Film of the Week: The Grand Budapest Hotel (15) *****

The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Grand Budapest Hotel
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When Wes Anderson is good, he’s very good - dare I say it, brilliant - and when he’s occasionally off-key, the Texan writer-director still puts other filmmakers in the shade.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is a tour-de-force of invention and creativity.

It’s a brilliantly bonkers ensemble comedy from a filmmaker who marries quirky production design with eccentric characters and wry humour, yet still manages to find a nub of humanity in every outlandish situation.

Anderson marshals an incredible cast including regular collaborators Owen Wilson, Jason Schwartzman and Bill Murray, plus he teases out an uproarious and energetic performance from Ralph Fiennes as the suave protagonist at the centre of the mystery.

A neat framing device introduces Zero Moustafa (Tony Tevolori), a lobby boy at one of eastern Europe’s celebrated establishments, the Grand Budapest Hotel in the Republic of Zubrowka.

Zero works under legendary concierge Gustave H (Fiennes), who the lobby boy fondly remembers.

Clients, especially older women, are putty in Gustave’s well-manicured hands and he lavishes them with affection, including ageing matriarch Madame D (Tilda Swinton).

When she perishes in suspicious circumstances and leaves a priceless Renaissance painting to Gustave in her will, grief-stricken relatives including Madame’s greedy son Dmitri (Adrien Brody) plot the concierge’s downfall.

The finger of suspicion points at Gustave and he goes on the run with wily police chief Henckels (Edward Norton) and Dmitri’s sadistic henchman (Willem Dafoe) in hot pursuit.

The Grand Budapest Hotel offers audiences a luxurious five-star stay inside Anderson’s vision.

If Fiennes is a revelation in a rare comedic role, supporting performances are equally memorable including Swinton’s cranky grand dame and Jeff Goldblum’s ill-fated lawyer.

‘The plot thickens, so they say. Why? Is it a soup metaphor?’ wonders Gustave aloud as the truth about Madame D’s death comes into focus - and we lap up every sublime soupy metaphor with gusto