The Grand Budapest Hotel

Is it possible that I’m actually warming to Wes Anderson, or is he just starting to make more interesting films? His latest, The Grand Budapest Hotel, is inspired by the writings of the now-obscure Austrian novelist, playwright, and journalist Stefan Zweig, and perhaps that’s why it feels more substantial than the rest of Anderson’s pictures, which seem to be inspired by the filmmaker’s own acutely stylish whimsy. There’s no mistaking this movie for anything but an Anderson film. Like all of his pictures (which include Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, and The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou), it's meticulously composed to the point of being unbearably precious, but as is not always the case, its characters are richer than cardboard cutouts and it manages to be genuinely funny, authentically wistful, and thoroughly entertaining from beginning to end. Anderson recreates a fantasy version of Europe between the World Wars, a Europe that never actually existed but that is instantly recognizable from old movies and from the works of authors like Zweig. In doing so, the director has nailed the illusory but very real feeling of nostalgia many of us have for something we never experienced ourselves. The film is a Chinese box, with multiple narrators hearkening ever farther back in time to relay the history of a fictional hotel in a fictional European country and the story of its exceedingly competent concierge, M. Gustave. Ralph Fiennes, in one of his greatest performances to date, embodies this man masterfully and holds the picture together as effectively as the character attends to his guests. The film’s episodic storyline coalesces around this single, central figure far better than other Anderson narratives fare with their overcrowded ensembles. And the movie’s handmade storybook buildings and landscapes are utterly enchanting.

Usually, I find Anderson's movies delightful for the first five minutes but after an hour and a half I’m a bit nauseated, as if I’ve just been force-fed a large box of assorted fancy chocolates with odd, overly sweet cream fillings. But I never tired of being encased inside this film’s dreamy, snowy cocoon the way I normally feel locked inside one of Anderson’s claustrophobic dollhouses. Grand Budapest Hotel plays almost like a satire of the director’s work—but the kind of knowing satire that better epitomizes a style than an straight-up example if what it’s sending up; the way Dr. Strangelove is far more effective than any dramatic cold-war social drama. Grand Budapest is full of low comedy and broad slapstick that perfectly counterbalances the opulent and fastidious mise-en-scene. 

Unfortunately, as is all too often the case, the movie is overstuffed with appearances from Anderson regulars; I don’t want Owen Wilson and Bob Balaban in my late-30s/early-40s European fantasy universe! But the rest of the ensemble is nearly perfect, especially F. Murray Abraham, Willem Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Saoirse Ronan, and Tilda Swinton. The Grand Budapest Hotel is by far Anderson's best live action film, and if it means we can expect less two-dimensional artifice and more sophisticated yarn-spinning from this director, I will start looking forward to his pictures with the excited anticipation that so many others have.