Wes Anderson's films are in a world of their own, and this is - regardless of whether you enjoy them or not - something to treasure. Sure, their arch style, precise framing, slight plots, mannered characters, eccentric design and quirky sensibility will rub some people up the wrong way; but it is just reassuring to know that there are filmmakers out there doing something so uncompromisingly "them" that you can distinguish their work from a fleeting glimpse.


Clearly actors relish getting a chance to play in Anderson's sandpit, with a long list of his regular ensemble popping up in varying roles here, providing a reliable cadre around the new faces to Anderson's universe who - largely - populate the main roles.


Primarily the film is concerned with the legendary concierge Gustave M. (Ralph Fiennes), who is notorious for the service he provides at the titular hotel. We first meet him bidding his nineteenth seasonal farewell to octogenarian Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), and then hastily interviewing new lobby boy Zero (Tony Revolori).


A few days later and Madame D. has died, Gustave goes to pay his respects and discovers he has become the inheritor of a priceless painting. This infuriates Madame D.'s brattish son Dmitri (Adrien Brody) and, on a daring whim, Gustave and Zero swipe the painting.


What follows is a gently madcap caper involving stream trains, prison escapes, vicious assassinations, ski chases and cakes. Perhaps most apt of all these occurences is the film's constant return to Mendl's fine confectionary, which is where Zero meets Agatha (Saorise Ronan), but more importantly the dainty, immaculate little towers of sugar-coated delicacies that the cake shop produces act as a perfect visual metaphor for this film. Indeed, the Grand Budapest Hotel - in its 1930s prime - resembles an appetising, big pink sponge dessert perched atop a hill.


Whilst visually the film is an absolute feast, and the performances are whimsical and full of enthusiasm, there is something a little under-nourishing about this story as a whole. Perhaps it's the mannerisms get in the way of the connection between characters, or the ultimately somewhat flippant narrative itself, but - aside from the impending rise of fascism in Europe making a striking appearance at times - this is one of Anderson's least emotionally involving films.


Nonetheless, the film is a consistently enjoyable indulgence, featuring a superb central performance from Fiennes who manages to deftly, expertly pushes and pulls the film from the ludicrous to the sublime with an exactitude worthy of Gustave (and Anderson's much lampooned precision) himself.

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