From: The French Dispatch UK Premiere, BFI London Film Festival
Date: Sunday 10th October 2021
Correspondent: Neil Baker
I arrive at the Southbank in central London on an oddly hot October day with the unique smells of the Southbank surrounding me – a strange mix of the Thames, perfume, coffee and roasted nuts. As I walk down the embankment, I find myself immediately regretting wearing my Harris Tweed jacket, as beads of sweat roll off my brow. But it’s too late to debate this choice now!
It is 5.00 pm when I arrive at The Royal Festival Hall. Why am I always so early? I loiter for at least thirty minutes, lighting more than one cigarette in quiet areas far from the crowds to pass the time. I know it’s bad for me, please don’t lecture, but somehow it seems less bad than inconsiderate vape addicts who seem to think you like the smell of their blueberry mist on a Thameslink carriage. Maybe I’m just trying to defend the indefensible. I’ll stop.
At 5.30 pm, after going for what I call a safety pee, I entered the sprawling hall and looked for my seat. D27, the end of the row. It is now 5.50 pm, and the hall is filling up fast. However, the two people sitting next to me seem oblivious to my existence as they sip on their drinks and ignore everything else around them. Surely, a polite “hello” wouldn’t go amiss? Alas nothing. Behind me, a group of students chatter. One complains he hasn’t eaten all day, while another tucks into a large, decidedly limp-looking baguette. Five minutes before the film, the poor, ravenous student runs out desperately seeking a baguette like his friend, only making it back with seconds to spare, his neatly packed French stick and beer in hand.
Bill Murray and Pablo Pauly in the film THE FRENCH DISPATCH. Photo Courtesy of Searchlight Pictures. © 2020 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation All Rights Reserved
The evening’s events begin with a trendy and cool-looking Tricia Tuttle introducing Jarvis Cocker and his new music video. Tricia gently sways to the song before a small group of the cast joins the stage. This mini-ensemble includes Alex Lawther and Tony Revolori; however, no sooner have they arrived than they are ushered off without a single word spoken. A bit rude if you ask me, especially when Javis Cocker’s new song has taken up more than a few valuable minutes. Meanwhile, the once ravenous student behind me is less than impressed with his baguette, commenting loud enough for me to hear that the “bread-to-filling ratio is disappointing.” I can’t help but feel the Jarvis-to-cast ratio was more disappointing than the student’s limp baguette!
As the film starts, Wes Anderson quickly whisks me away into his magical world of satirical dry humour and luscious visuals, and everything before the opening credits is forgotten. I am at one with the film as I sip on my now tepid bottle of mineral water that has more than likely come from a tap somewhere in Middlesex.
Midway through, I am brought back to reality, as the ‘disappointed’ baguette-wielding student realises that a pint of beer before the film may not have been the best option as he rushes to the toilet. But, for me, not even the desperate need to pee can tear me away from Anderson’s ode to The New Yorker, The New Republic and The Atlantic; every scene exquisite. Its the equivalent of consuming a large tub of indulgent ice cream.
As the film ends, I find myself longing for more, but as I leave the Royal Festival Hall, a new feeling sweeps over me, one of sadness and nostalgia at the lost art of the magazine in our digital world. As I walk back down the embankment, I feel the urge to find a newsagent that still stocks The New Yorker, but there are none. Instead, I light another cigarette and look out over the Thames, reflecting on the history that the mighty river keeps submerged in its depths.
As I look at the waves, I begin to ponder the power of words in shaping our reality and the power of journalism in shining a light on the more obscure corners of human life, and a quote from Frank Herbert suddenly springs to mind, “There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” Goodbye for now; this is Neil Baker signing off.
BFI London Film Festival presents The French Dispatch in cinemas on 22nd October.
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