Review: "The Grand Budapest Hotel"

Director: Wes Anderson
Runtime: 100 minutes

When the first promotional materials for The Great Budapest Hotel arrived, many were quick to proclaim it, "the most Wes Andersonian movie ever." Though the connotation changed depending on the individual, this line of thought has largely remained unchallenged in the run up to the film's release. Anderson's films have always been highly stylized, but with Budapest, he seemed to be charging ahead into previously unknown levels of Andersonian-ness, for better or for worse. Level shot compositions? Check. Deadpan dialogue and performances? Absolutely. Quirkiness that's often in danger of slipping into cloying preciousness? Of course. 

With so many prepared lines and jokes about how Anderson seemed on the verge of self-parody, all that was left was to examine the finished product. In a way, the joking gut reactions were right. The Grand Budapest Hotel is unmistakably an Anderson film. But this is hardly self parody. Building on the momentum of 2012's excellent Moonrise Kingdom, Anderson's latest is a culmination of his style, and his evolution as both stylist and storyteller. 

Yet where his previous film took its time setting up its characters and only gradually pushed the narrative forward, Budapest finds Anderson hitting the ground sprinting. Split across three different time periods, the narrative unfolds in the manner of a Russian nesting doll, with flashbacks giving way to flashbacks, and so on. Unlike a nesting doll, however, the layers of Anderson's film grow larger as we're taken deeper into the narrative. The outermost doll, involving an aging writer (Tom Wilkinson) recounting an incident in his younger days (as played by Jude Law), is barely there at all. It would be tempting to label it superfluous, but it adds a nice accent to the the infinitely more eventful pair of layers that dominate the story.

The most important of those layers takes us to 1932, in the fictional nation of Zubrowska. In a lavish mountain resort (the titular hotel), we meet the promiscuous, eccentric concierge Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes), and his new lobby boy Zero (Tony Revolori). Anderson has shifted his gaze from young love to the relationship between mentor and student, and it pays off rather brilliantly. The 1932 scenes dominate the film, with Fiennes and Revolori's unlikely chemistry acting as a lovingly silly anchor for the dozens of chess pieces moving around them. Fiennes, in particular, is outstanding, and proves to be a surprisingly adept match for Anderson's full throttle deadpan approach. His shifts from silky smooth calm to profanity-driven are perfectly timed, and only enhance the strength of Anderson's screenplay. 

Outside of Gustave and Zero, however, Budapest is more concerned with its narrative and structural intricacies than it is with fleshing out the rest of the ensemble. Thankfully, that's (mostly) the right decision. The supporting cast is filled with nice turns from an exhaustive list of previous Anderson collaborators (Edward Norton, Bill Murray, and aged-up Tilda Swinton), all of whom make a nice impression without throwing off the film's focus. The standout, though, is Willem Dafoe, whose inherently unsettling face is used for perfectly executed bits of dark comedy.

With so many players, it's remarkable just how effortlessly Anderson juggles all of the pieces of his intricate screenplay. At 100 minutes, it's hard to find a wasted minute. Anderson's pacing is snappier than ever, and it's complimented nicely by the sharp editing. I counted only one instance when I felt a scene was going on too long, and it wrapped up shortly after I had time to even make note of it.

More importantly is that Anderson is able to retain his distinctive voice while still focusing so heavily on plotting. Whatever parts of the trailers and clips looked like self parody fit perfectly into place in full context. The screenplay is stuffed full of good lines and exchanges, and the perfectly in sync cast hardly misses a beat. Visually, the film is easily Anderson's lushest, with the decades of change marvelously chronicled with the shifting interior designs of the hotel's lobby, as well as the vibrant costumes. Returning composer Alexandre Desplat adds a nice bit of extra momentum to the zippy pacing with his balalaika-infused score, ensuring that even the quieter moments are kept up to speed.

Where The Grand Budapest Hotel will likely prove divisive comes down to its darker elements. While Anderson has never exactly shied away from darkness, he certainly never dwells on applies it in a heavy-handed manner. The main flashback, though set in a fictional country, still takes place between the two World Wars, and there are hints of the oncoming destruction scattered throughout. There's also the nature of the violence that pops up in brief moments. Though the film is gorgeously designed and shot with the look of a fairy tale, it is punctuated by incidents of violence that are jolting. Not because they're particularly graphic, but simply because it sticks out and suggests a darker undercurrent to an otherwise charming world. Gustave uses the hotel to keep the changing world at bay, yet the moments of violence and darkness still find their ways in. It's not so much a battle between old and new as much as a test to see how long Gustave's old "civilized" world can hold out before caving.

