e ugenie B rinkema Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss: On The Grand Budapest Hotel 1 I am beginning with an uncontroversial claim—to be shaded in, its qualities of appearance changed a bit later on� In his aestheticism and mannerism; inventive scenography; fetishizied color palettes; long tracking and symmetrical, planimetric tableau shots; and meticulous construction of mise-en-scene and soundscapes, Wes Anderson is one of the great cinematic stylists working today� But critical regard for the director is remarkably split: lauded or derided under the mantle of nearly every sensibility or structure of feeling deployed to describe the contemporary landscape—postmodern pastiche; irony; postirony; the new sincerity; the new [whimsy, quirky, cute, X] cinema; the New American smart film; or post-death-of-the-author auteurism—critical praise for Anderson’s films turns on his collector’s aesthetic, antiquated cinematic techniques, and stylistic excess, while critical loathing generally points to the very same attributes� As goes one summary of the condemnations: “Critics say that Anderson’s fastidiousness is his downfall, that the fussiness of his vision restricts his actors. They see his films as Fabergé eggs, beautiful but manufactured and empty” (Marshall 2014: 246)� What makes Anderson particularly vulnerable to critical distaste is his relationship to violence. His films are marked by a tension between beautiful if manufactured surfaces and disturbing cruelties and maltreated children; broken families and the exquisitely lonely; vicious mutilations, nonchalant injuries and indifferent deaths; depression and suicide; or, as in the case of The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), the totality of 20th century European catastrophe and trauma given metonymic form in the film via death squads emblazoned with the initials ZZ—evoking what Badiou dubs in The Century “the site of apocalyptic events […] the crimes of Stalinist communism and the crimes of Nazism� […] This century is an accursed century� The principal parameters for thinking it are the extermination camps, the gas chambers, massacres, tortures and organized state crime” (Badiou 2)� The omnipresence of this evental potency of violence in Anderson’s films has led to intensely negative evaluations like that of Eileen Jones, who declares that Anderson “candycoats a world of casual nastiness in bright colors and hummable tunes, and death in his films makes no mark, it just functions as a design element, a dash of dark pigment that sets off the bright colors to better advantage” (2014)� As a result, even among those who would defend Anderson, his style’s relationship to suffering requires an overt accounting for, usually effected by converting form into a responsible engagement with those ethically 1 A slightly different version of this contribution is appearing in Practical Aesthetics, ed� Bernd Herzogenrath (Bloomsbury, 2019)� 144 e ugenie B rinkema disturbing aspects of his film’s narratives. Donna Kornhaber, for example, reconciles interpretive bellwethers by putting aesthetics to work as itself a matter of shared feeling: “There is along the axis of collection a kind of unity and reduplication between content and form within Anderson’s filmmaking, one that offers a means of understanding his visual style not from the stance of cold stylistic removal but as a manner of deep thematic engagement in the cinematic worlds he calls into being, one that seeks to offer sympathy for an act in solidarity with the characters who suffer there” (2017: 10)� Likewise, Kim Wilkins writes that “his film worlds are more than affectation or pure aestheticism: their artifice performs both narrative and thematic functions. These film worlds mobilize irony and artificiality to mediate sincere emotional and psychological concerns” (2018: 152)� Both defenses play out familiar topologies of critical commitment: instead of cold removal, Kornhaber promises “deep” engagement, while Wilkins insists on something “more” than affectation or pure aestheticism� In other words, even those who would praise Anderson’s formal inventiveness insist that aesthetic form has “real” (as in more-than-mere, as in deeper, higher, closer) concerns at play—or, in Wilkins’ insistence that his work is not “pure aestheticism,” an unstated avowal of an impure aestheticism that vouches for a purity of emotional sincerity (that latter word one that hides its etymological debt to notions of the clean, the sound, the uninjured, any one of which we might want to read and thereby hold accountable). Taking a broader view, we can say that Anderson’s films restage the fundamental and old fight at the heart of the question of formalism, or rather, how you feel about his films has much to do with how you feel about formalism: either agreeing with those who accuse it of abandoning the world, as in Fredric Jameson’s promissory offering of a “literary or cultural criticism which seeks to avoid imprisonment in the windless closure of the formalisms” (Jameson 42), or defending the self-showing formal language for its sincere showing of a philosophical seriousness taken as prior and exterior to the cinematic object—justifying aesthetic attention by presuming the legitimacy of notions such as sympathy or solidarity as the ground of ethics, holding form ransom until it proves its appropriate utility� In setting out my defense of formalism