FILM REVIEW: THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL

M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) in The Grand Budapest Hotel.

Concierge can(dan)dy

By John Esther

Inspired by the writings of Stefan Zweig -- a middlebrow, middle class, Viennese, classically liberal author who was very popular throughout many parts of Europe and the U.S. in the 1920s and 1930s — the latest film by Wes Anderson (The Royal Tenenbaums; Moonrise Kingdom) follows the adventures of a cunning(lingus-t) concierge named M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes) and his loyal sidekick, Zero (Tony Revolori), who must outwit robbers, a psychopath killer, and the law as 1930s Europe begins to fall prey to a sinister form of government.

The film opens up in a charming manner with Author (Tom Wilkinson) giving us viewers a lecture on where authors draw his or her source materials. To prove his point, he tells us the story about when he was a younger author (now played by Jude Law) and his encounter with Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham) during the final days of the titular hotel.

Now the owner of the hotel, Mr. Moustafa relates his story by flashing back to his first days at the hotel when he was a young man named Zero. During this time, the hotel was run by the greatest of concierges, M. Gustave (Ralph Fiennes). A Miranda Priestly, Cecil Gaines, and James Bond all rolled into one ubermensch, M. Gustave understood the needs and wants of every guest that stayed at this English-speaking hotel located in Eastern Europe. He demanded perfection from everyone, but most of all, himself. He was a marvel amongst men and Zero could not have asked for a better teacher. Along with the adoration from the proletariat immigrant Zero, nobody appreciated M. Gustave more than Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), a matriarch overseeing a vast fortune. M. Gustave was Madame D.’s most trusted confidante – in more ways than one.

Madame D. (Tilda Swinton) in The Grand Budapest Hotel.

 

When Madame D. dies, there is a big gathering at her estate. In noble contrast to the leeches, liars and thieves present, M. Gustave and Zero are there, but they are not welcomed by the likes of Madame D’s sons, Dmitri (Adrien Brody) and Jopling (Willem Dafoe). When it is announced by the executor of the estate, Kovacs (Jeff Goldblum), that M. Gustave has inherited an extremely valuable gift, Dmitri and others conspire to destroy M. Gustave and get the valuable gift back.

The best film of Anderson’s film to date, The Grand Budapest Hotel is amusing and it looks spectacular – thanks to director of photography Robert Yeoman, production designer Adam Stockhausen, costume designer Milena Canonero and Frances Hannon, the hair, make-up and prosthetic designer. Sterile, worldly, ornate and whimsical like his other films, you got to hand it to Anderson, whatever his shortcomings are as a storyteller, he has a vision that is unique. Anderson has a distinct style.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is a fun film to watch; perhaps too fun. In his quest to recreate a nostalgic world, full of wonder and adorable characters, Anderson lacks the attack to go after bigger, more consequential ideals. While this is 1930s Eastern Europe, the Nazis are never mentioned by name. In another scene there is a shootout on a hotel floor; this could have been made into a satire on “stand your ground” and the expansion of concealed weapon laws in the U.S., but instead shoots itself into silliness. While in another scene, M. Gustave discusses the advantages of sex with older women, but the accompanying images are made for comical effect.

In addition to Abraham, Brody, Dafoe, Fiennes, Goldblum, Law, Swinton and Wilkinson, The Grand Budapest Hotel also features Mathieu Amalric as the important witness, Serge X,  Edward Norton as the nice "Nazi", Henckels, Saoirse Ronan as Zero's love interest, Agatha, Jason Schwartzman as B-rate concierge, M. Jean, and a funny Harvey Keitel as Ludwig, a shirtless prisoner with twitchy muscles.

It is an impressive cast, but the casting begins to wear out its welcome toward the end when Bill Murray (M. Ivan), Bob Balaban (M. Martin) and Owen Wilson (M. Chuck) and others appear to play throwaway bit parts. Anderson aficionados may find this clever – an inside joke, I suppose; I found it distracting, if not crass.

However, to the credit of Anderson and some casting director on the film (there are many casting directors credited in the film), the filmmakers cast newcomer Revolori to fill a big role while working along with some very accomplished actors. Fortunately, Revolori holds his own as the unlikely orphan-turned-loyal lobby boy who would one day own a hotel.

Zero (Tony Revolori) in The Grand Budapest Hotel.

 

 

 

 

 

FILM REVIEW: WRECKED

Man (Adrien Brody) in Wrecked.

Road same

By Don Simpson

There is a wrecked car and two dead bodies: one in the backseat, one laying outside the car. The lone survivor, a nameless character (Adrien Brody), is pinned in the front passenger seat of the vehicle. Visibly bruised and bleeding, he tries as hard as he possibly can to get out of the car. It begins to rain and he finds himself cold and wet and just plain scared. His right leg is pinned somewhere underneath the glove compartment; his head is riddled with amnesia. He cries. He mutters curses. He moans. He writhes in pain. There is a pistol underneath the front seat. A female hiker (Caroline Dhavernas) appears to him. There is a mountain lion and a rifle-wielding man (Adrian Holmes).

What is real? What are his dreams or hallucinations? What the fuck?

This is a man who is existentially crippled by unhappy memories and ghosts of a guilty conscience. He repeatedly tries to come to terms with his situation, trying his best to hold off his ever-encroaching insanity. This is his Sisyphean purgatory; he is truly suffering for past deeds that he cannot recall, in this absurdly nightmarish version of solitary confinement.

Director Michael Greenspan's Wrecked finds itself in the casual victim pile of unfortunate timing, as we have all too recently seen two far superior films featuring a character trapped in a claustrophobic location (Danny Boyle's 127 Hours and Rodrigo Cortés' Buried) -- so, in this case, three is most definitely a crowd. Not quite as sublimely claustrophobic as Buried, this near-dialogueless anti-thriller directed by Greenspan deserves a certain amount of credit for sticking with its guns. Unlike 127 Hours, it is not until the closing minutes that we are given the opportunity to briefly escape our anonymous protagonist's hellish predicament (unfortunately, this one fleeting moment redeems our protagonist far too quickly).

Similar to James Franco in 127 Hours and Ryan Reynolds in Buried, Wrecked gives Brody ample opportunities to flash his impressive thespian chops, but other than Brody's intensely inspired performance, Wrecked does not have very much to offer its audience. Even during its relatively short running time of 90 minutes, I often found my attention wavering. I guess watching Brody sit in a car -- then drag himself around the forest -- is not mentally stimulating enough for me.