Wes Anderson pens an extravagant love letter to the adventurous editors of sophisticated literary magazines like The New Yorker, in "The French Dispatch"; it's a beguiling curio, and one that no other filmmaker could have created
this film is wholly entertaining, inventive, and so filled to the brim with quirky characters and story lines that you cannot let your mind wander for even a second, for fear of missing out on one of the many clever jokes and visual gags
the richness of its world-building is a delight, as ever, but the heart that elevated Moonrise Kingdom is not in such ready evidence here, nor the sharp wit and effervescent storytelling of "The Grand Budapest Hotel"
The French Dispatch is a pleasurable giddy rush of Wes Anderson delights; It's a real giddy rush of a film, perhaps not as fundamentally moving or sensitive at his top-drawer work, but taking his micromanagement-heavy film craft to noir-ish new peaks
The French Dispatch is a fun watch; it's an endearing and liberated explosion of Andersonian aesthetics that doesn't always cohere into a satisfying package, but never slows down long enough to lose its engrossing appeal, and always retains its purpose
"The French Dispatch", is a work of such unparalleled Andersonian wit, that at times the sheer level of detail – mobile, static, graphic and typographic – that bedecked the screen was enough to make your correspondent's jaw slacken
"The French Dispatch" is a palimpsest of Andersonian obsessions.. and an obsessional devotion to the New Yorker; Thankfully, the movie is a gas. It moves with, well, dispatch, clattering along in its own eccentric way