Ralph Fiennes and Tony Revolori star in "The Grand Budapest Hotel."

First, it must be said: Wes Anderson will never, ever make a movie that will be considered anything less than an unequivocal success. Anderson can do whatever he wants, and a large gaggle of coonskin-capped, khaki-shorts-attired hipsters will ensure that he turns a profit and acquires some amount of critical praise. However, popularity is not the standard of art, unless we are willing to elevate “NCIS” to the head of the modern aesthetic pantheon; and while “The Grand Budapest Hotel” shows Anderson at his technical peak and will be wildly popular in what has become his niche audience, its content falters in comparison with his earlier work. Though “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is perhaps the director’s most visually striking piece to date, it fails to engage the viewer emotionally, and as a result it never transcends its status as a technical exercise—a very beautiful trifle to be sure, but a trifle nonetheless.

The film’s frame story is that of an author, played by Jude Law and Tom Wilkinson, giving the account of his meeting with Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori and F. Murray Abraham), the richest man in the former Republic of Zubrowka. While staying at a decaying resort, the eponymous Grand Budapest Hotel, Zero tells his life’s story, beginning with his apprenticeship as a lobby boy to Monsieur Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes), the Grand Budapest’s celebrated concierge and gigolo. After M. Gustave is accused of the murder of Madame D. (Tilda Swinton), one of the hotel’s patrons and the concierge’s lover, he is imprisoned, and it is up to Zero to free him and help exonerate him. As is the case in Anderson’s prior films, the ensemble cast performs brilliantly.

Visually, this movie is perhaps the pinnacle of Anderson’s technical career—the careful integration of exquisite stop-motion animation sequences works seamlessly with the bright, gingerbread-house-like sets for the live action. The film’s aesthetic is a brilliant, nostalgic but mildly ironic evocation of pre-war Central Europe that gives it a distinctive flavor, while at the same time being a quintessential Anderson film with the quintessential Anderson shots: the bunk bed, the room service trolley (down to the single pink rose), the city roofs.

The disappointment arises from the film’s lack of engaging emotional content. Anderson’s strongest work, although always whimsical, is founded on a profound wistfulness or melancholy. “The Royal Tenenbaums,” for example, is a very funny movie, but beneath its surface it is a very sad movie.  What stays with the viewers is not so much the montage of Margot’s romantic adventures but the look in Richie’s eyes as he opens his veins. The agonizing neuroses of the brothers in “The Darjeeling Limited” cuts much deeper than Francis’s hilariously bandaged face. Even at the center of “Moonrise Kingdom” there is a certain heartbreak that keeps it relatable to the viewer. “The Grand Budapest Hotel” has no emotional content that can rival these works. The father-son relationship between M. Gustave and Zero never transcends artifice; Zero’s romance with the pastry-maker Agatha (Saoirse Ronan) has the feeling of an afterthought. The problem is not in a lack of subtlety. Peter in “The Darjeeling Limited” is not a subtle character; however, he is also the finest one that Anderson has ever written. The problem is the fact that the characters of the newest movie are not just unsubtle—they are at a certain level unsympathetic. At the end of “The Royal Tenenbaums,” the viewer undergoes deep catharsis from the rehabilitation of Royal; at the end of “The Grand Budapest Hotel,” the viewer does not really care about the conclusion of Zero’s romance with Agatha. Perhaps realizing this flatness, Anderson attempts to introduce a theme of decay by showing the hotel’s sadly reduced state at the time of the frame story; ultimately, however, this effort fails to ground the film on more serious footing.

Wes Anderson has shown himself to be a masterful artist time and time again, and so one must hope that “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is merely a brief misstep—and, it must be emphasized, a beautifully made misstep—and not the beginning of a general decline. A return to the themes of his earlier career may be in order; otherwise, it is only a few short steps to the creation of mere tableaux vivants: pretty, but far from great cinema.

—Staff writer Jude D. Russo can be reached at jude.russo@thecrimson.com.