in The Forms of the Affects (2014), on the one hand I had in mind foundational assertions like the severing of aesthetics from subject in Maurice Denis’s 1890 symbolist manifesto “Definition of Neotraditionism”: “It is well to remember that a picture—before being a battle horse, a nude woman, or some anecdote—is essentially a plane surface covered with colors assembled in a certain order” (Denis 94)� Insisting that close reading attend to line, color, space, scale, duration, montage, rhythm, mise-en-scene, and that only such a close reading for form would bypass the deadlocks and reveal the possibilities of the affective turn, I turned to the question of what a “radical formalism” might offer the theoretical humanities� My interest was not in a formalism that would instrumentalize readings for the sake of radical politics; rather, by radical I was referring to radix, the root, to return to the speculative ground of what formal thinking can claim of the as-yet-unthought dimensions of ethical and affective life, and to situate Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss 145 reading for form as the rootedness of theoretical claims� Insisting that close reading attend to line, color, texture, space, scale, duration, mise-en-scene, I turned to the question of form’s relationship to theory: [G]iven that Bordwell [i.e. cognitivism] explicitly positions neo-formalism against what he terms ‘Grand Theory,’ my approach to affect recovers and reintroduces the insights and problematics of continental theory in dialogue with form instead of necessarily opposed to it� Not neo-formalism but radical formalism. This I mean quite literally: heeding its own etymological radix, radical formalism returns to roots, presses on what is essential, foundational, and necessary in formalism itself� A radical formalism in film and media studies would take the measure of theory for form and take the measure of form for affectivity; this vital formalism, in the sense of what is both affective and urgent, returns to the roots of formalist analysis, and extends their reach. […] Reading for form involves a slow, deep attention both to the usual suspects of close analysis that are so often ignored or reduced to paraphrase in recent work on affect—montage, camera movement, mise-en-scène, color, sound—and to more ephemeral problematics such as duration, rhythm, absences, elisions, ruptures, gaps, and points of contradiction (ideological, aesthetic, structural, and formal)� Reading for formal affectivity involves interpreting form’s waning and absence, and also attending to formlessness� (Brinkema 36-37) Although a renewed interest in form has been crucial to the recent ‘return to aesthetics’ that is the explicit occasion for this volume, what interests me is how to move past thinking about form to the question of thinking from form, testing and pushing to the limit the claims one might make from insisting on the priority of form, in the sense of both ordinality and interpretive privilege� If Anderson’s films are the perfect testing ground for complaints against formalism, my argument will be that both those who would dismiss his stylistics as empty form and those who would defend his formalism for its non-empty utility for a conversion to an external framework of ethical or political meaning make a common mistake of failing to treat his form radically enough, as rooting The Grand Budapest Hotel’s rigorous engagement with ethics and politics and history as problems, themselves, of form, specifically the way in which that film attests to a thinking of the scale of historical loss that is diagrammatic, impersonal, multiple, and marked by difference� Radical formalism, given due seriousness, disimplicates the sense that criticism must choose one of the two paradigmatic interpretations of Anderson: as empty aesthete or as thinker despite his aesthetic language� Instead, we might shorthand this as: it is nothing but the form of his works that is doing the thinking� In relation to the conceit of this collection, practical aesthetics requires beginning with the understanding that it is the realm of aesthetic form that is thinking with, speculating on, unfolding the as-yet unthought questions, problems, and aporias of historical trauma� This requires taking seriously what form attests to in its own right, in particular in its most apparent aspects: in autonomous problems of color and of light� A speculative relation to catastrophes of unimaginable scale does not require accounting for form, defending form, or moving past form; it requires putting more of our faith in form� For one thing that form can do is attest to a concept of suffering, shock, and loss that contains many nuances� 146 e ugenie B rinkema There are two privileged structures in The Grand Budapest Hotel: the general form of repetition with minor difference and the general form of nesting� The latter is complex and this is a gloss, but briefly: nesting accounts for the hypotactic narrative structure, which begins in the present at a cemetery, in which a young girl visits the memorial of a dead Author (modeled after the early twentieth-century Austrian novelist Stefan Zweig), sits and reads his book The Grand Budapest Hotel (and the film takes place in the real-time duration of her reading), moving from his author’s photo on the back cover into a 1985 frame in which the Author explains how he came to hear the story that comprises