by Wes Anderson
Cut to:
M. Gustave, accompanied by Zero, advancing down a corridor at high velocity. On the floor next to each door they pass, a pair of shoes waits to be polished.
M. GUSTAVE
Our guests know their deepest secrets, some of which are, frankly, rather unseemly, will go with us to our graves – so keep your mouth shut, Zero.
ZERO
Yes, sir.
M. Gustave stops at the end of the hallway in front of a door labeled KAISER FREDERICK SUITE. He says to Zero:
M. GUSTAVE
That’s all for now.
Zero hesitates for an instant, then nods and reverses rapidly away. M. Gustave withdraws a ring of pass-keys from his pocket. He looks up and down the corridor furtively.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
I began to realize that many of the hotel’s most valued and distinguished guests – came for him.
Zero looks back briefly over his shoulder as he starts down the staircase and sees M. Gustave slip into the suite. The door locks.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
It seemed to be an essential part of his duties, but I believe it was also his pleasure.
Montage:
A succession of dames of varying grandeurs seen tête-à-tête with M. Gustave: a sixty-year-old Russian chats with him in the tea salon; a sixty-five-year-old German strolls with him on the promenade; a seventy-year-old Argentinian shares a cigarette with him, naked in her bed; a seventy-five-year-old Englishwoman washes his back in her bath; and an eighty-year-old Austrian wearing a hairnet and a nightgown gives him a blow-job while he watches in the mirror and eats grapes. There is a platinum wig on a stand on the dressing table.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
The requirements were always the same. They had to be: rich, old, insecure, vain, superficial, blonde, needy.
Cut to:
Mr. Moustafa and the author at their dinner table. The remains of a rabbit tart are replaced by a sizeable roasted pheasant as the author gently inquires:
AUTHOR
Why blonde?
MR. MOUSTAFA
(after a moment’s reflection)
Because they all were.
INT. ELEVATOR. DAY
M. Gustave, somewhat tousled, with lipstick on his cheek, stands waiting to arrive at his floor. He checks the railings for dust. The car stops and the elevator operator opens the gate. M. Gustave exits with a curt nod. A middle-aged couple enter.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
He was, by the way, the most liberally perfumed man I had ever encountered. The scent announced his approach from a great distance and lingered for many minutes after he was gone.
As the elevator descends, the middle-aged couple sniffs the air. The man looks irritated. The woman swoons slightly.
INT. STAFF QUARTERS. MORNING
Zero wakes up in the pitch black in a tiny room smaller than a service elevator, turns on the light, springs to his feet dressed in white pajamas with short trousers, splashes water from a bowl onto his face, then quickly dampens and combs his hair. His uniform hangs neatly from a peg on the wall. He carefully grooms it with a clothes-brush.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
I worked six days each week plus a half-day Sunday, five a.m. until just after midnight. Our meals were small but frequent (for stamina): two breakfasts, two lunches, and a late supper. M. Gustave also delivered a nightly sermon.
INT. MESS HALL. NIGHT
The evening meal. Most of the hotel staff occupy a long table set for fifty. A thin, grey broth is served with boiled potatoes. M. Gustave starts at a little podium, then paces back and forth in front of it as he addresses the group. They begin to eat hungrily – but, at the same time, they continue to listen, attentive and respectful.
M. GUSTAVE
Rudeness is merely the expression of fear. People fear they won’t get what they want. The most dreadful and unattractive person: only needs to be loved – and they will open up like a flower. I’m reminded of a verse. (Reciting.) ‘The painter’s brush touched the inchoate face by ends of nimble bristles – and, with that blush of first color, rendered her lifeless cheek, living; though languish—’
As the poetry begins, some of the diners’ eye glaze over and there are faint sighs. Mr. Moustafa continues his narration:
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
His own dinner, he took alone in his room.
Cut to:
M. Gustave seated at a folding table in a room nearly identical to Zero’s but with a connecting sitting room and kitchenette. He wears his uniform trousers and a white undershirt. He eats a bowl of cereal while listening to classical music on a radio set.
There are approximately twenty-five identical bottles of cologne on a shelf above the sink in the background. Each is labeled ‘L’Air de Panache: Pure Musk.’
EXT. FRONT ENTRANCE. DAY
A large sedan with tire-chains arrives through the snow and parks in front of the hotel. A sign next to five stars on the side of the hood reads: GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL. One of the back doors opens, and a tall man in a double-breasted suit emerges. He carries a briefcase and wears a pointy beard. He is Deputy Kovacs. He hurries to the top of the steps where M. Gustave waits to greet him.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
The identity of the owner of the hotel was unknown to all of us. Each month, his emissary, known as Deputy Kovacs, arrived to review the books and convey messages on behalf of the mysterious proprietor.
