Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Dir: Wes Anderson
There is something beautiful, if not gratifying about Wes
Anderson’s directing, with the fact that all his features seamlessly occur
before the audiences eyes. His meticulous manner to capture each moment at its
most appreciative in turn perfectly demonstrates Anderson’s charisma.
His distinguishing style is something of a rarity in modern
day cinema; arguably Burton’s gothic aesthetics portray a similar
noticeability. However, Anderson’s distinctiveness is ultimately his greatest
strength and weakness. The dynamic or obscurity of his films creates a cultural
fan base which in turn provides him with this elusive socio-cinematic
perception. Correspondingly, this leaves a sector of his audience alienated and
unfulfilled, with his manner requiring a very unique palate.
Personally, previous features such as Fantastic Mr Fox and
Rushmore I see as milestones in Anderson’s work, flourishing with integrity and
humour (but maybe my love for Roald Dahl got the better of me). Yet, features like The Life Aquatic with
Steve Zissou and The Royal Tenenbaums left me in a strange way as I mulled over
the watched picture. It appeared something of an ‘Inside Wes Anderson’ film with
all its bizarre and insecure humour. Nonetheless, many Andersonian fans would
argue that is its underlying positive, stating that the left-fieldedness
narrative is what makes him such a genius.
Anyhow, Anderson’s new feature the Grand Budapest Hotel
seemed to epitomise everything about the cinematic disparity in his films. The
idea of uncertainty or simply how throughout the feature, you don’t know
whether you like it or not.
Basically, the plot begins with Tom Wilkinson opening the
proceedings by reading from his published book ‘The Grand Budapest’. Leading us
to his younger self played by Jude Law meeting a mysterious figure who
subsequently reminisces his past and how he became owner of the Budapest.
Essentially leading the audience further into the past, observing the pupillage
of Zero (performed by newcomer Tony Revolori) as Lobby Boy under the workings
of Concierge M.Gustave (played by the magnificent Ralph Fiennes). All
accompanied by the compressing framed imagery to pay certain authenticity upon
the storytelling.
Fundamentally, M.Gustave through his bachelor lifestyle
creates ‘love’ strings toward his ‘customers’ to which he is then inherited a
priceless painting to which the ramifications apply the majority of the story.
To which said painting, is within the original possession of
the somehow Tilda Swinton, but after her demise, Swinton’s son Dmitri played Adrien
Brody feels Boy with Apple is his property by hereditary right; setting Brody
and henchman Willem Dafoe on a vengeful mission to retrieve the painting to
their rightful ownership. All of which occurring while Officer Henckels (Edward
Norton) hoping to capture M.Gustave as a third narrative string all
amalgamating in this thrilling cat-and-mouse spectacle.
Cast wise, it’s the same old accompanying Anderson on
another pictorial adventure, all from Bill Murray, Owen Wilson to Jason Schwartzman. All
with their pitch perfect execution of the abstract dialogue that solidifies the audience's understanding of what a quintessential Anderson feature really is.
Finally, the humour at times either left me in tatters or
tickles. Fiennes performs to the optimum with a thrilling and affluent manner
with the just amount of Andersonian quirkiness. The nostalgic narrative left me
in an unfulfilled state. I wanted more I suppose, but the film in its entirety
is the artistic benchmark for this year’s director’s upcoming features to either
match or surpass.
I hope for an inevitable surpassing. I mean, come on;
Interstellar is coming out in December.
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