Good-natured geeks get pulled into the quicksand of LA gang culture in Rick Famuyiwa‘s Sundance hit, Dope. It’s an unpredictable coming-of-age comedy that earns every laugh with its smart writing and well-crafted jokes that never feel cheap. Unlike other films addressing similar social and racial issues, Famuyiwa’s film isn’t a hero’s tale or some urban fantasy about rising above prejudice. It’s not a story about being a good person; it’s about being a survivor.

The underdog at the center of the story is Malcolm, played by a flat-top-rocking Shameik Moore. Malcolm’s a bright high school senior living in the Inglewood neighborhood called “The Bottoms” with his mom, a bus driver (his father left a long time ago, his only meaningful remnant a gifted VHS copy of Superfly). He’s a self-professed geek, spending most of his days obsessing over ’90s hip-hop culture (hence the flat-top), manga, porn and playing in a punk band with his two best friends. Kiersey Clemons plays Diggy, an outgoing, out-of-the-closet scrapper who’s always got Malcolm’s back. The third member of the hip-hop bohemian tribe is a scrawny fellow they call Jib, played by Tony Revolori (he was Zero in The Grand Budapest Hotel).

It’s explained early on (via slightly awkward Forest Whitaker narration) that The Bottoms is a pretty unfriendly place for them. Fights and shootings happen all the time, so getting bullied at school by Bloods (an everyday occurrence for Malcolm) is considered a relatively trivial complication compared to the gruesome stuff that happens on the block. Malcolm tries to avoid trouble as best he can, especially since he’s got Harvard in his crosshairs as his first-choice school. Nowhere in his application letter does he mention his under-privileged upbringing; instead, he analyzes Ice Cube’s Good Day as a way to stand out from the crowd of Harvard hopefuls. Upon reading the letter, Malcolm’s professor, who’s facilitating the application process, is frustrated that Malcolm—a straight-A student with a sterling record—thinks he can get into Harvard without using his hard-knocks upbringing to garner sympathy. “Who do you think you are?”

Later in the film, Malcolm’s in a dingy warehouse back office making a deal with a snarling thug involving inordinate amounts of molly (ecstasy), a thumb drive, and wads of dirty cash. The gangster tells Malcolm exactly who he is: “A man who don’t give a fuck.” How did Malcolm, a model teenager with a clean conscience, fall into such shady business, business that could derail his future?

It all starts with Dom (A$AP Rocky), a charismatic dealer who runs his block with a clenched fist. He takes Malcolm under his wing, using the nervous teen as a messenger pigeon to ask a pretty, smart girl up the block (Zoë Kravitz, channeling Nia Long in Friday) to come to his birthday party at the club. She agrees, but only if Malcolm goes, too. Malcolm develops a quick crush, of course, so he shows up to the party, Diggy and Jib in tow. In the chaos of a drug deal gone-wrong and a subsequent police raid, Malcolm winds up with a gun and tens of thousands of dollars worth of drugs in his backpack.

Thus begins Malcolm’s descent into a world of narcotic traffickers, racketeers and killers, with the geeky trio scrambling to figure out how to get rid of the drugs while trying to stay alive. The series of unlucky events cascade like falling dominos, and though things get dicey, the humor is always there, sustaining the film’s vigor.

Malcolm’s is a veritable whiz when it comes to academics, but when it comes to his new drug-slinging street life, he’s completely out of his depth. Whether he’s being seduced by a sultry drug empire princess, talking on the phone with a growly debt collector, or shivering as he points a gun for the first time, he’s always got a stupefied, almost cross-eyed look on his face. Moore’s great in the role because he’s effortlessly sympathetic; you can’t help but like him (the awesome Fresh Prince, De La Soul-inspired throwback attire doesn’t hurt, either). The rest of the cast is mostly very good, though Roger Guenveur Smith stinks up the joint as a borderline-comatose drug lord. Clemons and Revolori play solid confidants, but at the end of the day, Moore runs away with the movie.

Famuyiwa and DP Rachel Morrison’s visuals are vibrant and crisp, utilizing split-screen and unexpected freeze-frames and interludes to electric effect. The film’s always on the move, just like its protagonists. A late, unforgettable sequence in which Malcolm addresses the camera directly is a breathless show-stealer, a chilling monologue that’s easily be one of the best movie moments of the year. As far as soundtracks go, it’s Dope‘s track-list is going to be tough to beat. Narratively weaved-in classics from Nas (“The World Is Yours”), Public Enemy (“Rebel Without a Pause”) and A Tribe Called Quest (“Scenario”) are invaluable in defining the film’s style and vibe.