These darker moments, however, are handled so efficiently that it's easy to understand why some would find Anderson's approach shallow. There's a lot going on at the surface of The Grand Budapest Hotel, but whether or not one connects to it will likely determine how much one feels is going on underneath the gloriously decorated facade. Personally, I found nearly everything about Budapest to be successful, even as I longed for a touch more of the humanity that Anderson brought to Moonrise Kingdom. But, of course, they're two very different types of films, and each demands a different combination of Anderson's expected ingredients. If Moonrise Kingdom was a small but shockingly satisfying dinner, then The Grand Budapest Hotel is his elaborate attempt at a desert. How much nourishment it provides will be up for debate, but you can't deny the thoroughly original level of thought that went into its execution.

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Le Week-End"

Director: Roger Michell
Runtime: 93 minutes

In the aftermath of last year's Before Midnight, speculation began as to whether Richard Linklater would eventually make a fourth film in his acclaimed Before series. Linklater has plenty of time, as nine years passed between each of the Before films. However, British director/writer team Roger Michell and Hanif Kureishi have gotten a jump on Linklater and company with their newest collaboration, Le Week-End. Unintentionally continuing in the vein of Linklater's films, Le Week-End injects an extra does of emotional discord into its central relationship, resulting in a darker, yet still winning journey about love settling in for inevitable decline.

Rather than Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, Michell's camera finds itself following Jim Broadbent and Lindsay Duncan around a major European locale. Said locale is Paris, where Broadbent's Nick and Duncan's Meg have returned in attempt to revisit their honeymoon spot and enliven their marriage. Like other duo-driven films, the plot is loose and open-ended, allowing the character's interactions to take center stage. 

The immediate difference, however, is that Kureishi's script doesn't spend time trying to charm the audience. Despite the visual splendors of the City of Light, Le Week-End is quick to point out that Nick and Meg's 30 year marriage has its share of weaknesses. Before Midnight showed its characters stumbling through their first major arguments. Le Week-End, by contrast, shows those arguments as having become woven into daily life. A simple moment can give rise to an uncomfortable confession or frustration, and vice versa. 

Despite immediately showing one the rockiness of Nick and Meg's relationship, the film still does an intelligent job of parsing out the actual details across the 90 minute duration. And, when information does arrive, it is either done so briefly (details from a phone call) or eloquently (a humbling speech at a dinner party). Whatever flaws these two have, Michell and Kureishi have still approached them with a measured sense of compassion. 

Said approach is showcased beautifully in Broadbent and Duncan's performances, which feel nicely lived in from the opening scene. Duncan, a veteran of British TV, may not be as well known to American audiences as her Oscar-winning co-star, but she effortlessly holds her own. If anything, the majority of the film belongs to her characters emotions, while Broadbent takes on the slightly passive role. Of the two, Meg is more easily frustrated with the relationship, and Duncan channels into a carefully balanced mix of tough love and anger. Broadbent, meanwhile, saves most of his energy for the later stretches, where he truly gets to grab hold of some rich material and nail it with understated mastery.

Cast wise, the only other notable name is Jeff Goldblum as Nick's former colleague Morgan. Early notices pegged Goldblum as a scene-stealer, though I'm not quite convinced. It becomes apparent that Morgan is supposed to be a bit smug, yet Goldblum's early scenes feel overly broad, with the actor resorting to a distractingly breathy delivery to indicate excitement. In a movie that has such a grounded, intimate feel, Goldblum's borderline schtickiness is irksome, and not quite in the way I suspect it was intended. 

Goldblum aside, the only other notable issue to be found is in the ending, where several important issues rear their heads in an unfortunately choppy way. Though it is the polar opposite in terms of scale, Le Week-End starts to develop Return of the King-syndrome, with one too many shots appearing as though they're meant to be the last. And, once the actual finale arrives, it feels inappropriately uncertain. On a cinematic level, it's charming, yet there are so many unresolved issues that it seems like a cop out. Michell maintains the emotional balancing act so well, so it's puzzling to see him stick such a wobbly landing. While that's hardly enough to undo the strength of everything else, it remains a minor frustration in an otherwise honest and touching exploration of love and marriage. Stick it between the Before series and Michael Haneke's Amour, and you'll have one hell of a complete look at the evolution of love, for better and for worse. 

Grade: B+