The Grand Budapest Hotel


The Grand Budapest Hotel is a visual orgasm. After our private screening we were left begging for more, more, and more. More color. More perfect asymmetry. More young love (and some not so young).

The film is heavily weighted in flash backs and forwards, as the author of The Grand Budapest Hotel (Tom Wilkinson) recollects an intimate dinner with Mr. Zero Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham). Mustafa indulges the young author (Jude Law) in how he obtained the Grand Budapest, which is where we meet the keystone, M. Gustave.


Monsieur Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) is the perfect concierge. He knows everyone’s quirks, keeps everyone’s secrets, and gets it on with the old, rich ladies. But, after M. Gustave’s favorite special lady passes on to the next life, his well-oiled, cotton candy-colored machine begins to take on a new form, sending him on the wildest and goriest of Anderson-inspired adventures.

Fiennes is a vision in plum, and, unlike the ever-changing color themes of each chapter of the film, mostly stays that way. The film’s strongest constant, M. Gustave only changes after he and his prodigy, Mr. Zero, experience a rare, and intimate moment. Rarely vulnerable, M. Gustave finally becomes raw, a moment we know from Anderson films to be the turning stone into goofy madness, but not this time.

The Grand Budapest finds itself welcoming the sincerity and sadness of a time when change is inevitable, and it does it in an array of color and calamity wrapped in a Russian nesting doll of memories. Anderson’s proficiency for extended shots, color schemes, miniatures, and symmetry adds to the intricacy and fascination of The Grand Budapest Hotel. Blink and you’ll miss something.

And if we may offer a bit of advice: Don’t go pee during this movie.


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