I have been a Wes Anderson fan ever since Mum told us to go to the neighbouring town to see The Royal Tenenbaums, because it seemed like a quirky little film. Quirky enough not to be shown at our local cinema, at least. I was a young teenager, and knew nothing about films except that I loved them. I think what I found in Wes Anderson’s strange family tale was a love of every aspect of movie-making. Even though I love his other films, it is only The Grand Budapest that finally replaced Tenenbaum as my favourite. Luckily, it doesn’t feel like a culmination, nor has his style gotten tired or overused. I can’t imagine a time when it will.
The story of the Grand Budapest Hotel is a story in a story in a story. A young girl goes to visit the grave of a famous author, whose book tells the story of the time he met the owner of the Grand Budapest Hotel, and this owner in turn tells of how he came into its possession. But in actuality, the movie is about the great concierge of the Grand Budapest, Gustave H., played by Ralph Fiennes, and his adventures, for lack of a better term.