How do you talk about a Wes Anderson film without constantly referring to it as a "Wes Anderson film"? Short answer: you can't. Most directors - not always good directors, but most directors nevertheless - will have some kind of visual or thematic flourish which acts as a directorial signature on the work. Anderson has about fifty. His work is so recognisable, so separate from the majority of modern cinematic releases, that in any significant analysis of his films it is impossible to divorce the man from his fiction, and this is no less true in his latest offering.
The Grand Budapest Hotel is both a farce and a reflective depiction of wartime Europe in the 1930s. It tells the story of Gustave H (Ralph Fiennes), a world-famous concierge at the eponymous European hotel, who takes young lobby boy Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori) under his wing. A whimsical plot unfolds, revolving around the theft of a priceless painting from his old lover (Tilda Swinton) whose murder Gustave is framed for. It's entertaining, considered, and shouldn't be dismissed as "just another Wes Anderson film", although all of the major hallmarks are present; as always, Anderson's shots and compositions are perfect, even obsessive, and the use of warm, vibrant colour here is better than ever. But what struck me most about this film was the deeply nostalgic tone, more so than any other Anderson has made. He uses the 4:3 ratio throughout most of the film, and The Grand Budapest Hotel reminded me of older, classic films of the 20s and 30s - films most of today's audiences would be unaware of - through a wonderful evocation of its period. There's a charming (and deliberate) use of miniatures for some of the exterior shots of the hotel with the cable cars leading up to it, and my favourite scene in the film came towards the end, when the two protagonists chase the villain down a ski slope - the tiny figurines in place of characters during wide shots is an old-school trick, one which reminds you that you're watching a film, but it's made with such charm and verve that you can't help but be swept along by it.
Regarding the tone, the film does a wonderful thing where it manages to be light and fun without being breezy. In the mix of absurd situations and larger-than-life characters there's an undercurrent of sincerity, probably best represented by an excellent performance from Ralph Fiennes. Excluding some scene-stealing support from Harvey Keitel and Jeff Goldblum, Fiennes completely owns this film; like Bill Murray in The Life Aquatic and Gene Hackman in The Royal Tenenbaums, he unites the ensemble under his enigmatic Gustave H. Effortlessly filling the role, at once charming, crude, promiscuous yet lovable ("She was dynamite in the sack, by the way", referring to an 84-year-old woman), the film instantly confirms Fiennes' status as a brilliant comedic actor, his timing perhaps even better here than his expletive-filled performance from In Bruges. He also manages to bring an unexpected amount of dramatic gravitas to the role, balancing the one-liners with the development of an affecting paternal bond with Revolori's Zero. It is this which makes the comedy all the richer, since throughout the film we are reminded of the more serious historical reality of the time (one scene shot in black and white might just be one of the saddest scenes in Anderson's career).
Perhaps the only time the film loses its footing is when it features moments of darker, nastier humour. A shot of a cat's splattered carcass drew more winces than laughter from the audience, as did a prolonged shot of a severed head being extracted from a box - more Se7en than Steve Zissou. Still, this is a minor quibble in an otherwise consistently excellent film, which I would urge you to go and see if only to serve as a whimsical antidote to the typically serious and desaturated world of the mainstream blockbuster. However, a small warning: you will sincerely crave cake afterwards.
