The Grand Budapest Hotel

Francisco and Cardigan and I went to see The Grand Budapest Hotel, since I love Central Europe and Francisco loves going to the movies.

The Grand Budapest Hotel shows Wes Anderson's playful imaginative vision. It's like a children's story, and yet not--chopped off fingers become even more grotesque in contrast to the film's dream-like charm.

I didn't buy the architectural transformation of the hotel's exterior from early 19th century Secession to communist brutalism (nor the interior, which changed from a grand staircase to a low-ceiling-ed European Mad Men look). But I did love the art--there's a Klimt in the background of one of the shots and the main painting of the film is taken down and replaced with an Egon Schiele (whose paintings are so shocking, you never forget it if you've seen one).

There is history--loyalty and tradition and secret clubs and generations. There is commitment to a place and a way of life and a person. But there are also new things, both good and bad--immigration and the effects of war and communism.

And, of course, there's loving a woman, which trumps all the rest.