Wes Anderson - The Grand Budapest Hotel

Cut to:

Zero at podium. He concludes:

ZERO

‘Your devoted M. Gustave.’ Then there’s a poem, but we might want to go ahead and start on the soup, since it’s forty-six stanzas.

Mr. Mosher signals to the cook. He begins to serve as Zero reads on:

ZERO

‘A moist, black ash dampens the filth of a dung-dark rat’s-nest and mingles with the thick scent of wood-rot while the lark-song of a guttersnipe echoes across a –’

INT. CORRIDOR. DAY

M. Gustave pushes a metal cart with a stack of plates and a steel tureen on it through a barred door. He stops in front of a large cell where four convicts loiter on their bunks playing cards, scratching graffiti on the walls, and looking at dirty pictures.

M. GUSTAVE

May I offer any of you inmates a plate of mush?

The convicts all look to M. Gustave at once. No one speaks. M. Gustave hesitates.

No? Anyone? You – with the very large scar on your face?

M. Gustave points to a seven-foot giant with a deep slash from the top corner of his forehead all the way down and across to the other side of his chin. The giant frowns. He stands up. The other convicts look uneasy.

Come now. Try it. It’s, actually, quite warm and nourishing this morning. It needs a dash of salt.

M. Gustave prepares a plate of lumpy gruel for the giant. He shakes in a touch of salt from a shaker. The giant tastes it. Pause. He shrugs, pleased. He nods. M. Gustave smiles.

Good day.

M. Gustave pushes his cart to the next cell. A bald wrestler lifts weights while an old man spots him.

Mush, gents? Any takers?

The wrestler and the old man look at M. Gustave blankly with the bar-bell in the air. M. Gustave shrugs and says regretfully:

Suit yourselves.

M. Gustave pushes his cart to the next cell. These convicts are all asleep. M. Gustave says with a musical lilt:

Rise and shine. Chop-chop!

A wiry, pint-sized convict the shape of a fire hydrant squints out from under his covers. He is Pinky.

Good morning, Pinky.

Pinky yawns and sets his feet to the floor. The convicts in the other bunks also begin to rustle. Their faces are brutal, and their bodies are hard and powerful. They are Günther and Wolf . ( A fourth convict, also in the room, begins to get out of bed, as well – but his face is not revealed for the moment. )

M. Gustave reaches to the lower shelf of the cart and produces a pink pastry-box. All the convicts quickly gather at a small table. ( The fourth convict sits with his back to the camera. )

Pinky says eagerly:

PINKY

Mendl’s again?

M. GUSTAVE

Precisely. Who’s got the throat-slitter?

Günther digs in his sock and takes out a small weapon consisting of a half-toothbrush fixed with wire to a hand-slivered straight razor cut into serrated teeth. M. Gustave folds open the pastry-box and cuts a Courtesan au chocolat into careful segments. The convicts eat daintily. Wolf says, chewing:

WOLF

Out of this world.

M. GUSTAVE

( obviously )

Mendl’s is the best. Well, back to work.

M. Gustave rises. Pinky says suddenly:

PINKY

Mr. Gustave?

M. GUSTAVE

( hesitates )

Yeah?

Pinky exchanges a look with the others. They nod. He darts to the door, looks up and down the corridor, then closes it softly. He signals for M. Gustave to sit back down. M. Gustave, slightly puzzled, obeys. They all lean in closer as Pinky whispers:

PINKY

Me and the boys talked it over. We think you’re a real straight fella.

M. GUSTAVE

Well, I’ve never been accused of that before, but I appreciate the sentiment.

PINKY

You’re one of us now.

M. GUSTAVE

( somewhat moved )

What a lovely thing to say. Thank you, dear Pinky. Thank you, Günther. Thank you, Wolf. I couldn’t ask for a finer tribute.

M. Gustave bows slightly. He hesitates.

M. GUSTAVE

Anything else?

Pinky looks to the fourth convict. He nods:

PINKY

Tell him, Ludwig.

Cut to:

The fourth convict. Numerous short scars chop skinny, bald lines into his shorn scalp. His arms are tattooed heavily with skulls, skeletons, and images of the grim reaper. He has one silver tooth and a bit of butter-cream icing on the side of his mouth. He is Ludwig.

Ludwig takes a deep breath. He launches into his spiel:

LUDWIG

Checkpoint Nineteen ain’t no two-bit hoosegow. You got broad-gauge iron bars on every door, vent, and window. You got barb’ wire on every containment wall and barricade. You got seventy-two guards on the floor and sixteen more in the towers. You got a 325-foot drop into a moat full of crocodiles – but, like the best of ’em, it’s got a soft spot, which in this case happens to take the form of a storm-drain sewer system datin’ from the time of the original rock fortification way back in the Middle Ages. Now, nobody’s sayin’ it’s a stroll down a tree-lined promenade with a fine lady and a white poodle, but it’s got what you’d call ‘vulnerability’ – and that’s our bread and butter. Take a look.

Ludwig produces a crude but highly detailed map and floor-plan of the castle compound drawn with charcoal on a strip of butcher paper. M. Gustave examines it with fixed concentration. He says pointedly:

M. GUSTAVE

Who drew this?

LUDWIG

( stiffening )

What do you mean, ‘Who drew this?’ I did.

M. GUSTAVE

( impressed )

Very good. You’ve got a wonderful line, Ludwig. This shows great artistic promise.

Ludwig smiles slightly, pleased and slightly embarrassed. M. Gustave points on the map:

M. GUSTAVE

Question: how do you intend to penetrate this lowest rudiment? If I interpret the legend correctly, it’s twenty-five inches of reinforced granite masonry, is it not? Digging with the throat-slitter, I expect that would take three to six months of continual effort, during which time several of our members will have been violently executed.

LUDWIG

You hit the nail on the head there, Mr. Gustave. We got fake documents, second-hand street clothes, and a rope ladder made out of sticks and bunk-linens – but we need diggin’ tools, and that’s provin’ hard to come by in this flophouse.

M. Gustave nods gravely. The others slump, listless, and sigh. M. Gustave taps rapidly on the table with the jerry-rigged shiv. Suddenly, he sits up straight and frowns. The others watch him, curious – then look where he is looking.

The camera zooms in slowly toward the crinkled wrapper of the Courtesan au chocolat as the five inmates all stare at it together.

Cut to:

Mr. Moustafa and the author at their dinner table surrounded by meats, sauces, and vegetables. Mr. Moustafa is immobile.

AUTHOR

( voice-over )

At this point in the story, the old man fell silent and pushed away his saddle of lamb. His eyes went blank as two stones. I could see he was in distress. ‘Are you ill, Mr. Moustafa?’ I finally asked. ‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he said. ‘It’s only that I don’t know now to proceed.’ He was crying.

Mr. Moustafa smiles sadly with tears streaming down his cheeks. The author looks worried.

MR. MOUSTAFA

You see, I never speak of Agatha, because – even at the thought of her name – I’m unable to control my emotions.