that work, flashing back to a 1968 conversation between the author as a younger man and the elderly proprietor of the titular hotel, during which they dine together and that man, Zero Moustafa, recounts his life in 1932 as a young refugee and lobby boy in the hotel under the mentorship of a legendary hotel concierge named Gustave H� with whom he forms an intimate friendship and whose death bequeaths a fortune to Zero� Each nesting is also a triple framing: a historical one, a narratological one, and also an aspectual, cinematically-specific one: the standard 1.85 aspect ratio is used for the present day, a letterboxed version for the 1980s, widescreen for the 1960s portion, and the 4x3 industry standard (the “Academy ratio”) for the 1930s. The film’s use of nesting and shifting aspects accounts for its theory of memory and its co-implicated theory of ruins in numerous ways including this salient one: save for the reading girl, everyone we meet in the film is dead, and this overwhelming thanatographic attestation will be important in the analysis to come. The film is set in a fictional former empire, Zubrowka (a stand in for the Czech lands), in which there is an invented war, collapsing the first and second world wars, pointing to the Nazi invasion, but also pointing ahead to the suffering of the Czechs under the Soviets� In other words, there is a broad interest in the generality of history’s hurts, the scale of millions dying, the totality of variable modes of human suffering accumulated by century’s end� The other general form, that of repetition with minor difference, governs the film’s chromatic palettes and spatial grids, but also bears on two nearly identical scenes on a train that set in place aesthetic problems of color and light in explicit relation to force. The first scene takes place twenty minutes into the film; the second, four minutes from the end. They are mirror inversions and elemental conversions of each other: in the first, leaning into the frame from the left, Gustave asks, “Why are we stopping at a barley field? ” as the train pauses next to an expanse; text gives the date as “19 October, Closing of the Frontier�” In the repetition of the scenario, Zero leans in from the right, asking the same question but adding “again,” and the text now reads, “17 November, Start of the Lutz Blitz.” The first sequence, in which border patrols attempt to arrest Zero for a lack of papers, concludes when he and Gustave are given a reprieve from violence through the timely intervention of a soldier who recalls Gustave’s kindness to him in childhood; at his promise of no further disturbance and the soldiers’ departure, Gustave says to a shaken Zero, “You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss 147 in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity� Indeed, that’s what we provide in our own modest, humble, insignificant…oh fuck it�” The two scenes are formally symmetrical but ethically non-reciprocal because the second time brings with it two differences: at the sight of the death squad tableau in the barley field, Gustave declares, “I find these black uniforms very drab”; and the result of the encounter is not evaded violence and an ironic dismissal of civility, but arrived violence and a reassertion of civility� In the narrative block in which an elderly Zero recounts this story, to the author’s question of what happened to Gustave, Zero resignedly says, “In the end? They shot him�” The resulting ethical judgment turns on Zero’s accompanying insistence: “There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity� He was one of them�” Any strict repetition of two scenarios invites comparison� While the first train scene ends as comedy, the second concludes as tragedy, inverting Marx’s famous lines in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon� More precisely, the first time ends in irony and cynicism (all that is at stake in the “oh fuck it”), while the second de-ironizes irony and concludes with a positive declaration of sincerity: insisting on the possibility of a concept of civility in Gustave’s defense of, and ultimately sacrifice for, Zero. Or, rather, the second scene does not insist on the concept of civility—when Zero pronounces a faint glimmer of civilization left in humanity’s slaughterhouse, this is an avowal of an ethics of civility bound to percept and not to concept at all� That question of percept and not concept likewise appears with the supplement, the aspect that does not repeat across the two sequences: Gustave’s aesthetic judgment that greets the appearance of the death squads—his “I find these black uniforms very drab�” It is neither civility nor death squads that should interest us; our primary concern (in the sense of ordinality and prerogative) must be with glimmer and with drab: with qualities of light and color� The two train scenes repeat a formula, which is to say they take on and share a common and visible shape� Each begins with an interrogatory aimed at a change in movement, “Why are we stopping at a barley field? ” Before it is anything else, the barley field is a clearing, a visible expanse of earth marked by a flooding of the distant space with light, the free, clear open space for light to play against which the constraint of the train and its diegetic miseen-abîme frame is set as different� Before they are encounters with military force, state brutality and death squads, these two