It is safe to say that no one else makes films quite like Wes Anderson. I find his films, by and large, charming and captivating, but often lacking depth or substance.
Set in the 1930s in the fictitious Eastern European republic of Zubrowka amidst the growing spectre of fascism, The Grand Budapest Hotel is a complex, multi-layered adventure featuring murder, theft, conspiracy and romance, in the midst of the most unlikely of friendships between the hotel's legendary concierge, M. Gustave and a young lobby boy, Zero. It is a testament to Wes Anderson's skill as a filmmaker that he can effortlessly weave such a convoluted plot amidst a cornucopia of ever-more, absurd characters within the 1 hour 39 minutes run time.
The director's well-known cinematic trademarks are once again on display - the rectilinear pans (travelling in straight lines, forwards and backwards), the distinctive (and always exquisite) colour palette and the novelistic chapter headings. However, in The Grand Budapest Hotel Wes Anderson employs a clever Russian doll framing technique to introduce the story. The Grand Budapest Hotel opens with the author as he is today (Tom Wilkinson) recalling a time when he visited The Grand Budapest Hotel as a younger man (Jude Law) when he met the owner of the hotel, Mr Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham) who relays the story to him. In effect, the author is recounting Mr Moustafa's memoirs and this perhaps allows the director a little leeway for embellishment, exaggeration and contradiction.
What struck me about The Grand Budapest Hotel was the quality of performances, especially Ralph Fiennes (M. Gustave). Fiennes is magnificent as the charming, articulate and effusive lead. His impeccable comedic timing and delivery, regular unfailing eloquent outbursts and on-screen chemistry with the relatively unknown Tony Revolori's soft-spoken, sad-eyed bellboy, Zero are on point. In some ways, Ralph Fiennes dominates the ensemble cast in a similar manner to Gene Hackman in The Royal Tenenbaums.
The Grand Budapest Hotel is an enjoyable, imaginative nostalgic kitsch of a bygone era that few could have re-imagined as joyfully as Wes Anderson.
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