the wes anderson collection the grand budapest hotel book

The central figure in the film is one Gustave H ( Ralph Fiennes, on mercurial form), the concierge of the eponymous hotel, which is located not in Ruritania but an equally fictitious principality called Zubrowka. In fact, like much of Anderson's work, you get the feeling many of the scenes have been lifted directly from a sketchbook certain sequences here are animated with little discernible effect on the general sensibility.

Anderson has concocted what is essentially a Ruritanian picaresque, stuffed full of bizarre character studies, and fashioned with his, by now familiar, handcrafted attention to detail. Without being a direct adaptation of anything specific, The Grand Budapest Hotel distils many of the story's elements. Zweig specialised in novellas – Letter from an Unknown Woman, Fear, The Royal Game – normally designed to illuminate some plangent melodrama in interwar Vienna. The arrival of The Grand Budapest Hotel is particularly appropriate, for this is the moment in the Anderson oeuvre when he turns to consider all things Mitteleuropäische – refracted, as a closing credit tells us, through the work of the prolific Austrian writer Stefan Zweig.

W hatever the patchiness of the rest of its lineup, the Berlin film festival tends to start off with a bang, and this year is no exception: the world premiere of the new film from Wes Anderson, that master of archly sculpted dialogue and meticulous, retrofitted design.

The wes anderson collection the grand budapest hotel book