Wes Anderson is back at it again with another one of his quirkfests, this time entirely convincing most critics that he's crafted a masterpiece. Most are mesmerized by the production design, which truly deserves an Academy Award. Anderson opted to use miniatures for wide shots of the hotel and did extensive research for the interiors. The Görlitzer Warenhaus, a defunct German department store which survived World War II, was a stand-in for the Grand Budapest's lobby. Anderson's cinematography, which features all kinds of shots from unusual angles was probably another reason the critics were so impressed with the film (take note of the prison escape scene in particular). But I believe critic Stephanie Zacharek of The Village Voice gets it right when she concludes that Anderson's narrative, is wholly one-note in nature: "This meticulously appointed doll house of a movie just went on and on, making me want to smash many miniature plates of plaster food in frustration."
The narrative begins when a famous author in 1985 recounts a visit he made to the then decaying Grand Budapest Hotel in 1968; he then met the owner, Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham), who recounts his days as a lobby boy at the hotel in 1932. The hotel is located in the fictional Republic of Zubrowka, a remnant of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. One is reminded of the Marx Brother's take on their own fictional Balkan Republic, "Freedonia," but alas in Anderson's "homage," there are no laughs!
Ralph Fiennes plays M. Gustave, the concierge at the hotel, who takes Zero, the young lobby boy (who is the narrator of the story in his old age), under his wing. Gustave, an admitted bisexual, has been having a very brief affair with the elderly owner of the hotel, "Madame D," who soon dies under mysterious circumstances. She bequeaths a rare painting, "Boy with Apple," which enrages the Madame's son, Dmitri (Adrian Brody), who insists Gustave is not entitled to it. Despite Dmitri's opposition, Gustave steals the painting anyway (aided by Zero), and returns it to the Grand Budapest Hotel, where he places it in the hotel safe. Gustave makes Zero his heir, in return for his help.
The Madame's secretary, Serge X, is forced into accusing Gustave of murdering the old lady and Gustave ends up in prison. Gustave remarks that he earned the respect of hardened criminals by "beating the sh-t out of one of them for challenging his "virility." To make a long story short, Gustave digs his way out of prison using tools hidden in cakes baked by Zero's fiancée, Agatha. He and Zero are pursued by an assassin hired by Dmitri, Jopling (William Dafoe) who ends up murdering Serge. Jopling gets his comeuppance at the hands of Zero, who pushes him off a cliff. If this isn't enough, there's also a gunfight with Dmitri and the discovery of a second will inside the painting, proving Gustave's innocence.
The reason, most of this hokum isn't funny, is because Anderson's antagonists are unlikeable. Take for example Dmitri—when he first encounters Gustave he calls him a "fagg-t" and slaps him in the face. While Anderson attempts to lighten the scene up when other characters start hitting each other in the face, the damage cannot be undone: Dmitri remains an unpleasant villain throughout. In real farce, we experience the outrage without the consequences. But there are consequences aplenty when Serge is murdered up at the rectory. Even Gustave's death during the epilogue, at the hands of those fascist-like soldiers on the train, sounds the wrong note for a film that should be light-hearted (just like "Duck Soup"). And why all those anachronistic expletives throughout the movie? Why must the elegant Gustave say things that he beat the "sh-t" out of that prisoner? Anderson relies on these out-of-character remarks, to obtain a few cheap laughs.
Dana Stevens wonders in Slate Magazine, what Anderson is really trying to say here: "As played with a melancholy rakishness by the handsomer-than-ever Fiennes, M. Gustave is one of Anderson's more memorable creations—but he's stranded in a movie that, for all its gorgeous frills and furbelows (including a lush musical score by Alexandre Desplat and a surfeit of charming cameos from Anderson regulars like Jason Schwartzman, Ed Norton, and Bill Murray), never seemed to me to be quite sure what it was about. Youth, age, rivalry, and mentorship? Nostalgia for a lost way of life? The ineluctable slaughterhouse of 20th-century European history? These are big, dark themes, ideas that the director (who also wrote the screenplay, with a story assist from his friend Hugo Guinness) seems both obsessed by and game to explore. But somehow Anderson never quite lets himself (or his characters, or by extension, us) get to the deepest, darkest places those paths might lead." Stevens gets it right when she concludes that with Anderson "everything remains in that familiar register of chilly, stylish remove."
Ultimately, one can never care for any of Anderson's characters. They are written intentionally not to be taken seriously. Take Agatha and her death from "the Prussian Grippe." Not only does Agatha die but so does her infant son. Agatha is supposed to be one of the sympathetic characters, but here Anderson bumps her off too with a cheap aside.
