The Weekly Review: The Grand Budapest Hotel

3.5 Rose-Tinted-Lenses out of 4

I must confess that I had some difficulty with Wes Anderson’s latest dark comedy feature. All of the expected trappings indicating an Anderson film – the distinctly colourful visual style, hilariously quirky characters, and isn’t-this-all-a-bit-much deadpan demure – were present. However, perhaps indicative of a personal failing rather than a cinematic misstep on Anderson’s part, I couldn’t help but feel something was missing.

Set in the fictional European alpine nation of Zubrowka, The Grand Budapest Hotel features a collection of well-known Andersonian collaborators and some welcome new faces in a colourful and elaborate game of whodunnit. Starring Ralph Fiennes as the immaculate playboy concierge Monsieur Gustave H., the film’s plot is set in motion after the affluent and elderly Madame D. is found murdered in her home. As her family’s eyes dart to her will to determine who gets what, the suave and sophisticated Gustave is framed for murder once it’s discovered that he is the sole recipient of a priceless painting.

The film’s narrative is framed by a story-within-a-story-within-a-flashback. The story of Gustave is told by his former lobby boy turned head concierge Zero Mustafa – the younger Mustafa played by newcomer Tony Revolori and the older played by F. Murray Abraham. Revolori’s straight-faced method works well within Anderson’s quirky world, and both audience and Zero are equally drawn in by Gustave’s charm and wit. The talented Fiennes brings a sense of empty loneliness to the otherwise acerbic Gustave, and his ability to switch between posh and philandering lends the film much of its comedic appeal.

Thanks to a strong script penned by Anderson and the splendid cinematography of Robert Yeoman, The Grand Budapest Hotel is by all accounts a great film. Among its strengths are loving homages to the work of Austrian author Stegan Zweig and the haunting theme of long-lost beauty. Despite its near perfection, however, there’s an undeniable air of emptiness that creeps throughout each scene and sequence.

Anderson portrays a world controlled by those trapped in the crippling paralysis brought on by nostalgia. Even the Grand Budapest Hotel’s exterior is a shade of off-pink not dull enough to be grounded in reality. This lack of fulfilment permeates to the audience, leaving us pleased with Anderson’s efforts but wanting more from our own reality.

Anderson’s script calls upon tropes of the Golden Age of Hollywood, when filmmakers were less interested in gritty, realistic drama and more interested in putting on a good show. In the current age of film-making where movies refuse to shy away from reality, forcing audiences to confront life-as-it-is, The Grand Budapest Hotel is a testament to life-as-it-could-be.

Calling the film escapism is an error of attribution; it’s not the movie that calls to a better era as much as its characters. When Zero’s story finally ends, the audience is left knowing that the days gone by are truly never coming back. Instead of criticizing or collaborating with his characters’ vision, Anderson allows emotion to interact with emotion.

Art is created in the minds of the viewer. Famous paintings, classic movies, and great songs overcome the crippling force of time not because they are intrinsically powerful, but because audiences connect with them in a visceral and meaningful way. For Anderson, whose work has always seemed to glorify the “better times,” the relationship between art and audience is especially important.

Nostalgia is a powerful and dangerous sedative whose effects transcend the human psyche. Being able to invoke genuine nostalgia in his audience, Anderson succeeds in creating a film that feels classical without truly needing to be a classic.