It’s rare that the best American movie of the year gets nominated for Best Picture—that's the happy case now, with "The Grand Budapest Hotel." And it has happened surprisingly often in recent years, with "The Wolf of Wall Street," "Hugo," "The Tree of Life," "Black Swan," and "The Social Network"—in other words, more often since the Best Picture field expanded, in 2009, from five nominees to a maximum of ten. Yet the best movie never wins.

This year, that distinguished-though-doomed nominee is special. "The Grand Budapest Hotel" is more than just the best film of the year artistically; it's the one that finally cuts the Gordian knot of basic Oscar-bait trends. Look at the eight Best Picture nominees: four of them—“American Sniper," "The Imitation Game," "Selma," and "The Theory of Everything"—are fact-based dramas centered on significant figures and events in modern history. The other four—“Birdman," "Boyhood," "The Grand Budapest Hotel," and "Whiplash"—are fictions (even if "Birdman" has parallels with the career of its star, Michael Keaton, and "Boyhood" and "Whiplash" have autobiographical echoes with their writer-directors' own youth).

"The Grand Budapest Hotel" is no less of a grand historical epic than the four historical-drama nominees. It's inspired by Stefan Zweig's memoir "The World of Yesterday," the author's recollections of Vienna and Austria from his youth to maturity, from the perspective of his loss of that homeland after the Nazi takeover, in 1938, and his exile and wandering, from Great Britain and the United States to Brazil, where he died, in 1942. (I recommend George Prochnik's book "The Impossible Exile" for a superb and dramatic guided trip through Zweig's outer and inner worlds.)

Anderson tells a story that is derived from history without representing history, that extracts particular elements from the times (there are four time frames in the film) for a fiction set in the fictitious country of Zubrowka, an Austria-like place in which Nazi-like things, and then Soviet-like things, occur. It's Anderson's eighth feature in twenty years (his first, "Bottle Rocket," was made in 1995 and released in 1996), and it's the one in which he makes his exquisite aesthetic his very subject.

It won't win, alas. But it was nominated, I think, because a new generation of Oscar voters has grown up with Anderson's aesthetic—and, more important, because a new generation of moviegoers has grown up with Anderson's work, and these viewers have made the movie a hit. Anderson's idiosyncrasies are, rightly, a part of their cinematic vernacular. It takes almost a willed prejudice not to see how extraordinarily distinctive and inventive, witty and subtle and complex the movie is. But I think that there's another factor entering into the nomination: the film's element of historical fantasy leads voters to consider it more serious than Anderson's earlier films. They're wrong—for instance, "Moonrise Kingdom" is just as serious. That film is historical but (only seemingly) detached from world events, while actually dramatizing the great liberations in morality of the nineteen-sixties.

But Oscar voters tend to take their historical politics at simplistic face value. Unfortunately, so do critics (see the reviews of "Moonrise Kingdom" if you doubt it). "American Sniper" and "Selma" have been subjected to the sort of stringently detailed debate that little actual political decision-making ever receives. Does "American Sniper" "glorify" war? Does "Selma" "unfairly" depict L.B.J.? Whether it's critics seeking springboards for Op-ed-like ruminations or political writers driving an agenda, these writers are not offering subtle viewings to discern ideological patterns surreptitiously woven into a film's fabric but playing kindergarten teacher to naïve and tender-minded viewers in ostensible need of doctrinal protection. In any case, these two movies have proved polarizing, in disregard to their substantial cinematic merits; they won't win an award meant to embody the great national self-image.

"The Theory of Everything" and "The Imitation Game" are non-polarizingly earnest movies about serious matters, but they're on the tame side, and movies about intellectuals rarely win (not since "A Beautiful Mind," in 2002)—especially when these two may split the British bio-pic vote and cancel each other out.

That leaves "Boyhood," "Birdman," and "Whiplash." “Whiplash” is a classic Sundance script: the plot is so tight that it leaves out the story, the characters so simplistic that they leave out the people. It appeals to Hollywood self-pity; the drummer goes through a masochistic hell as an underling and finally gets ahead as a defiant noisemaker. It depicts success as abject self-abasing obedience followed by a triumphant fuck-you. The movie is too narrow-bore for Best Picture, though.

The race is between "Boyhood" and "Birdman." I had "Boyhood" picked ever since it opened: almost everyone sentimentalizes his youth, and lots of people revere their parents. The movie is somewhat better than that; Richard Linklater has fine-grained powers of perception, even when they're applied to the softest of soap. But now I think that the film is in Oscar trouble for reasons that have little to do with aesthetics: it peaked early. It was released in mid-August and had already been an object of adulation since its Sundance première, last January. This is one of the problems that front-runners—not just movies but also politicians—face: name fatigue. The desire for variety often overcomes actual feelings; the pleasure of hearing oneself say (and echo in one's mind) another title, another name, of seeing oneself in the mirror wearing a different badge, accounts for a lot of what's otherwise considered a flip-flop, conversion, or upset.

The Oscarizable particulars of "Birdman"—released in November—include the stunt cinematography that runs in a seemingly continuous thread from beginning to end, without a discernible cut (even in scenes with obvious special effects involving flying through the streets, which are the best moments in the film); the aggressively emphatic acting (all emotions underlined, no excess or overflow allowed); the on-the-nose psychology of the writing (all the problems line up in the same direction); and, above all, the Hollywood-centrism of the story, complete with the mockery of the commercial and the literary sententiousness of the redemption.

There are far more actors than superhero-movie stars, far more Academy members who see themselves as frustrated outsiders than as thriving insiders, and "Birdman" flatters their notion of the industry as a cruel and mercenary monolith. So, for Best Picture, I am anticipating "Birdman." (I think that, general pessimism about quality at the Oscars aside, "Grand Budapest" will have an underdog's success in other categories—unless wishful thinking is clouding my judgment.)

Best Director: Four of the five nominees left a directorial mark on their movies; Morten Tyldum's work on "The Imitation Game" is anonymous. Anderson ought to win, by many lengths. I think that "Boyhood"-consolation will kick the award to Richard Linklater.

Best Actor: Of the five nominees, Bradley Cooper, in "American Sniper," gives the fullest, most dynamic performance—the only one that projects beyond the screen. I'm tempted to bet that the Academy's enduring inferiority complex in the presence of British actors will cause it to pick Benedict Cumberbatch, but I think that the Academy will let its "Birdman" love run over instead: Michael Keaton for the win.

Best Actress: The Weinstein Company should be kicking itself for holding back on James Gray's "The Immigrant." It could have been released in 2013, and Marion Cotillard could have stolen an Oscar for it then. Had the distributor released it vigorously in 2014 and campaigned more promptly on Cotillard's behalf, she could have done it again—she has won a bunch of awards for the role already, and Joaquin Phoenix might also have snuck in as Best Supporting Actor. (Gray would have deserved a Best Director nomination, too, and Darius Khondji would have merited a nod for his cinematography). Instead, Cotillard is nominated for the Dardenne brothers' “Two Days, One Night," a very good film and a very good performance—but what Cotillard does in "The Immigrant" is fuller and more dramatic. In any case, Julianne Moore will win for a skillfully professional performance in the mediocre and lugubrious "Still Alice."