Like Dear White People, Dope is a movie about identity and perception. Malcolm’s struggle to reconcile his Harvard aspirations with his current, Walter White-ish situation is the movie’s drive, and the final resolution is a piercing observation on being someone of color, someone who society expects less from than the white mighty majority. The movie doesn’t get weighed down by the serious business, though: it’s a terrific hangout flick in the vein of Cooley High and Friday. Dope‘s dopeness is off the charts.

Partway through The Grand Budapest Hotel, there’s an argument between Dmitri (Adrien Brody, looking brilliantly evil) and his deceased mother’s lawyer (Jeff Goldblum). The lawyer refuses to hand the dead woman’s fortune over to her son as the details of her murder haven’t been cleared up. Dmitri angrily leaves, and his henchman (Willem Dafoe) casually tosses the lawyer’s cat out of a window on his way out. It’s a cruel act, and a funny visual gag, until the lawyer peers out his window and the camera cuts to his cat’s splattered body below.

Writer/director Wes Anderson uses these shock moments of sudden violence more than once throughout the film. The dead woman (Tilda Swinton, unrecognizable with pounds of old age makeup) is Madame D., an old rich countess who frequented the titular hotel. Located in the mountains of the Republic of Zubrowka, a made up European nation, the hotel is a gorgeous and highly popular establishment. Gustave H. (Ralph Fiennes) is the hotel’s concierge, a charming man who was also taking Madame D. to bed during her visits (one of Gustave’s many duties as concierge included sexually satisfying the rich old ladies who visited). When it’s revealed that she put Gustave in her will as the recipient of a priceless painting, Madame D.’s family frames him for her murder.

Gustave receives help from Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori), a young lobby boy that Gustave has taken a shine to. The story, taking place in 1932 during some unnamed war ravaging the country, is narrated to us by an older Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham) in the 1960s. He’s telling his tale to a young author (Jude Law) over dinner at the hotel, now well past its glory days. Law narrates the 1960s segments, which are actually from a novel being read to viewers in the 1980s by (presumably) a now much-older author (Tom Wilkinson). The nesting-doll structure may seem frivolous, but Wes Anderson’s films thrive on frivolity.

The multi-layered narrative also establishes Anderson’s attempts to comment on memory and nostalgia. Moustafa’s story in the 1930s, shot gorgeously in 1.33:1, is stylistically Anderson’s best work to date. The set design, meticulous framing, whip pans, quick zooms, and use of animation and miniatures, among Anderson’s other visual trademarks, operate at a level that more than matches his story’s large scale. Anderson and cinematographer Robert D. Yeoman are clearly having a field day, and it shows. The charming style also shows Moustafa’s nostalgia for this period of his life, as if these “good ol’ days” represent something that’s never to return.

Anderson is aware of how dangerous this way of looking at the past with rose-coloured glasses is, which is why he throws in scenes like the one with Goldblum’s cat. He is purposely breaking the spell his film casts, reminding viewers that the time period was still a tumultuous one. The hotel is not so much a shining example of long-lost civility and politeness as it is an escape from the harsh realities of wartime and poverty. These two worlds of fantasy and reality eventually come together, but through Anderson’s lens the stylistic flourishes still remain. The final scene of the ‘30s timeline, also the bleakest part of Moustafa’s story, switches to black and white, showing how Anderson still finds a way to fill his heavier moments with aesthetic quirks.

While Anderson’s toying with memory and nostalgia is interesting, it fails to make any impact to the film overall. The handling of violence makes for an awkward juxtaposition, one that’s more admirable in its intent than execution (I never thought I’d say this, but Anderson should take some tips from Quentin Tarantino in this area). The war going on in the film’s background is wiped of any details, save for some vague allusions to the SS. The obscuring of these elements only muddy the water, and the dense plotting of Anderson’s screenplay make his thematic points get swallowed up by the film’s aesthetics.

Not that the aesthetics are a bad thing; The Grand Budapest Hotel is still a treat to watch. Fiennes is perfect as Gustave, and Anderson’s script is filled with plenty of hilarious moments. The massive ensemble, where seemingly every role is filled with a well-known actor (supporting cast includes Edward Norton, Harvey Keitel, Saorise Ronan, Jason Schwartzman and Owen Wilson just to name a few), work together perfectly. While The Grand Budapest Hotel works well, it only does up to a certain point. What the film amounts to is nothing more than a well-done and admirable piece of fluff.

The Grand Budapest Hotel trailer