Ralph Fiennes in Wes Anderson’s “The Grand Budapest Hotel”
“THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL” My rating: B (Opens wide on March 21)
100 minutes | MPAA rating: R
Wes Anderson’s “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is a whopper of a shaggy dog story – or more accurately, it’s a series of shaggy dog stories that fit neatly inside one another like one of those painted Russian dolls.
The film’s yarn-within-a-yarn structure and a delightfully nutty perf from leading man Ralph Fiennes are the main attractions here. I had hoped that “Grand Budapest…” would scale the same emotional heights as Anderson’s last effort, the captivating “Moonrise Kingdom.”
It doesn’t. But there’s still plenty to relish here.
Describing the film requires a flow chart. But here goes:
In the present in a former Eastern Bloc country, a young woman visits the grave of a dead author and begins reading his book The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Suddenly we’re face to face with the writer (Tom Wilkinson), who is sitting at the desk in his study. After a few introductory comments and a brusque cuffing of a small boy who is proving a distraction, the author begins telling us the plot of his novel.
Now we’re in the 1990s in the formerly sumptuous but now dog-eared Grand Budapest hotel in the Eastern European alps. Staying there is a Young Writer (Jude Law) who befriends the mysterious Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham). An aged empresario who owns several of Europe’s most luxurious hotels, Moustafa keeps the Grand Budapest running for nostalgic reasons.
Ralph Fiennes, Saoirse Ronan
Over a series of dinners, Moustafa describes his youth as a bellboy at the Grand Budapest and his apprenticeship in the pre-war years with the hotel’s legendary concierge, M. Goustave (Ralph Fiennes).
This is where the film proper kicks into gear. Anderson gives us a visual cue: suddenly the widescreen image mutates into the old-fashioned square frame of the films of the 1930s.
Fiennes’ Goustave is an imperious fellow who runs the hotel with an iron fist in a velvet glove. And like Max Bialistock in Mel Brooks’ “The Producers,” Goustave is a seducer of rich old ladies. One of these prunish biddies (Tilda Swinton) dies, leaving a handwritten will that gives Goustave a priceless painting.
Her children, especially her ruthless son Dmitri (Adrien Brody), aren’t giving up without a fight. First Dmitri sends his hired killer (Willem Dafoe) to see to the old lady’s lawyer (Jeff Goldblum). Then he arranges to have Goustave arrested for murdering the old gal.
Tony Revolori as Zero
All this is observed by the bellboy Zero (Tony Revolori, playing the younger version of Moustafa), who accompanies Goustave on numerous misadventures and, with the help of a pastry chef (Saoirse Ronan) sets in motion a plan to free Goustave from prison.
There’s more, but you get the picture. “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is a breathless romp filled with deadpan hilarity, Anderson’s trademark visual flourishes, and a host of supporting characters played by members of his ever-expanding stock company.
Keep your eyes open for Harvey Keitel, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Jason Schwartzman, Owen Wilson, Bob Balaban, Lea Seydoux, and Mathieu Almaric. Some are only on screen for a few seconds, making “Grand Budapest” a cinematic version of Where’s Waldo?
The film looks absolutely edible — Adam Stockhausen’s production design envisions the hotel in its prime as a giant layer cake. And the film mixes Depression-era realities with sumptuous high living that keeps us zig zagging between posh opulence and gritty poverty.
Holding it all together is Fienne’s performance as a man who is simultaneously reprehensible and inspirational. It’s a richly comic performance, yet one with a center of truth that makes Goustave almost endearing.
| Robert W. Butler
Butler's Cinema Scene 
Its official: I don’t “get” Wes Anderson. This visually stunning film is billed as a comedy but except for one person in the audience who occasionally chuckled quietly the predominant sound in the well-attended showing I witnessed was silence. At first it was anticipatory silence, waiting for the groundwork to be laid for hilarity to ensue. And then it was silence that seemed to hold hope for a good engaging story. But ultimately it was silence just wanting it all to be over.
This emperor has not comedy clothes. Mr Anderson either doesn’t understand the basic construct of comedy, tension/release (set-up/ punchline (or visual gag)) or he is trying (and failing) to craft his own version of humor. Having seen a number of his movies I conclude he gets in his own way by trying to be too clever by half rather than simply telling a clear story and “Grand Budapest Hotel” is the best example yet. He has a fantastic cast with a near brilliant central performance by Fiennes, plus a profound visual design team and cinematography work, but we never care about any of the shenanigans or people. It is all so self-conscious that it gets in its own way.
And we never laugh!
The end credits say something to the effect that the movie was inspired by the works of the Austrian writer Stefan Zweig. I have never heard of Mr Zweig but this movie does him no credit. If a movie (or any work of art or tribute) is so self-absorbed and overthought/ over wrought that the story doesn’t engage the viewer then what is the point?
And we never laugh!
A Broadway play billed as a comedy that doesn’t produce guffaws by the minute wouldn’t last a week so I am baffled by the rapturous reviews for Mr. Anderson’s work.
Grade: C- A waste of time saved only by the tech and performances.
Have to agree. Felt I’d seen all the punch lines over and over from viewing preview trailers. Think I might have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t seen any preview and everything was fresh. Did not lead up to expectations. There were 3 of us and we all felt the same.