Before I say anything about Wes Anderson’s latest production, I should once and for all sabotage my objectivity and declare everlasting love for the director. I confess: my feelings towards Mr. Anderson would probably make a curious case for any psychologist: I’d like him to be my father, brother, boyfriend and priest at the same time. This declaration is not completely out of line, as all these roles are of great – indeed grand – importance in his new film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, which opened the 64th Berlinale International Film Festival yesterday. And, as usual, the Andersonian universe is a true delight in all its ironical, subtle, doll-house glory.
Some people reduce the wide admiration for his work to a mere hipster trend — a repetitive scheme, always drawing from the exact same dusty paraphernalia box. Others see these exact things as Mr. Anderson’s forte. To me the familiar feeling viewers receive when the stylishly designed opening credits, accompanied by quirky, joyous tunes start rolling, is like a friendly handshake announcing: “you are home”. But, as we all know, family meetings are particularly prone to taking an unexpected turn.
This time, the reunion starts with a whole new country. The (fictional) Grand Budapest Hotel, a place where all the film’s threads start and meet again, is beautifully situated in the picturesque mountains of the (fictional) Republic of Zubrowka (Zubrowka is Poland’s best internationally known bison grass vodka, which I’m sure some of you readers are familiar with). It is sometime in the 1980’s. An elderly writer (Tom Wilkinson) recalls how twenty-something years earlier, as a young artist in a creative stupor (his younger self, played by Jude Law) came to the once grand (now decaying under the communist regime) hotel in an attempt to seek inspiration. It was there he met its melancholic owner, Zero (F. Murray Abraham). Zero’s incredible story about life, love, death and revenge – all wandering through socio-political changes of the European 1930’s – is told one evening over a course of several sophisticated, fancifully shaped meals and fizzy drinks. The hotel inspired not only a life change, but also a (fictional) book, shots of which opening and closing literally frame the entire film.
The main protagonist of Zero’s memories is Mr. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes), who, in the 1930’s, ran The Grand Budapest with exquisite charm, elegance and discretion. Under his caring hand the hotel became a desired reserve of high-life lavish luxury, an absolute must-go destination for all aspiring socialites. No guest was ever left unattended; especially blonde, elderly rich ladies, for whom Mr. Gustave had a genuine soft spot (“I sleep with all of my friends” – he explains at a certain point). When one of his patronesses (Tilda Swinton) is murdered Mr. Gustave is wrongfully accused of committing the crime by her demonic, greedy son Dmitri (Adrien Brody), who fears his mother’s favorite Gustave may threaten his inheritance.
Before the accusations start flying, Mr. Gustave is able to steal the valuable painting Mrs. D left him. It’s here the whole tumultuous plot speeds up, flourishing with several delightfully slapstick escape scenes, a few inventive murders (shot with great regard for genre lighting, framing and music schemes), and much more. During this whole time, Zero, the young refugee lobby boy (Tony Revolori), is Mr. Gustave’s companion, pupil and accomplice through thick and thin.
Wes Anderson’s enthusiasm, vision and imagination brings every element of the film to life. Every word, sigh or nod immediately gain its momentum. What really pops out in The Grand Budapest Hotel is the outstanding production design. Set decoration, costumes, makeup and real locations combined with painted backgrounds create a recognizable universe, that still reserves itself a right to surprise. An inquisitive eye will find them, to the owner’s satisfaction: allusions to Freud smuggled in the shape of a protagonist’s beard or a dress inspired by Gustav Klimt’s painting.
Splendid casting and acting seems so natural in Mr. Anderson’s milieu that it is easy to overlook. Therefore it needs to be clearly stated: yet again, the ensemble cast delivers the best of the best. Some directors hire popular actors just to fill the screen with recognizable faces – but not Anderson. Even the tiniest episode in The Grand Budapest Hotel is tailored to perfection for the particular performer (vide Harvey Keitel, Willem Defoe, cat). Refreshingly far from Shakespeare and classical drama , Ralph Fiennes is shining like a star, masterfully combining ironic comedy with a warm touch of tragedy. His performance encapsulates the overall tone of the film: on one hand eccentric and joyous as usual, on the other exuding a deeply melancholic, reflective underpinning, longing for things long gone.
In Anderson’s rainbow kingdom nothing is meaningless, shapeless or dull. This transformative perception is contagious, and easily transported itself onto the audience in Berlin. The Grand Budapest Hotel is competing for the Golden Bear, but awards aside, I doubt they’d be able to deny the film the quality so rare and desired in cinema nowadays: 100 minutes of pure delight.
Grade: A-
“The Grand Budapest Hotel” will be distributed in theaters March 7th, 2014 by Fox Searchlight Pictures.
