Dense and detailed even by Wes Anderson standards, The French Dispatch practically necessitates a second viewing to properly appreciate what the writer/director packs into each frame. Essentially 3.5 films in one, making The Royal Tenenbaums look like a Ken Burns documentary, Anderson’s ode to The New Yorker and creative journalism at large is by far his most ambitious film — a description true for each new feature he’s made since Bottle Rocket, but especially apt here.

Though the potential impenetrability may spook casual viewers and fuel the fire of Anderson haters, that second watch merely enhances the charms of the initial encounter, smooths out wrinkles bound to arise with such a layered creation, and verifies that all perceived plot holes and narrative gaps were filled in all along.

Even moviegoers averse to quasi heavy lifting — who probably also balked at the challenges presented by recent Christopher Nolan, P.T. Anderson, and Martin Scorsese fare — would be hard-pressed to leave The French Dispatch completely unmoved. While the anthology approach inspires Anderson to craft a wildly concentrated experience, the multiple articles that compose the film likewise allow him to play with a wide variety of actors, characters, locations, and styles, resulting in a grab bag for the ages that’s also impressively cohesive.

Set in the Paris stand-in of Ennui-sur-Blasé, in what feels like the 1960s, the film playfully dramatizes standout pieces from the titular publication’s final issue. From the introductory narration by longtime Anderson collaborator Anjelica Huston and the dollhouse exterior of the magazine’s building, there’s a sense of familiarity that soon gives way to experimentation as the talented, oddball writing staff, under the leadership of publisher Arthur Howitzer, Jr. (Bill Murray, the ultimate Anderson comrade) takes over.

The first true chapter, the latest account from bicycling reporter Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson), exudes short story perfection in its lovingly zippy survey of the city’s diverse districts and residents, complete with well-timed physical gags. Following deadpan editorial advice from Arthur — whose mix of dismay at his writers’ failure to adhere to their assignments while simultaneously being impressed by their ingenuity will be humorously repeated with each article’s filing — attention shifts to the trio of longer works, in which the film’s themes and storytelling have more room to develop.

One-upping the Russian Doll storytelling of The Grand Budapest Hotel, the chronicles of incarcerated painter Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio Del Toro), young revolutionary Zeffirelli B. (Timothée Chalamet), and police chef Lt. Nescaffier (Stephen Park, Fargo) are packed with witty framing devices, shifts between B&W and color, and enough detours to require a map.

But with each article, the respective author inserts him or herself into the story so much that they become its co-lead, with J.K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton) recalling Moses’ magnum opus from a Kansas art museum, deadline-minded Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand) commenting on her relationship with the young manifesto-maker, and the James Baldwin-like Roebuck Wright (Jeffrey Wright, the film’s MVP) reminiscing about the complications that ensued in his culinary profile to an unnamed TV talk host (Liev Schreiber).

These appealing ensemble players’ work is further enhanced by amusing side characters, portrayed by a host of recognizable faces — many of them past Anderson partners — and funneled through technical approaches previously unseen in the director’s filmography. In addition to 360-degree camera spins and a showstopper animation sequence that’s somewhere between a Tintin comic and a New Yorker cover come to life, Anderson gleefully translates his stop-motion tricks to live-action with multiple freeze-frame tracking shots, capturing carefully posed actors in mid-battle, some of whom hold bent props to suggest motion.

Perhaps better than any other scenes, these visual sleight-of-hand moments depict a filmmaker in full command of his talents, having fun with richly drawn characters on the path to an emotionally fulfilling story, the likes of which feel simultaneously in his wheelhouse and wholly new. There and elsewhere, Anderson exhibits a vibrancy unparalleled by most working filmmakers and establishes The French Dispatch as the gold standard for narrative filmmaking in 2021.

Grade: A. Rated R. Now playing at Carolina Cinemark, the Fine Arts Theatre, and Regal Biltmore Grande.

(Photos: Searchlight Pictures)