I fell off the Wes
Anderson Wagon years back. I loathed “Moonrise Kingdom,” having OD’d on his
hipster bullshit. Now comes “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” and I’m back on board.
Maybe because this WWII-ish (that is, everything here is fictional and with
faux names) flick is pure caper, a 1940s-type adventure that plays like Tin-Tin
for adults, but with a sharp political edge on violence and the act of needing
a passport to travel our great world. But it never preaches. It’s a raunchy,
clever comedy. Ralph Fiennes (seriously funny and edgy) is Gustave, the
manager of the hotel of the title who obsesses every whim of his rich guests and
happily screws old ladies. When one (Tilda Swinton in makeup) croaks, Gustave
gets the blame. I won’t dish another word. Watch the story jump three hoops via
flashbacks and rocket forward, with the required Bill Murray cameo, Willem
Dafoe as a scar-faced killer, and a prison break better than the “Shawshank
Redemption.” Anderson thankfully is no longer out to impress us with just how
far out he can make a French movie reference, but is having pure, high fun. And
it works. A-
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