I have wanted to love and adore Wes Anderson’s warm, primary color laden, fairy-tales of likeable, rootless eccentrics caught up in P.G.-Wodehouse-ian plots for a very long time. I have not loved nor adored anything at all by Anderson since Rushmore and have most frequently been disappointed by his films, and left feeling emotionally confused about whether it is my own ill-gained smug middle-agedness that prevents me from loving and adoring The Royal Tenenbaums as much as my friends seem to have, and if per chance it is my own…
Read MoreReview: The Grand Budapest Hotel
