It has come to my attention that some of you, dear readers, still haven’t seen The Grand Budapest Hotel yet. As the protagonist, Gustave H, might say–this simply won’t do.
Alexandre Desplat who has done good work for Wes Anderson before, is at his best and from the first few haunting, yet lilting, notes of “Mr. Moustafa,” played as Jude Law climbs the hotel’s steps, you’ll be hooked. The story is told through the lens of four time periods, beginning with the present day and working back through time. It is a structure that is both easy to follow but highly effective in the film.
Wes Anderson has once again assembled his counter-culture brat pack including Adrien Brody, Willem Dafoe, Jeff Goldblum, Bill Murray, Edward Norton, Jason Schwartzmann, and Owen Wilson (to name a few) and brings his “L’Air de Panache” to the screen with his signature stylized look and characteristic idiosyncrasies. The movie swings from the hilariously obscene to the appreciation of high art. It is Anderson’s most accessible, marketable, and sentimental film yet. Viewers become engrossed in the world of this pink palace and Zumbrowka’s fine touches (goodies from Mendl’s, whiffs of Gustave’s cologne, etc.) and while this movie is emotional, it never reaches the point of saccharine nor does it prove detrimental to the underlying tone of the film. Don’t miss the opportunities to catch the slight touches of humor! Willem Dafoe turning his head briefly toward the camera and lifting his robe up to run, the howling organ music used for chase scenes through the hotel, and our narrator’s lack of interest in a fellow traveler’s heart attack at the beginning of the movie all make for a rousing, unique, and charming tale.
Gustave H, the protagonist, is more than a mere caricature–we see him angry, in compromising situations, and we even see him flippantly switch between his upstanding regimen to the base of his imperfect moral code. Of course, such characters are only given life if the actors live up to the task and, to me, this is Ralph Fienne’s grandest performance yet. Tony Revolori should not be overlooked either as he is disarmingly innocent and brave and fits the role of young Zero, the other protagonist, perfectly.
So, if you were to ask me, “Is it really worth going out and spending money?” or “Should I really watch an almost two hour movie directed by someone I’ve never heard of?” I would answer a resounding “Yes!” and echo that which young Zero says so many times in the film– “Truly.”
HIP claims no rights to anything related to the preview for The Grand Budapest Hotel nor do we claim to own anything. Source: IMDB
Also recommended for Wes Anderson fans and connoiseurs– The Wes Anderson Collection by Matt Zoller Seitz
by Orion J
it’s roughly 11:29pm and i have you roaming around in my mind, then again what else is new? i can imagine you humming along to these tunes while you tangle your fingers in my already so easily tangled hair and i’d count the minutes you spend trying to untangle yourself from me – limbs and all while you’re at it
before you left you made it a point to tell me about how i was like the light of your day and maybe i just might have imagined the caffeine scent that hangs over every single word that spills out of your beautiful mouth in that ridiculous accent of yours. you’re ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. i love the way you make shades of blue seem more vivd and i love the way it curves in to rest against my shoulders as i find inklings of you along the sleeves, almost as if you’re right here next to me. i’d fall asleep in an ocean with dreams as succulent as honey oozing from your lips, catching myself saying ‘good morning’ to a silhouette as i realise that i just may have left just enough space for you to slip your arms around my waist as you pull me close enough to rid the glass between our eyes
i’d like for that to happen again sometime, if you don’t mind and i’m sure you don’t judging by your sleepy murmurs that i manage to piece a ‘i wish you were laying here next to me’, out of when you dial me.
you asked me if i was angry at you, repeatedly, oddly enough you can’t help yourself on fridays. i brushed it off with a laugh and a roll of my eyes because you fail to realise that i could never stay angry at you because well, you make me feel so much more than that
[bullet train of emotions just rush into the gateway of my heart every time i lay my eyes on you]
anger is just my daily attire but you make me want to change into something new and that’s why i am so in love with you
in love with you.
maybe i’ll tell you when you ask me if I’m mad at you some friday of a week.
new years day, only someone like you would plan something right out of a reality television show and i wouldn’t switch channels to be honest, your heartbeat on my left as you leaned in and i don’t remember if i shut my eyes when yours graced mine but it was my first time and i know i play the blind card to it but i remember what exactly it felt like and how my heart was jumping out of chest and how you were trembling right against me as i asked you to kiss me again
[its been a few months and i still hesitate at the thought of kissing you because i’m so afraid of tripping up somewhere but it doesn’t make me want it any less because sometimes i feel like your sugar laced sweet every things could spill into me and i’d never forget how special you make me feel]
yes, i am aware that its ‘sweet nothings’ but anything you say means everything to me and maybe i don’t say it enough but the chance of you choking over my sweet abyss wasn’t a factor i would definitely let it slip out once in a while
you’ve asked me to describe what your scent was and well who would i be to say? i mean sure your scent clings onto my jacket no matter how many times it takes a spin in the wash almost like the thought of you contrasting against the carnival of fairy tale blue fairy lights i hang by the side of my bed, i’d like to imagine that you do the same, i’d like to imagine that you flip through the words left stranded in those pages i’ve spent days rewriting and taking minutes of my day to ensure that you’ll be able to read it – whenever you feel the blue from your clothes painting your spirit, i’d like to imagine that you curled up with your jacket at dusk the same way i did as i tried to dissect parts of me from you only to find that i really couldn’t
it’s the next day and 11:50pm, but you’re still on my mind,
“you’re like the light of my day i can’t get you out of my head sometimes,”
sometimes i flinch when someone make contact with my side and my shoulders but for a second i think that it just might be you cause’ i’m so used to you pressed up so close to me as you run your nails down my side in the darkness that swallows me whole late at night as you pull me closer eyes still on the screen ahead of us as i learn to let go and take your palm in mine, running my fingers over yours delicately just to remind myself that you are here and you are mine and that this moment is ours and ours alone like the others i’d store in the attic of my mind whereby i’d use the fireflies as light to read off the water colouring you’ve left in my mind.
i know you’ve never called me yours apart from that one time whereby i couldn’t differentiate between the sincerity caught between the tides of those flamboyant words of yours that entraps me with every breath as i submerge under the tides.
At night, she’s the first thing he sees. Some nights she clusters with friends. Other times she’s alone. But no matter, her beauty out shines all others. Some nights she plays coy and hides away. But no matter, he loves her just the same.
Serena Vela is currently a graduate student, working on her Masters, in the Language and Literature program at Our Lady of the Lake University. Currently, she lives and works in San Antonio, TX where she spends her free time practicing yoga and writing short stories.
by Chris Burton
Nights like these I miss the breeze
You don’t know how I bleed for you
Swing from poplar trees for you
The silence so violent
The summer so arrogant
I sit and I long
I long for the breeze
Who knew leviathans brood by oceans?
The arms that nursed you curse me daily
Fountains of iniquity that raised you to fail me
Yet in spite of these frailties we thrive
with dancing shoes
with cold sweat
with short breath
Oh cactus, you stubborn fool!
A desert for your kingdom
A lifetime with no reprieve
I too dream of home untarnished
Gentry dreams make me grieve
My home has no garden
No shelter from trees
But still I find comfort
when I’m blessed by breeze