INT. LOBBY. DAY
Zero, substituting at the concierge desk, looks up to a high window across the room where the shadowy figures of M. Gustave and Deputy Kovacs meet in a storage pantry. A clerk with a pot belly flips the pages in a ledger book and takes notes. He is Herr Becker.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
On these occasions, M. Gustave and our business manager, Herr Becker, met with him in private consultation above Reception.
Cut to:
A plain, graceful, seventeen-year-old beanpole with freckles and a birthmark the shape of Mexico on the side of her face. She is Agatha. She works a rolling-pin over a wide expanse of flattened pastry dough. There are carts circled around her filled with trays of exceptionally well-made, beautifully decorated pastries shaped like hourglass figures. (These are Courtesans au chocolat.)
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
This was also when I met Agatha –
Agatha pauses to dry the perspiration on her brow with the back of her sleeve. She resumes her rolling.
EXT. BAKERY. DAY
The timber-frame storefront of a tiny patisserie. A large sign painted in delicate, pink cursive across the glass reads: MENDL’S. There is a heavy-set baker in an apron with flour over every inch of himself standing in the doorway. He is Herr Mendl.
Agatha rides a rickety bicycle up the alley next to the shop and rings a bell as she rattles down the cobblestone lane. She bears a milkmaid’s yoke balanced across her shoulders overloaded with sixty small, pink pastry-boxes tied with string.
Cut to:
Agatha gripping the handlebars as she bounces pedaling down the road.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
– but we won’t discuss that.
Title:
PART 2: ‘MADAME C.V. D. u.T.’
EXT. TOWN SQUARE. MORNING
Dawn. The platz in the center of Nebelsbad is deserted. Zero emerges briskly from a press kiosk carrying a thick stack of newspapers. He looks down, scanning headlines, as he crosses the street.
Zero stops. His eyes are glued to one of the articles. He skims it. He quickly re-reads it twice more. His mouth falls open.
He bolts off at a sprint.
EXT. FRONT ENTRANCE. MORNING
Zero races up the steps into the hotel carrying the stack of newspapers.
INT. LOBBY. MORNIN
G
Zero dashes past Reception carrying the stack of newspapers.
INT. ROTUNDA. MORNING
Zero mounts the staircase three steps at a time carrying the stack of newspapers.
INT. CORRIDOR. MORNING
Zero speed-walks to the end of the hallway and stops in front of a door labeled PRINCE HEINRICH SUITE. A sign on the knob reads: ‘Do Not Disturb’. Zero hesitates, then knocks. Pause. The door opens a crack and an irritated M. Gustave in a purple, silk dressing gown looks out.
M. GUSTAVE
What do you want?
ZERO
(a frantic whisper)
Look.
Zero holds up the stack of newspapers. M. Gustave picks one off the top and studies it.
Insert:
The front page of the Trans-Alpine Yodel. The headline is: WILL THERE BE WAR? TANKS AT FRONTIER – but a column below the fold reads:
DOWAGER COUNTESS FOUND DEAD IN BOUDOIR.
A photograph shows Madame D.’s corpse flat on her back on a white carpet.
As M. Gustave reads the article, he says gravely:
M. GUSTAVE
Dear God.
ZERO
(sadly)
I’m terribly sorry, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
(melodramatic but pained)
We must go to her.
ZERO
(hesitates)
We must?
M. GUSTAVE
Tout de suite. She needs me – and I need you: to help me with my bags and so on.
An old woman’s voice calls from the next room, coquettish:
FRENCH LADY
(out of shot)
Tout va bien, ma chérie?
M. GUSTAVE
(sharply)
Attendez-moi, darling.
(to Zero:)
How fast can you pack?
ZERO
(short pause)
Five minutes.
M. GUSTAVE
Do it – and bring a bottle of the Pouilly-Jouvet ’26 in an ice bucket with two glasses so we don’t have to drink the cat-piss they serve in the dining car.
ZERO
Yes, sir.
M. Gustave slams the door, and Zero dashes away down the corridor.
INT. TRAIN COMPARTMENT. DAY
A first-class stateroom on the express to Lutz. The snowy foothills of the Zubrowkian Alps whiz by outside. M. Gustave and Zero each hold a glass of chilled white wine. There are tears in M. Gustave’s eyes.
M. GUSTAVE
I blame myself.
M. Gustave checks the color of the wine in the light. It is excellent.
M. GUSTAVE
She tried to tell me she had a premonition. I didn’t listen. (Imagining the scene.) All of Lutz will be dressed in black – except her own ghastly, deceitful children whom she loathed and couldn’t bear to kiss hello. They’ll be dancing like gypsies.
Zero nods soberly. M. Gustave becomes philosophical/nihilistic:
There’s really no point in doing anything in life, because it’s all over in the blink of an eye – and, the next thing you know, rigor mortis sets in. Oh, how the good die young! With any luck, she’s left a few Klubecks for your old friend – (motioning to himself) but one never knows until the ink is dry on the death certificate. She was dynamite in the sack, by the way.
