Film Review | The Grand Budapest Hotel

“Wes Anderson is one reason to stay alive,” a friend of mine declared as we made our way out of a screening of that writer-director’s latest colourful, madcap farce, The Grand Budapest Hotel. As the credits rolled to the music of frequent Anderson collaborator Alexandre Desplat, it was difficult to contradict her existentially tinged words of praise.

That Anderson – the indie darling who brought us films like Rushmore (1998), The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004) and, most recently, Moonrise Kingdom (2012) – inspires cult-like admiration among a certain section of the movie-going populace has become something of a given, and it’s easy to see why.

Deliberately cherry-picking quirky characters and situations, Anderson then proceeds to shoot them with a geometrically strict focus and a brashly colourful palette, making them dance to a flawlessly brisk narrative pace that evokes the comic punchiness of Charlie Chaplin.

In short, he’s a director whose work you’ll recognise on sight – a rare feat, of which, in the American scene at least, perhaps only the Coen Brothers can otherwise boast of – which gives his films a ‘take it or leave it’ edge.

While his fans are many – and he arguably box-ticks a number of ‘hipster’ g-spots in particular – he’s also been accused of relying too much on twee, eccentric tics at the expense of judiciously written plots and well-rounded characters (a fair criticism when it comes to The Darjeeling Limited (2007) – a vapid slice of orientalism masquerading as a brotherly-bonding picaresque).

But ‘Grand Budapest’ feels like a consolidation of all of his best artistic inclinations. Loosely inspired by the life and works of wartime Jewish émigré writer Stefan Zweig, it is not only a lively historical romp that coasts on the cosmetic thrills of its costumes and backdrops, but a flawlessly executed farce which, despite its always-mushrooming ensemble cast and mathematically precise comic set pieces, still manages to keep an eye on the harsh historical realities that unfold during its between-the-wars setting.

This, despite the fact that the titular structure and the main action of the film is set in an entirely fictional Eastern European Republic, Zubrowka, where the concierge of The Grand Budapest Hotel, M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) proudly oversees the opulent outpost, helped along by an eager and industrious crew, among them the young lobby boy Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori).

Gustave also specialises in seducing ‘seasoned’ aristocratic matrons to his bedchamber, such as Madame Céline Villeneuve Desgoffe und Taxis (Tilda Swinton). When ‘Madame D’ dies, Gustave is elated to discover that she bequeathed a precious painting – ‘The Boy With Apple’ – to him.

Her family, led by the villainous Dmitri (Adrien Brody) is less than pleased, however, and employing their grisly enforcer J.G. Jopling (Willem Defoe) make it a point to hunt down Gustave after he makes off with the painting despite their protestations, Zero in tow.

But with the fascist regime spreading its tentacles across the continental landscape, Gustave and Zero’s journey becomes further compromised… not to mention dangerous.

No synopsis could do justice to the glorious jumble that is Anderson’s film. For starters, it’s populated by such a rich array of characters, all of whom will leave some kind of mark on the viewer, thanks to Anderson’s assured directorial style (apart from the fact that the cast list is a veritable who’s who of contemporary Hollywood: it almost feels as though every single character actor still in possession of a working pulse has been wheeled in to do at least a bit part).

Secondly, it’s clear that Anderson enjoys indulging in the set piece. While the plot is propelled forward on a basic ‘chase’ scenario, the priority here is clearly to sculpt memorable – and often deliberately cartoonish – gags that accumulate to tell the story.

In lesser hands this approach would plummet the film into triviality, but crucially Anderson is… well, he’s just really good at what he does, and this makes all the difference.

The world he creates is entirely – and deliberately – artificial, but you never doubt the fact that – much like a dream – it operates on its own strange but consistent logic, and never once does Anderson drop the ball.

That he trades in a carefully spliced-in irony is helpful: while the offbeat characters and scenarios are drawn up with evident care and exactitude – the cluttered-but-calculated mise en scene is another Anderson trademark, and this extends to quirks in the characters’ costumes – they are also presented with tongue firmly in cheek, which makes it easier to go along for the ride while just making the whole thing funnier.

And funny it certainly is. Pacing nearly every scene like the best possible example of comedic slapstick – think everything from the aforementioned Chaplin to Tom and Jerry – Anderson goes for the primal belly laugh, whether it concerns a character running away from the authorities or another unleashing a caustic cuss-word.

Its keen and ever present intelligence prevents it from becoming just another escapist trifle. But this doesn’t mean that ‘Grand Budapest’ won’t be the most fun you have in a cinema this season.

There may be more than one reason to remain in the realm of the living, but Anderson will certainly give you a vivacious uplift that is bound to last a while after the film is over.