scenes are meditations on the autonomy and vitality of illuminated landscape. The barley field gives the play of lux as the give and expanse of the world beyond and outside the train, set in stark contrast to a symmetrical window in a vertical aspect ratio, opposite the aperture in the train and visible behind the passengers� This interior window is a gridded frame delimiting an opaque field, one showing a constraint and restriction of light with no depth behind it, the alternations of montage introducing a difference between this and the light into which the world recedes. Light as the extensibility of illumination is thus set against light given shape, edge, structure, limit, form� 148 e ugenie B rinkema Figure 1� The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), Dir. Wes Anderson, USA: Fox Searchlight Pictures� Figure 2� The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), Dir. Wes Anderson, USA: Fox Searchlight Pictures� Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss 149 These scenes are not meditations on light (as metaphysics or metaphor) or color (as symbol) so much as meditations on and encounters with questions of degrees of difference in relation to light and color: the drabness Gustave finds of the black uniforms; the glimmer refused to civilization in the first encounter and reattributed to Gustave’s sacrifice in the latter. For all that Anderson is taken to be a master aesthete of world-building palettes (as in the exhaustive “Wes Anderson Colour Palettes” Tumblr page), drabness is not a problem of the palette, and in fact it takes an oblique relationship to color altogether� On the one hand, drabness is a positive color, referring to the undyed colour of material like hemp, linen, or wool; the Oxford English Dictionary’s etymological tracing of the term notes that from naming the positive color of undyed cloth, it “gradually became an adjective of color,” referring to a “dull lightbrown or yellowish-brown�” On the other hand, drabness names a lack of specificity in color—it is a symptomatic confusion that history cannot agree on whether it points to dull light-brown or a luminousless gray� In many languages, the words for drab and gray are the same; the 1869 A Dictionary of Dyeing insists, “Drab is a kind of gray” (199)� Perhaps brown, perhaps gray, drab is also taken to mean plain, unsaturated, not luminous (a quality applicable to any color); but it can also mean not a color at all but its possibility, its not-yetness, referring to what is “wanting brightness or color,” emphasizing not the positive chromatic attributes of undyed cloth, but the fact of having failed to take on color at all� This parallel sense of drab as in what lacks color makes it simultaneously a positive—if shineless and unsaturated—color and, in naming a hueless state of what has yet to take on color, it renders drab the negative ontology of the chromatic� Gustave’s pronouncement bonds together both senses of drab: as a quality of things, but also that which judges something to be lacking in chromatic intensity� However, there is no drabness in itself as essence or substantive; rather, this avowal of a black uniform marked by drabness is made within a cinematic episteme of black and white film stock. As a result, there is an inconstancy of tone in the color field of the death squad uniforms: against the rich continuous expanse of unmarked black in Gustave and Zero’s jackets, signaling the perceptually unavailable presence of color on the level of textile, the shots of the death squad textiles present patches of unevenness (difference, modulation, variability)� Drab, applied to the black of the uniforms, appears as gray; the only perceptually absolute black in the image is that of Gustave and Zero’s jackets, which disaffirm being black on the level of material precisely because they are not drab in this visual regime� (And indeed from previous appearances, we know them to be a vibrant purple�) Put another way: it is the formal aspects of the black and white film stock that visually interprets Gustave’s claim for drabness. This sequence is not a narrative climax in which an illustration of innocence and brutality confront each other so much a formal climax in which cinematic form interprets the qualities and intensities of light—in which form is offering a reading of qualities and intensities of form� The radical impersonality of drab and glimmer stands to offer an irreducibly aesthetic relation to the political violence that stains both sequences� 150 e ugenie B rinkema Figure 3� The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), Dir. Wes Anderson, USA: Fox Searchlight Pictures� The negative motor of drabness (that it is indistinct and uncertain, that it marks having yet to take on color) positively attests to something else� This is most visible in a claim made by Benjamin, one of the great theorists of gray� In his 1925 essay on Naples, written with Asja Lacis, they pronounce of the city “In reality it is gray” (165)� But this gray has a particular aesthetic power: in its chromatic deficiency, it brings line to the forefront. Of Naples’ grayness, “anyone who is blind to forms sees little here” (165)� Gray is formrevealing: its negative qualities make form visible, unconceals it as all there is� In drabness, there is the inexhaustible potentiality of what has yet to take on color (that yet marking the tonality of possibility) and the infinite