Grade: A-

Like a Faberge egg or an antique music box, Wes Anderson’s “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is a delight to the eye, intricately designed and flawlessly crafted. Bu also like such artifacts, it carries a strong aura of nostalgia for past eras more elegant and graceful than the coarse and brutal modern age. In doing so it shows a streak of tenderness and melancholy to go along with Anderson’s characteristic whimsy and wit, and thus continues the writer-director’s departure from mere preciousness that began with the enchanting “Fantastic Mr. Fox” and the lovely “Moonrise Kingdom.”

The film’s tone can be partially explained by the inspiration of Viennese author Stefan Zweig, whose work epitomized the old world but who was forced to flee Austria after the Anschluss, eventually committing suicide in 1942 in grief over how the civilization he esteemed was collapsing around him. But it also owes a good deal to the work of Ernst Lubitsch, especially “To Be or Not to Be,” which found humor and sophistication even against the backdrop of the Nazi takeover of Poland.

Plot-wise, the picture is basically a zany caper centering on M. Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes), the ultra-precise, supremely arrogant, incredibly articulate (and sometimes surprisingly foul-mouthed) concierge at the titular hotel—located in the non-existent state of Zubrowska somewhere in Eastern Europe—in 1932. But the narrative is twice removed from these wild events. The central story is introduced by a revered Zubrowskan author (Tom Wilkinson) in 1985, in a tape made during the epoch of communist bleakness. He recalls how, as a younger man (Jude Law) in 1968, he visited the hotel, meeting and dining with its peculiar owner Zero Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham), who—as the then concierge (Jason Schwartzman) confides—curiously insists on residing in a small servant’s room during his stays.

It’s Zero who relates the tale of M. Gustave, whom he served as a devoted lobby boy (Tony Revolori) three-and-a-half decades earlier. (It’s a perfect example of Anderson’s delicious attention to detail that he and cinematographer Robert Yeoman shoot the picture in three different aspect ratios according to the time in which scenes are set—the so-called ‘Academy’ ratio of 1:37:1 for the boxy thirties, widescreen 2:35:1 for 1968, and 1:85:1 for the eighties scenes. Movie buffs will eat the tactic up.)

While Gustave is a paternalistic martinet to the staff of the ornate establishment, it seems he’s also a sexual libertine, enjoying all sorts of assignations. He’s especially partial to rich, elderly women like octogenarian Madame D. (an almost unrecognizable Tilda Swinton). So taken with Gustave is the dowager that when she expires—leading Gustave, with Zero in tow, to go to her estate in order to pay their respects—the reading of her will by lawyer Kovacs (Jeff Goldblum) reveals that she’s left the concierge a supposedly priceless painting called “Boy With Apple” (attributed to one Johannes Von Hoytl the Younger).

Of course her son Dmitri (Adrien Brody) will not hear of this, so with the connivance of the late woman’s butler Serge X. (Mathieu Amalric) Gustave absconds with the masterpiece, leading Dmitri to send the family’s brutal enforcer Jopling (Willem Dafoe) to retrieve it and settle scores with Gustave. That leads to a madcap pursuit also involving Captain Henckels (Edward Norton) of the proto-fascist military police (with a character name certainly meant to recall Hynkel of Chaplin’s “The Great Dictator”); a prison break led by a brooding convict named Ludwig (Harvey Keitel); the intervention of a secret society of master concierges (among whose members are Bill Murray, Bob Balaban, Fisher Stevens, Waris Ahluwalia and Wally Wolodarsky); a surrealistically funny ski-and-toboggan chase, ending with a homage to Hitchcock’s “North by Northwest”; and a gun battle at the hotel itself.

Along the way Zero proves endlessly supportive of his boss, as does his girlfriend Agatha (Saoirse Ronan), a beauty even if she does have a most peculiar facial birthmark. Most of what transpires is amusing in the skewered tone typical of Anderson, but there are numerous moments—a nasty interrogation in a railway car, a chase through a darkened museum—that take on a distinctly dark, sinister feel, and others—Zero’s recitations of his own childhood and of the eventual fate of Gustave and Agatha—that are abruptly poignant, causing the chuckles to catch in your throat. They remind us that while the film is essentially a lark, it’s one set at a time when the old European civility the film recreates in fairy-tale style was being undermined by new, very ugly forces that would blossom as the century wore on.

Thus while “The Grand Budapest Hotel” is mostly as light, airy and delectable as the pastries that play a small but important role in the plot, it has some layers with almost acidic bite. The cast respond to the various flavors expertly, especially Fiennes, who gives a beautifully controlled performances, bringing a subtly manic quality to Gustave and responding gleefully to the role’s myriad physical demands. Newcomer Revolori, with his charmingly deadpan style, makes a perfect sidekick for him. And though those two dominate, the supporting cast is almost uniformly superb as well. The only exceptions are Norton, a fine actor who looks more uncomfortable than callow, and Wilson, whose surfer-dude persona is at odds with his short stint as Gustave’s replacement near the close.