Why do so many people find Anderson's vision so enchanting? Perhaps it's the pleasure they feel when his quirky misfits triumph over a coterie of reactionaries (as the evil Dmitri fails to deprive Gustave of his inheritance). Underneath all the slapstick, is standard melodrama (the bad guys getting their comeuppance), mixed with a touch of black humor. In the Anderson oeuvre, there's a lot to see, but he has hardly anything to say.
The narrative begins when a famous author in 1985 recounts a visit he made to the then decaying Grand Budapest Hotel in 1968; he then met the owner, Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham), who recounts his days as a lobby boy at the hotel in 1932. The hotel is located in the fictional Republic of Zubrowka, a remnant of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire. One is reminded of the Marx Brother's take on their own fictional Balkan Republic, "Freedonia," but alas in Anderson's "homage," there are no laughs!
Ralph Fiennes plays M. Gustave, the concierge at the hotel, who takes Zero, the young lobby boy (who is the narrator of the story in his old age), under his wing. Gustave, an admitted bisexual, has been having a very brief affair with the elderly owner of the hotel, "Madame D," who soon dies under mysterious circumstances. She bequeaths a rare painting, "Boy with Apple," which enrages the Madame's son, Dmitri (Adrian Brody), who insists Gustave is not entitled to it. Despite Dmitri's opposition, Gustave steals the painting anyway (aided by Zero), and returns it to the Grand Budapest Hotel, where he places it in the hotel safe. Gustave makes Zero his heir, in return for his help.
The Madame's secretary, Serge X, is forced into accusing Gustave of murdering the old lady and Gustave ends up in prison. Gustave remarks that he earned the respect of hardened criminals by "beating the sh-t out of one of them for challenging his "virility." To make a long story short, Gustave digs his way out of prison using tools hidden in cakes baked by Zero's fiancée, Agatha. He and Zero are pursued by an assassin hired by Dmitri, Jopling (William Dafoe) who ends up murdering Serge. Jopling gets his comeuppance at the hands of Zero, who pushes him off a cliff. If this isn't enough, there's also a gunfight with Dmitri and the discovery of a second will inside the painting, proving Gustave's innocence.
The reason, most of this hokum isn't funny, is because Anderson's antagonists are unlikeable. Take for example Dmitri—when he first encounters Gustave he calls him a "fagg-t" and slaps him in the face. While Anderson attempts to lighten the scene up when other characters start hitting each other in the face, the damage cannot be undone: Dmitri remains an unpleasant villain throughout. In real farce, we experience the outrage without the consequences. But there are consequences aplenty when Serge is murdered up at the rectory. Even Gustave's death during the epilogue, at the hands of those fascist-like soldiers on the train, sounds the wrong note for a film that should be light-hearted (just like "Duck Soup"). And why all those anachronistic expletives throughout the movie? Why must the elegant Gustave say things that he beat the "sh-t" out of that prisoner? Anderson relies on these out-of-character remarks, to obtain a few cheap laughs.
Dana Stevens wonders in Slate Magazine, what Anderson is really trying to say here: "As played with a melancholy rakishness by the handsomer-than-ever Fiennes, M. Gustave is one of Anderson's more memorable creations—but he's stranded in a movie that, for all its gorgeous frills and furbelows (including a lush musical score by Alexandre Desplat and a surfeit of charming cameos from Anderson regulars like Jason Schwartzman, Ed Norton, and Bill Murray), never seemed to me to be quite sure what it was about. Youth, age, rivalry, and mentorship? Nostalgia for a lost way of life? The ineluctable slaughterhouse of 20th-century European history? These are big, dark themes, ideas that the director (who also wrote the screenplay, with a story assist from his friend Hugo Guinness) seems both obsessed by and game to explore. But somehow Anderson never quite lets himself (or his characters, or by extension, us) get to the deepest, darkest places those paths might lead." Stevens gets it right when she concludes that with Anderson "everything remains in that familiar register of chilly, stylish remove."
Ultimately, one can never care for any of Anderson's characters. They are written intentionally not to be taken seriously. Take Agatha and her death from "the Prussian Grippe." Not only does Agatha die but so does her infant son. Agatha is supposed to be one of the sympathetic characters, but here Anderson bumps her off too with a cheap aside.
Why do so many people find Anderson's vision so enchanting? Perhaps it's the pleasure they feel when his quirky misfits triumph over a coterie of reactionaries (as the evil Dmitri fails to deprive Gustave of his inheritance). Underneath all the slapstick, is standard melodrama (the bad guys getting their comeuppance), mixed with a touch of black humor. In the Anderson oeuvre, there's a lot to see, but he has hardly anything to say.