“The Grand Budapest Hotel” is a moonlight swim in an enchanted, irretrievable past…
It’s a hallucinatory explosion of pinks, reds, and magentas that cling to grand traditions in an increasingly vulgar world. Brilliantly conceived and directed. Visually an ornately miniaturized, historical epic that made me think of a Matryoshka doll, a Fabergé egg, a child-emperor’s birthday cake, and the world’s largest, loveliest dollhouse.
With commanding flair, Ralph Fiennes – who’s been so busy barking at 007 and terrorizing Harry Potter – hopscotches between charm and terror, formality and obscenity. His performance as the last great concierge embodies a shimmering nostalgia for Old World ways even as it makes light of them.
And after the last whiff of L’air de Panache engulfs you, what remains is a MASTERFUL illusion from a genius magician and my favorite Wes Anderson movie to date.
You will feel as if you regained a lost piece of innocence. Like when the Carney’s blew into town during the dustbowl and you witnessed the Elephant Boy in the corduroy suit for the first time. Your blind eye can’t stop staring in wonder.
In case you’re wondering, I really enjoyed this movie!