As important as the actors are the behind-the-scenes crew—production designer Adam Stockhausen, art directors Gerald Sullivan and Steve Summersgill, set decorator Anna Pinnock and costume designer Milena Canonero, along with the special and visual effects team—who outdo themselves in realizing Anderson’s fantastical, singular visions. A strong contribution also comes from composer Alexandre Desplat, whose eclectic score allows for passages of classical music, like Vivaldi’s mandolin concerti.

Visually “The Grand Budapest Hotel” represents an explosion of artifice, and one can simply immerse oneself in it and enjoy the accompanying stream of wit and slapstick. But it also possesses a strain of seriousness beneath the frothy exterior. In creating such a glitteringly unreal picture of a fabulous past, it doesn’t ignore the darkness that will overwhelm it. The combination makes for an extraordinary whole.

Grade: A-

Most animated movies aimed at the family market—even the best of them—have a familiar air, but not “Rango.” Yes, it’s a takeoff on the conventions of westerns about the outsider who comes into town and saves the day. But in attitude and style it’s distinctive and witty, walking a fine line between respectful homage and spoof, with elements of both—sort of a combination of a spaghetti western and “Blazing Saddles,” and with allusions to scads of other pictures, including “Chinatown” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” It will probably appeal more to adults than children, a rarity indeed among such studio efforts. That could be its undoing in the marketplace, but it’s something those of us who have passed the age of 21 can rejoice in.

Johnny Depp voices the title character, a pet lizard with a thespian streak actually named Lars, that’s ejected from the family car as it passes through the southwestern desert and left on its own. On advice from Roadkill (Alfred Molina), a sage old armadillo, Lars makes his way across the desert toward a town called Dirt.

This initial section of Gore Verbinski’s movie has a zany, surrealistic streak—in terms of both its widescreen visuals and its semi-ghoulish episodes—that may well leave you wondering about the sanity of the makers. It begins with a long, bizarre sequence set in the car as it speeds along, during which the lizard “directs” the inanimate objects in his terrarium in weird plots he concocts to while away the time. Then, after the lizard’s tossed off the auto, there’s the surreal sequence with Roadkill, followed by a trek through the desert that’s both harrowing and slapsticky—involving a pursuit by a bird that’s like a much grimmer Road Runner short.

Eventually Lars reaches Dirt, a time-warp desert town suffering from drought. It’s presided over by a mayor who’s a wheelchair-bound turtle (Ned Beatty) and, from his oily tones, is obviously up to no good, especially since he’s trying to persuade Beans (Isla Fisher), the not-so-lovely lass Lars meets on his journey and is quickly smitten with, to sell the family farm—the last plot of local land he hasn’t acquired—though his purpose isn’t revealed until the end.

The catalyst for the revelation is Lars’s assumption of the post of town marshal and his effort literally to play the western hero as the self-styled Rango. The role not only brings him up against some major villains—most notably a gila-monster gunslinger called Bad Bill (Ray Winstone) and a huge rattlesnake named Jake (Bill Nighy)—but also a family of thieving prairie dogs. Eventually he saves the day, of course, but not until he overcomes a major reversal of fortune with the help of a mysterious, legendary figure called the Spirit of the West (voiced cannily by Timothy Olyphant, sounding very much like somebody else).

But a paraphrase doesn’t do justice to “Rango.” John Logan’s script follows well-worn western conventions, but dresses them up with consistently amusing dialogue and situations. It also populates the screen with a gallery of memorable supporting critter characters, each a remarkable sight in its own right, including a quartet of owls who form a Mexican band and comment on the action as it proceeds. And it makes room for plenty of interludes as peculiar and fascinating as the opening set-piece—like the oddball routine the townspeople go through each day to the strains of “Clear, Cool Water.” It’s also blessed with stellar voice talent. Depp is at his most winning here—equaling the work he did in Tim Burton’s animated films—and everyone else, from Beatty on down, is superlative.

And the widescreen visuals, done with the aid of Industrial Light and Magic (and consultation from master cinematographer Roger Deakins) are simply amazing. The use of light, shade and contrast is as impressive as I any animation that’s graced an American feature before. Happily they’re matched by character animation that’s just as fine. One other aspect should be mentioned as a key to the movie’s success: it’s not in 3-D, so the images aren’t darkened and clouded by the glasses that format demands. You get to see them in all their pristine glory.

There are occasional drawbacks in “Rango.” The need to add elements to appeal to younger viewers leads to the inclusion of some protracted chase sequences and slapstick bits that seem a bit at odds with the overall tone. But for the most part the film shows a distinctive vision—Verbinski’s, if you judge from his underrated live-action “The Weather Man” and some of the weird tangents of his “Pirates of the Caribbean” franchise—that it carries through without compromise. The result is an animated picture that can bear comparison to Pixar’s best—and in many ways shows an even more original spirit.