Articulating the spirituality in Wes Anderson’s newest film is akin to delving into the mechanisms of dreams. You don’t need to have them explained to know their power, and the tangible effect they have on your perception is never a background detail. With the French Dispatch, Anderson circumvents the restriction of narrative to deal in the currency of emotions, while managing to succinctly emulate the experience of reading a periodical lost to time from an imaginary place shrouded in mystical whimsy. (The real movie magic was making Kansas seem mystical.) The characters we encounter are shrouded in esoteric quirks, flashes of humanity in a sea of time ever moving toward the future, with only the briefest of moments to fall in love with each character before the page turns. It brings to mind the experience of reading random excerpts out of books from thrift stores. A brief opportunity for human connection found within the pages of something thrown away. 

a beautiful experience, might be Anderson’s best film. An ear to ear smile was stuck to my face the entire run.