unconcealment of the possibility of form, what gray or drab or huelessness brings forth. Gustave’s pronouncement, “I find these black uniforms very drab” is an aesthetic judgment—a claim for regarding the uniforms as forms� Not to offer an ethical-political judgment on historical force but to offer an aesthetic reckoning with historical force as nothing but form� Benjamin and Lacis insist that those unconcerned with form will behold very little in Naples� We might say: they will see only a glimmer� If drabness is the infinite potentiality of color, what has yet to take on sufficient hue but thereby reveals form, glimmer also takes a complex relation to light. Just as drab is simultaneously a dull brown and a dull gray—or it is no color at all, but the state of the undyed and uncolored—glimmer means both “to shine brightly” with attendant notions of visibility and unconcealment (its fourteenth-century usage) and “to give a faint or intermittent light,” “a feeble or wavering light; a tremulous play of reflected light,” to send forth a weak, dim, and scattered light—its dominant sense by the fifteenth century. Glimmer thus comes to name both a self-showing brightness and the unsteadiness of light such that glimmer is always nearly not there at all (as in the nested qualifications of The Comedy of Errors, “My wasting lampes have yet some fading Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss 151 glimmer left”—wasting, yet, some, fading, and glimmer multiply attesting to illumination’s barelyness that nevertheless is not absent)� As a reading of light, glimmer has a fundamental qualification attached to it: in the sense of a hedge or limitation, but also in an emphasis on qualities� Glimmer is not the vibrancy of an attestation, glimmer is the imperfection of light (as transitory, unsteady, notional); it is always the last glimmer of hope that marks a caesura before some form of finitude. The two words—drab; glimmer—resonate with each other, but also within each other, an insufficiency of luminosity, and an unsteadiness of its dispersion� They name, each of them, a vulnerability in the potency of light and a rhythmic unfolding of that potency’s modulation and differing by degrees� And so, the speculative claim: If the question of historical force and catastrophe and loss is given in a formal register, as a problem of aesthetic qualities and intensities, then only a resolute formalism can account for how the film navigates this terrain—not through allegorizing a priori ethical or political claims but in taking seriously the film’s formal language as a showing of drabness, glimmer, saturation, as degrees of difference in light� This is resolutely opposed to a taking of illumination as metaphor for a legible state of feeling: as in one reading that avows, “The hotel is bursting with colour in its heyday—[…]� But the colour fades as the war approaches� […] Like Zero, the hotel never recovers from the war; in 1968, it is as decrepit beige, orange and sickly pale blue as Zero is sad” (Marshall 249)� Such a reading takes saturations as stable, fixed representations of affective states of being instead of treating changes in chromatic aspects as what positively shows nuances in the quality of light� Drabness is the unvibrancy of a chromatic attestation having taken on sufficient color; glimmer is the unvitality of a brilliance having taken on the steadiness of light� If drab is a quality of things that reveals nothing but the potential for form, glimmer is a quality of light that reveals nothing but a difference: Glimmer names the minimal difference between the presence and absence of light itself� And it is the minimal difference that concerns us here, whether between the presence and absence of light, or the presence and radical absence of civility, a minimal mark, that is, of the possibility of a perceptible form of differentiation� This question of differentiation is a fundamental one with which any reading of the film’s relation to historical trauma must grapple, in particular in the way The Grand Budapest Hotel navigates the figure of Zero, whose presence as a refugee whose village was burned and family murdered and displaced opens up wounded European history to include the register of loss from the Levant� Attending to qualities of light negates the grounds for the alternative presented above: either condemning a formal exercise as failing to generate a speculative relation to the ethical or instrumentalizing form as demonstrating a prior conception of the ethical� Instead, The Grand Budapest Hotel is aesthetically proposing a general account of historical trauma that itself is a formalism—an effort to think violence as a structure that contains differences, degrees, nuances, one that places together (without mediating, synthesizing, 152 e ugenie B rinkema scaling or hierarchizing) Agatha’s death, Zero’s infant’s child’s death, his father’s death, his family’s execution, his village’s burning, the total violence engendering refuge in Europe, the violence of the first world war, the violence of the second world war, the death squads, Gustave’s execution, Madame D’s murder by her own children, and the assorted tortures and cruelties and beheadings of minor characters in the film in plot points this essay has failed to yet mention. The critical question is whether the film is indifferent to the historical specificity of these different losses (the question