The Grand Budapest Hotel Review

The design is not decoration here, it is the argument. Robert Yeoman shoots 1932 in boxy Academy ratio, the 1960s in widescreen, the present in something between, so the further back you travel the more contained and complete the world appears, which is exactly how nostalgia lies. Adam Stockhausen's pink confection of a hotel, the miniature funicular, the Mendl's box tied in blue ribbon: every frame is centered and symmetrical to the point of absurdity, and then the Zubrowkan fascists arrive and the symmetry starts to feel like a defense mechanism.

Ralph Fiennes is a revelation of timing, delivering elaborate courtesies and sudden profanity in a single breath, and Tony Revolori's straight-faced Zero grounds the whole contraption. The caper itself is deliberately slight, a will and a painting and a prison break, and the parade of cameos occasionally stalls the machine. But the last ten minutes reveal the confection as an elegy, and the joke curdles into grief with startling speed.