Wes Anderson is a gem. Everything he creates is a pure joy to sit through. Perhaps pointless and perhaps plotless, but a joy nonetheless. If you have ever had the pleasure of reading one of his scripts, which you absolutely should if you have not yet, you know how meticulous and precise he is. Every piece of furniture and every plate of food is described down to the last detail. It is amazing. He is an incredible specimen and a brilliant artist.
The Grand Budapest Hotel, Anderson’s newest film, is a piece of art. I cannot comment on the acting, because that would be a gross misunderstanding of what the movie is. Although equipped with a star studded cast (Bill Murray, Owen Wilson, Ed Norton, Adrien Brody, Jeff Goldblum, Jude Law, Saoirse Ronan, Tilda Swinton, Jason Schwartzman…), it is not about the acting at all. This movie is about the surge up from the pit of the stomach to the heart in every aspiring filmmaker’s body when they see the tracking shot of Wilson delivering pastries through a bright red hotel lobby. Anderson, often considered to be a hipster’s dream director, has created a piece of work that is as charming as its featured dessert, a stack of frosted puffs from Mendl’s.
What I will say, however, is that I appreciate the maturity that comes along with this film. It is bloodier than Moonrise Kingdom, which certainly did not include a severed head in a box or fingers being chopped off. We get to see a darker side of Anderson and his beloved dolly, which is refreshing and intriguing.
The movie, in a dark and twisted way, is hilarious. To understand the ridiculous form of humor that comes along with a movie as stylized as this, one must give up on their search for a realistic story or a relatable character. It is all caricature, it is all make believe, and that is what makes it beautiful.