One of the most well-written/presented films I've seen, Wes Anderson's The Grand Budapest Hotel eclectically and photogenically entices his audiences to cerebrally strap themselves in, inexhaustibly affixing literary liaisons to his rambunctious gentleman's club, scriptual guardrails, amphetamines, and incisors distilled then disseminated, meticulously tidy and neat, lead character and director functioning as one, the details, the details, the details, affluence aplombed, in a duty-bound celestial amazement.
To serve is to rectify.
Young love, friendship, greed devotion admiration jealousy deflection prison-breaks swathed in a flame forsworn to its adversaries.
Retreat.
Contours convened on a swollen strap eased into vertical environed retinal eschews.
Pause.
Consented entrapping pursuant cavalcades.
Mentors and mendicants flossed in the grip.
Critical high-level catered expenditures.
Horizons harassed and danubed.
Treachery, intransigence, vertigo.
Withstanding any attempts to halt its progression, The Grand Budapest Hotel epitomizes g(u)ilded prestige, hostages lacking ransom, taste without snobbery.
Envisioned, exercised, and executed, I hesitate to say, it's my favourite Wes Anderson film yet.
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