Wes Anderson’s "The Grand Budapest Hotel" is the cinematic equivalent of a pastry: beautiful, exquisitely-crafted and so immensely enjoyable that it seems too good to be real. Part-homage to pre-World War II Europe, part-tribute to memory and the passage of time and part-ridiculous slapstick, "The Grand Budapest"'s greatest achievement is not in its visual perfection but its literary sensibility. It’s what would