Wes Anderson - The Grand Budapest Hotel

He’s perfectly capable, of course, M. Jean – but we can’t claim he’s a first- or, in earnest, even second-rate concierge. ( Sadly .) But there it is. Times have changed.

The author nods, attentive. He changes the subject to observe encouragingly, motioning toward the plunging pool across the hall:

AUTHOR

The thermal baths are very beautiful.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( gently )

They were , in their first condition. It couldn’t be maintained, of course. Too decadent for current tastes – but I love it all, just the same. This enchanting old ruin.

Mr. Moustafa looks wistfully around the vaulted space. The author squints, holds up a finger, and asks gingerly:

AUTHOR

How did you come to buy it, if I may ask? The Grand Budapest?

Pause. Mr. Moustafa disappears back behind the partition. The author looks slightly puzzled. Mr. Moustafa immediately reappears, but he has turned himself around in the tub and is now facing the opposite direction so he can more comfortably rest in view. He props his elbow onto the edge of the bath. His eyes twinkle as he says:

MR. MOUSTAFA

I didn’t.

At this moment, one of the matrons of the hammam blasts the fat, now naked, businessman with a jet of icy water. He hollers as he is sprayed down. Silence.

Mr. Moustafa and the author look back to each other. Each has raised an eyebrow. They both smile slightly.

MR. MOUSTAFA

If you’re not merely being polite (and you must tell me if that’s the case), but if it genuinely does interest you: may I invite you to dine with me tonight, and it will be my pleasure and, indeed, my privilege to tell you – ‘my’ story. Such as it is.

INT. DINING ROOM. NIGHT

The enormous restaurant as before – but now one of the tables has been set for two and is occupied by the author and Mr. Moustafa. The nine other guests watch, curious, from their usual spots.

Mr. Moustafa stares at the wine list as he rattles off a robust order ( oysters, soup, rabbit, fowl, lamb ) . ‘Boy with Apple’ is on the cover of the menu. The waiter departs.

MR. MOUSTAFA

That should provide us ample time – if I commence promptly.

AUTHOR

By all means.

Another waiter arrives to uncork a split of champagne and pours a thimbleful. Mr. Moustafa tastes it and nods. The waiter pours two full coupes. They each drink a long sip. Finally, Mr. Moustafa settles in:

MR. MOUSTAFA

It begins, as it must, with our mutual friend’s predecessor. The beloved, original concierge of the Grand Budapest. ( With deep affection .) It begins, of course, with –

Title:

PART 1: ‘M. GUSTAVE’

INT. SITTING ROOM. DAY

The early thirties. A double-reception salon with high ceilings and two couches. There are six trunks and eight suitcases arranged neatly at the side of the room. Each is painted with the initials ‘Mdm. C.V. D. u.T.’ Outside, a light snow falls.

A tall, blond, forty-year-old concierge stands patiently alone surveying the room. He is tranquil, perfectly composed, waiting. He wears the faintest hint of mascara. He is M. Gustave.

M. Gustave crosses swiftly to the door and opens it just as a contingent of hotel staff arrives together from down the corridor. There are two waiters, two footmen, two bellboys, and an Arab teenager, small, cheerful, and alert, who appears to be some kind of page. He is Zero.

One of the waiters carries a table, and one carries a breakfast tray. M. Gustave ushers them in:

M. GUSTAVE

Bring the table to the window.

FIRST WAITER

Yes, M. Gustave.

M. GUSTAVE

Bring the tray to the table.

SECOND WAITER

Right away, M. Gustave.

M. GUSTAVE

( pointing to two hats )

Have those been brushed and blocked?

FOOTMAN

Of course, M. Gustave.

M. GUSTAVE

Pack them in the hat boxes. ( Pointing to a shopping bag .) Is that from Oberstdorf and Company?

BELLBOY

I believe so, M. Gustave.

M. GUSTAVE

Second trunk. Who has the tickets?

Zero raises his hand.

ZERO

I do, M. Gustave.

M. GUSTAVE

Give them to me.

Zero hands M. Gustave a set of train tickets. M. Gustave studies them carefully. He nods and points.

These are in order. Wait in the corner.

Zero retreats. M. Gustave strides to the bedroom door, raps on it briefly, then swings it open.

Good morning, Madame. Your breakfast is served. The sitting room is a battlefield at the moment, but rest assured, you will be en route in precisely – ( Checks his watch .) eleven minutes. You look heavenly. Pray be seated.

An immaculately dressed, eighty-year-old woman emerges from the bedroom, nimble, brisk – and highly agitated. She is Madame D. She is followed by two young women, a lady’s maid and a private secretary, who quickly join the hubbub fidgeting with trunks and rushing to-and-fro preparing for their departure.

M. Gustave waits for Madame D. to sit, then joins her; at which point, she immediately leans across to him and says in a gravely serious, urgent whisper:

MADAME D.

I’m not leaving.

M. GUSTAVE

( puzzled )

Why not?

MADAME D.

I’m frightened.

M. GUSTAVE

Of what?

MADAME D.

I feel this may be the last time we ever see each other.

M. GUSTAVE

Why on earth would that be the case?

MADAME D.

I can’t put it into words – but I feel it.

M. GUSTAVE

Well, for goodness’ sake, there’s no reason for you to leave us if –

MADAME D.

Is there a priest in the hotel?

M. GUSTAVE

Of course not.

MADAME D.

There should be. I’ve always said so.

M. GUSTAVE

Well, I’ve always profoundly disagreed. The Grand Budapest is no place for clergy.

MADAME D.

Come with me.

M. Gustave hesitates slightly. He gestures to the tickets and speculates in disbelief:

M. GUSTAVE

To Lutz?

MADAME D.

( desperately )

Please.

M. GUSTAVE

( wildly frustrated )

How can I? With this enormous rock-pile around my neck like an albatross. ( Taking charge .) Tell me right now – wholly, specifically, and without abbreviation: what’s troubling you? ( Surprised .) Are you weeping?

Tears have begun to stream down Madame D.’s cheeks. M. Gustave produces a dazzling pink handkerchief and dries her eyes. The old woman takes a deep breath.

MADAME D.

Let us pray.

Madame D. closes her eyes, lowers her chin, and crosses herself. M. Gustave reluctantly follows suit. Silence. Madame D. snaps one eye back open suddenly:

MADAME D.

Well?

M. GUSTAVE

( surprised )

You want me to do it?

MADAME D.

( with authority )

If you don’t mind.

M. GUSTAVE

( instantly )

Dear heavenly Father, please, protect our cherished guest as she travels through snow and sleet and under shadow of darkness. Guide her in the night to her final destination. Indeed, whatever luxury she may require, be it small or more extravagant, please, do grant –

MADAME D.

( now with both eyes open )

That’s not a proper prayer.

M. GUSTAVE

Give me your hand.

Madame D. does so. M. Gustave firmly clasps it. He says in an affectionate, reassuring, patronizing voice: