I’ve had it with Wes Anderson.
The Grand Budapest
Hotel looks marvelous, represents a unique vision, and tells its story with
wit and creativity. I hated it. It’s the Manic Pixie Dream Girl of movies.
Its love interest has a birthmark the exact shape of Mexico
running down her cheek because – whimsy!
Its one honest and noble character meets a horrific end
because – unpredictability!
Its paragon of class and carriage is a vulgar buffoon
because – honesty!
It concludes with an image suggesting an entire nation
living in grateful wonder at its story because – self-indulgence!
I swear to God, I half-expected this movie to pull out a
ukulele and improvise a tune about the wonder of dewdrops. Up yours.
Entertain me. Blow up a car.
