Wes Anderson - The Grand Budapest Hotel

Murals of cherubs cover the walls. There is a harpsichord in one corner and a loudly ticking grandfather clock in another. The feet of the corpse, in silver pumps, jut out, toes up, from inside the casket on top of a gold-leaf table.

M. Gustave stops and gasps. He turns to Clotilde and nods. She tugs Zero by the sleeve, and they withdraw. M. Gustave picks up a chair, carries it to the body, sets it down, and sits. Silence. He speaks in a normal, conversational voice:

M. GUSTAVE

You’re looking so well, darling. You really are. They’ve done a marvelous job. I don’t know what sort of cream they’ve put on you down at the morgue, but I want some. Honestly, you look better than you have in years. You look like you’re alive!

M. Gustave shakes his head in admiration. He leans down and kisses Madame D. on the lips. Zero and Clotilde, watching discreetly from the shadows in the next room, look slightly revolted.

M. Gustave takes the corpse’s hand. He notices something and hesitates.

Insert:

Madame D.’s fingernails. They are now lacquered in a rich plum. M. Gustave says, deeply moved:

M. GUSTAVE

You changed it, after all. It’s perfect. ( Calling to the next room .) Clotilde?

Clotilde advances into view. She says respectfully:

MAID

Oui, M. Gustave?

M. GUSTAVE

A glass of chilled water with no ice, please.

CLOTIDE

Oui, M. Gustave – et aussi: M. Serge a démandé un mot avec vous en privé dans son office, s’il vous plaît .

M. GUSTAVE

( slightly irritated )

Oh. Well, all right. ( Distracted, to the body .) I shan’t be long, darling.

M. Gustave stands up and follows Clotilde through the row of doors. Zero looks back at the casket as he trails behind them.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

We were escorted through a green baize door, down a narrow service corridor, and into the butler’s pantry.

INT. OFFICE. NIGHT

A small chamber separated from the kitchen by a glass-paneled wall. M. Gustave checks his watch. There is a cup of water in his hand. Zero drinks a sip of milk. In the background, a sous-chef chops while the cook stirs a bubbling broth. Kitchen and scullery maids dart back and forth clanking pots and pans.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

A moment later, the kitchen passage swung open, and a small servant dressed in white jolted into the room.

An extremely anxious, petite butler enters with an ice bucket. He is Serge. He hacks chips off a frozen block in the sink and fills the container briskly. He turns to go – then spots M. Gustave looking out at him from inside the pantry.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

I’ve never forgotten the look on that man’s face.

Serge is: deeply distraught, physically exhausted, and, above all, terrified. He swallows, holds up a quick finger for M. Gustave to wait, then disappears back out the door. M. Gustave frowns. He says to himself:

M. GUSTAVE

What the devil is going on?

M. Gustave looks to Zero. Zero is perplexed.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

I, myself, had never set foot inside a house of this kind in my life.

M. Gustave dumps his glass of water into a potted cactus and strides through the chaotic kitchen while Clotilde watches him with a feather duster in her hand. She makes a reluctant move to advise him to stop – but he flies past her, bangs out the swinging door after Serge, and marches into a dark corridor.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

I understood very little about the events that were to follow – but, eventually, I came to recognize:

INT. TROPHY ROOM. NIGHT

A door opens. M. Gustave comes inside and stops short. He hesitates. Zero sidles in next to him. They both stare, mouths open.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

When the destiny of a great fortune is at stake, men’s greed spreads like a poison in the bloodstream.

Cut to:

A dark, woody parlor with mounted heads everywhere – lions, tigers, buffaloes, antelopes, etc. A murmuring audience of fifty men in business suits is gathering and taking its seats in rows before a dais. Every age, build, and variety of facial hair is accounted for. Some carry briefcases and canes. Most have strong drinks in their hands. There are also several young dandies; a few little old ladies; and a pair of country farmers.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

Uncles, nephews, cousins – in-laws of increasingly tenuous connection. The old woman’s most distant relations had come foraging out of the woodwork.

Serge drops an ice cube into a glass of whiskey with tongs. He does a double-take as he sees that M. Gustave has followed him into the room.

MR. MOUSTAFA

( voice-over )

At the head of this congregation (it was a disorienting coincidence), we discovered our own Deputy Kovacs (himself an important attorney, of course). He was the executor of the dead widow’s estate.

Deputy Kovacs, standing behind a desk on a platform at the front of the room, squints at M. Gustave, puzzled. M. Gustave and Zero look back at him, equally confused. Deputy Kovacs turns his attention back to the seated audience. He clears his throat, sets a large, cardboard box down in front of him, and addresses the room:

DEPUTY KOVACS

This is Madame D.’s Last Will and Testament. It consists of a general tontine drawn up before the event of her husband’s death forty-six years ago –

Deputy Kovacs lifts a faded, fragile slip of paper out of the box. He places it delicately on the table.

– in combination with 635 amendments, notations, corrections, and letters of wishes executed during the subsequent decades.

Deputy Kovacs reaches into the box with two hands and pulls out an enormous pile of scraps, slips, shreds, slivers, forms, files, postcards, and various bits of lint and loose thread. He plants it all down with a thud.

The ultimate legality of this accumulation requires further analysis; but, in the opinion of this office, it was Madame D.’s intention that control of the vast bulk of her estate should be transferred, forthwith, to her son, Dmitri –

Cut to:

A spindly, thirty-five-year-old man with a thick head of spiky, black hair which sticks up straight into the air. He has black eyes and a black moustache. He wears a black suit cut close to his skinny body. He is Dmitri. A thug in a leather coat with close-shaven head and high-heeled boots sits slightly behind and beside him. He wears brass knuckles on both hands. He is Jopling.

– with special allowances for his sisters Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina –

Cut to:

Madame D.’s spinster daughters. They range in age from forty to fifty. They are sturdy and fierce.

– and minor gifts for various members of the extended family as shown in the List of Recipients, which I will elucidate in due course.

There is a mumbling of general approval around the room and throughout the gallery of distant relations. A few take notes. Deputy Kovacs interjects:

However.

Voices hush. Pause.

An additional codicil, delivered into my possession by post only this morning, and, by all indications, sent by Madame D. during the last hours of her life, contains an amendment to the original certificate, which, as prescribed by law, I will read to you now. The authenticity of this document has not yet been confirmed by the presiding magistrate, so I ask that all parties be patient and refrain from comment until such time as our investigations can be completed.