of form’s relation to content always a question of whether textual form is adequate to context) or whether one can positively theorize difference without returning it to a logic of the same, without presuming all speak to an ineffable in-commonness� How to let each (every) loss retain their quality of being different? One answer can be gleaned from the intervention Gilles Deleuze makes in his 1956 essay “The Conception of Difference in Bergson,” where he offers a theory of difference that he will revisit a decade later in Difference and Repetition� Here, Deleuze reads Henri Bergson’s account in The Creative Mind of how to develop concepts, in which his privileged example is the case of the concept “color�” How do we determine what colors have in common? Bergson says there are two ways: either we start with a color, say purple, efface its purpleness and then do the same negating process to other colors, to blue, to orange, until we have arrived at and extracted the abstract notion of color in itself, emptied of any specific content in a singular concept referring to multiple objects by containing and subsuming them� In Deleuze’s reading of this option, “we are left with a concept which is a genre, and many objects for one concept” (54). That’s the first way (—and, of course, the first way is never the right way in Deleuze)� The second way to arrive at the concept of color is to start with a continuum and pass the rainbow through a “convergent lens that concentrates them on the same point: what we have then is ‘pure white light,’ the very light that ‘makes the differences come out between the shades’” (54)� Deleuze reads this as a case in which “the different colors are no longer objects under a concept, but nuances or degrees of the concept itself� Degrees of difference itself, and not differences of degree� The relation is no longer one of subsumption, but one of participation” (54)� The concept is no longer a genre (or a generality) but a universal and concrete thing� What the formal language of The Grand Budapest Hotel bears out is not the content of difference but the quality and intensity of nuances or degrees in order to make present the aesthetic force of difference� Historical trauma is not a unifying or totalizing concept; every instance of violence and trauma is a manifestation of a process of differentiation, moving past thinking degrees of violence (and critical hierarchies that pose the question of which trauma best gives the concept of the twentieth century) to instead regard nuances or degrees within the concept as co-participants in history� Anderson’s film is not uninterested in a serious engagement with the traumas that run through the film, but nor should we instrumentalize the aesthetic as offering an abstract genre of “historical violence or trauma�” Rather, Grand Budapest Hotel’s formal language unsettles any claim for a genre (or Glimmers and Drabness and Scales of Loss 153 generality) that would adequately contain the inexhaustibility of nuances and degrees� Instead of a concept of formalism premised on negation (what ignores the world, what is indifferent to history, what fails to speak to ethical seriousness), formalism is revealed to be an aesthetic attestation of difference as a question of action. Claims for the film as “form for form’s sake” do not, therefore, go far enough: what the text’s navigation of color and light does is perform the irreducibility of form to any (every) serious thinking of the objects of critique: Anderson’s is a case of form for everything’s sake� If Grand Budapest is an aesthetic exercise, it is so in the strictest sense: the aesthetic keeps busy and does not wait to come about, is not a demonstration of a prior claim but is itself an active and generative and practical operation of thought—indeed the best one we have to make sense of the form of history: a grand accumulation of degrees of loss� Works Cited Badiou, Alain� The Century� Trans� Alberto Toscano� Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2007� Benjamin, Walter and Asja Lacis� “Naples�” In Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings� Ed� Peter Demetz� Trans� Edmund Jephcott� New York: Schocken Books, 1978� 163-73� Brinkema, Eugenie� The Forms of the Affects� Durham: Duke University Press, 2014� Deleuze, Gilles� “Bergson’s Conception of Difference�” The New Bergson. Ed� John Mullarkey� Trans� Melissa McMahon� Manchester: Manchester UP, 1999� 42-65� Denis, Maurice. “Definition of Neotraditionism.” Theories of Modern Art: A Source Book�” Ed� Herschel Browning Chipp� Berkeley: U of California P, 1968� The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), [Film] Dir. Wes Anderson. Fox Searchlight Pictures. Jameson, Fredric� The Political Unconscious� Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1981� Jones, Eileen� “Wes Anderson and the Old Regime�” Jacobin (March 2014)� https: / / www�jacobinmag�com/ 2014/ 03/ wes-anderson-and-the-old-regime/ (accessed December 20, 2018)� Kornhaber, Donna� Wes Anderson� Champaign: U of Illinois P, 2017� Marshall, Lee� “Wes Anderson’s Fabulous Fancy�” Queen’s Quarterly 121/ 2 (Summer 2014): 242-251� O’Neill, Charles� A Dictionary of Dyeing and Calico Printing� Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird, 1869� Wilkins, Kim. “Assembled Worlds: Intertextuality and Sincerity in the Films of Wes Anderson�” Texas Studies in Literature and Language 60�2 (Summer 2018): 151-73