When I first heard of Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel,
I was surprised that the studio was releasing it in early March, given that Jan-March is the dumping ground for shit movies. Then, when it was being released only in small theaters (I had to drive 10 miles to see it. Not cool.), I was even more worried. Why aren’t Anderson’s movies released during awards season? Why doesn’t it get a chance?
After seeing The Grand Budapest Hotel, I understand. It’s not exactly a prestige kind of movie. It’s a caper movie with a ridiculous plot and just enough quirkiness to deny it mainstream appeal.
The joy in Wes Anderson movies is absorbing the brilliantly-constructed art direction. Each shot feels like a painting; each scene is artfully balanced and composed with vivid color and form. What happens isn’t so much as important as the sensation of movement from one instance to the next.
But whereas this movie is great on the visuals, it’s lacking in the story. Despite the fact that there were lots of things going on, I found myself getting bored in the second act as it plodded towards its inevitable madcap climax. The plot doesn’t make much sense, which is fine, because it’s like The Big Lebowski in that you’re just supposed to watch these characters react to the insanity of the sequence of events.
It’s like a caricature of a movie. It takes place in an imaginary European country, but the accents of the characters vary wildly. Some British, some French, some blatantly American. Adrian Brody is a perfect example of an overblown villain with his wild black hair and pointy mustache, or Willem Dafoe’s henchman stalagmite vampire fangs, or Jeff Goldblum with his inexplicably-parted-in-the-middle beard.
Many of the jokes are so small and dry you might miss them without paying close attention. For example, there is a secret brotherhood of concierges named “the society of the crossed keys” or that the grave in the opening sequence is simply labeled “author,” because that character is never named in the film.
And as in Anderson’s masterpiece The Royal Tenenbaums, zany art plays a central role in some of these jokes in The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Occasionally, it mixes in a few statements about the brutality of war, and unlike other Anderson movies, there are multiple scenes of graphic violence. It’s an odd tonal shift compared to the shenanigans: a wacky chase scene on antiquated skis filmed with miniatures, opposite a scene revealing a bloody severed head.
For me, it didn’t quite live up to the standard set in Moonrise Kingdom, but it’s a fun ride anyway.