Wes Anderson returns to our screens for another bout of neat
dialogue, diorama settings and exquisite detail. The usual suspects have been
rounded up again with some welcome new faces on board for his raucous, rose tinted Grand Budapest Hotel- his first to be
set, and shot, on European soil and truly, his best effort in years.
It’s a story within a story within a story within a story. A
young girl opens an Authors book; we cut to that Author (Tom Wilkinson) as he
reads from his own memoir. We cut again to him at a younger age (Jude Law) on
his first visit to the titular hotel. The place has seen better days and he
finds the establishment's owner, Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham), in a sombre mood. The
man agrees to sit down and tell his tale so we cut back once more. It’s the
tale of how he, as a younger man (Tony Revolori), came to own the establishment
and of Gustav M. (Ralph Fiennes); It’s loyal concierge. Moustafa takes a job as
a bellboy but soon becomes Gustav’s protégé. Gustav is known to pander to the
wealthy older clients-one Madame D. (Tilda Swinton under a mountain of
prosthetics) in particular. Mrs. D. abruptly passes on and our heroes rush to
her funeral. The will is read out to find that Gustav’s been left a prized painting,
The Boy with the Apple from the renowned Van Hyutel. The relatives are
in uproar so Gustav quickly makes his escape with painting in tow but on
arrival in Hungary he’s arrested. This time not for the larceny, but for the old Frau’s
murder. Tony must hatch a plan to break his mentor out of the ghastly
Checkpoint 19 before any more heads begin to role.
Anderson’s films have never struggled with aesthetics but it
must be said, in recent years they’ve had a tendency to go flat. Thankfully, here
that just ain’t the case. The Grand Budapest Hotel is a full blown romp, racing
along like an old school caper on Alexandre Desplat's jazz percussion fuelled score. Perfectly framing the action in Hollywood’s old 4:3 Academy ratio; Anderson references a host of old tricks. The physical
humour of old silent films blends perfectly with his lovingly crafted
sets and ornate dialogue. There are shades of Lubitsh and even a wink to
Hitchcock but this is, as ever, a totally unique, hand crafted gem.
The cast, as per usual, is staggering, with Fiennes and
newcomer Revolori, next to the director’s usual stalwarts, fitting effortlessly
into the Anderson mould. Delightfully though, one of the film’s brightest lights
hails from our own fair isle. Like the best school production you’ve ever seen,
Anderson’s performers have always taken a wonderfully hammy tone and this film
is no different. Not a single actor even attempts to shed their colloquial
tones and this particular setup allows Saoirse Ronan to show, for the very
first time on film (yes really), her own fine Irish lilt. Although a relatively
small part in terms of screen time, she’s an incredibly grounding and natural
presence, freckles and all, which seems to give an edge to this film that has
been lacking in recent outings.
So break
out the bunting; crack open the kegs; the young lady really does look a star.
