It is never easy to define, much less critique, a Wes Anderson film. They are filled to the brim with quirky characters who march a crooked but adventurous journey to the finish line. The Grand Budapest Hotel is the most bizarre caper of them all.
It is 1985, and the once stately hotel in the Republic of Zubrowka—somewhere between Germany, Hungary, and Russia—is worn and sagging. We travel back further in time to its former owner, Mr. Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham). We learn