Wes Anderson’s dazzling new “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is course after course of desserts: marzipans, macarons, crรจme brรปlรฉe, tiramisu and profiteroles, presented with a flourish and served so promptly that you can barely catch your breath between treats. It’s not until an hour or two has passed that you realize, for all the wonderful flavors and beautiful plates, that you haven’t really eaten anything.
It’s a film that could be called reactionary — it’s a valentine to aristocratic, pre-WWII Europe as seen through the eyes of a South Asian immigrant — if Anderson weren’t such an aggressively apolitical filmmaker. His main agendas seem to be nostalgia and a dislike of authority (tempered by a love of mentors), and both are on full display here.