subject matter exalted not only by Anderson but by what feels like every middle-class university student and twenty-something, themselves conditioned by Anderson’s filmography. A fictional French town is the outpost of a near-moribund Kansas publication, steeped somewhat in legacy and stocked, perhaps, with accolades; the film winks at its astounding cast by describing many of the characters they play as A-list journalists.
It seems the film will contain a trio of vignettes, enactments of stories published by this expatriate dépêche, and there is plenty to get excited about. The diverse settings—a Mai-68-adjacent protest, a painter’s jail cell, a culinary institution—indicate dramatic juxtaposition, and thoughtful curation, though food and fine art politics are warm and familiar terrain. Filmgoers should not expect social commentary, nor do they deserve it.
The trailer features a delicious admonishment from Saoirse Ronan, a lazy-Susan track around Jeffrey Wright’s dinner table, spooky blue Chalamet as Harry Styles in the “Lights Up” music video, fetishized accents aigus and maybe Japanese fetishization, too? Don’t forget Isle of Dogs’s exoticized—and gorgeous—cultural constructions. Elizabeth Moss makes a welcome entry to the Anderson roster, Jason Schwartzman packs on the pounds, and Tilda Swinton concocts a strangely arousing American accent. Notice that spooky blue on the monitor in the lecture hall, too. Aspect ratio changes, river-bound cadavers, “No Crying” signs, prison uniforms marked alternatively with crimes committed (“tax evader”) and mental states (“condemned psychopath”). We ask ourselves, as we always do, whether Anderson’s set pieces and ensembles amount to more than generation-defining good taste, and whether we care. I’m not sure I do.
Fergus Campbell is a Culture writer and sophomore in Columbia College.
