Wes Anderson's "The French Dispatch," now in theaters where its tiniest details can best be seen and appreciated on a giant screen, is a big, fat, loving smooch to print journalism and the gifted eccentrics who practice it. This intricate, indelible, wondrously inventive jewel box of a movie will dazzle Anderson fans. His detractors will get their hate on as usual.
From his early films ("Bottle Rocket," "Rushmore") to later landmarks such as "Moonrise Kingdom" and "The Grand Budapest Hotel," Anderson has been called fussy, ornate and pretentious. And not always unfairly. But this precocious kid from Texas (now 52 and living in Paris) goes his own way and cinema is all the better for it.