Wes Anderson directs this ornate tale of a cavalier concierge and his lobby boy. Featuring murder, art theft, and dessert, all the Wes Anderson hallmarks are in abundance: Flat, affected, grandiloquent dialogue. Symmetrical, deep focus cinematography. A rich color palette of mustards, corals, plums, and aquamarines. Gorgeous sets. Sumptuous art direction. A wry, serpentine screenplay. Exquisite acting. And finally, an Egon Schiele joke. Begging to be crushed beneath the weight of multiple Oscars, I hope Wes Anderson and his eccentric, blithe, and delightful The Grand Budapest Hotel will be awarded handsomely in 2015 after years of being unfairly ignored for Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, and Moonrise Kingdom. Playing more like an delicately seasoned amuse-bouche than a gravy-soaked plate lumped with hunks of chicken fried steak, The Grand Budapest Hotel is meant to please the palate, enchant the eye, and showcase the chef's skill, rather than gorge one's gluttony.