ZERO
(scandalized in spite of himself)
She was eighty-four, M. Gustave!
M. GUSTAVE
(pause)
I’ve had older.
M. Gustave throws back the rest of his glass and refills it as he expands on the point:
M. GUSTAVE
When you’re young, it’s all filet steak, but as the years go by, you have to move onto the cheaper cuts – which is fine with me, because I like those. More flavorful, or so they say. (Shrugs.) Why are we stopping at a barley field?
The train has, in fact, come to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Noises echo from the other end of the coach: a door slams open; loud voices argue; heavy footsteps approach.
Three soldiers appear in the compartment doorway. They are stocky, thick-necked, and armed with carbine rifles. They wear grey uniforms and long coats. M. Gustave says with an air of ‘fancy-meeting-you-here’:
M. GUSTAVE
Well, hello there, chaps.
SOLDIER 1
(blankly)
Documents, please.
M. GUSTAVE
With pleasure.
M. Gustave withdraws his passport from his coat pocket and presents it to the soldier. The soldier begins to flip through it. M. Gustave gestures toward the photograph of himself:
M. GUSTAVE
It’s not a very flattering portrait, I’m afraid. I was once considered a great beauty.
The soldier ignores this comment. M. Gustave peers at the breast pocket of his uniform.
Insert:
A name tag pinned below a military badge. It reads: ‘Cpl. F. Miller’. M. Gustave raises an eyebrow and asks pointedly:
M. GUSTAVE
What’s the ‘F’ stand for? Fritz? Franz?
SOLDIER 1
(hesitates)
Franz.
M. GUSTAVE
(exceedingly pleased)
I knew it!
The soldier returns the passport to M. Gustave and looks to Zero. Zero nervously hands him a creased and tattered little scrap of paper covered with stamps and seals. The soldier frowns and studies it. M. Gustave smiles, uneasy, and says lightly:
M. GUSTAVE
He’s making a funny face. (To the soldier.) That’s a Migratory Visa with Stage Three Worker Status, Franz, darling. He’s with me.
The soldier shows the scrap of paper to his associates. They confer rapidly at a whisper. There is some debate. Finally, the soldier waves for Zero to follow him:
FIRST SOLDIER
Come outside, please.
Zero swallows hard and begins to rise – but M. Gustave motions sharply for him to stop. He says, a bit stern:
M. GUSTAVE
Now wait a minute. (To Zero.) Sit down, Zero. (To the soldiers.) His papers are in order. I cross-referenced them myself with the Bureau of Labor and Servitude. You can’t arrest him simply because he’s a bloody immigrant. He hasn’t done anything wrong.
The soldier hesitates. He turns to his associates again. They look back at him, expressionless. The soldier grabs Zero by the arm and jerks him out of his seat. M. Gustave is instantly on his feet, tussling.
M. GUSTAVE
Stop it! Stop, damn you!
ZERO
(in disbelief)
Never mind, M. Gustave! Let them proceed!
M. Gustave is slammed and held against one wall while Zero is pounded into another. M. Gustave shouts and struggles.
M. GUSTAVE
What are you doing? That hurts!
In two seconds: both M. Gustave and Zero are locked in handcuffs with their arms behind their backs. At this point, M. Gustave explodes:
M. GUSTAVE
You filthy, goddamn, pock-marked, fascist assholes! (In a pure rage.) Take your hands off my lobby boy!
M. Gustave and Zero lock eyes across the fracas. In an instant: they are brothers. A new voice shouts from the end of the corridor:
HENCKELS
(out of shot)
What’s the problem?
All the soldiers snap to attention as a young officer appears in the doorway. He is well-groomed and clean-shaven. He wears a dress-grey uniform with a cape. He is Henckels. The first soldier hands him the scrap of paper and starts to explain the situation – but M. Gustave interrupts calmly with blood trickling from his nose:
M. GUSTAVE
This is outrageous. The young man works for me at the Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad.
Henckels turns suddenly to M. Gustave. He stares. He says in a quiet voice:
HENCKELS
M. Gustave?
M. Gustave looks at Henckels, curious. He nods slowly.
HENCKELS
My name is Henckels. I’m the son of Dr. and Mrs. Wolfgang Henckels-Bergersdorfer. Do you remember me?
M. GUSTAVE
I know exactly who you are. It’s uncanny. You’re little Albert.
HENCKELS
I’m terribly embarrassed. (To the soldiers.) Release them.
The soldiers immediately remove the handcuffs from both M. Gustave and Zero while Henckels takes out a notebook and begins to scribble something on a yellow ticket. M. Gustave sits down and presses his pink handkerchief to his nostril. Henckels says as he writes:
HENCKELS
Your colleague is stateless. He’ll need to apply for a revised Special Transit Permit, which, honestly, at this point, may be very difficult to acquire. Take this.
Henckels finishes writing, tears the ticket out of his notebook, and hands it to M. Gustave.
HENCKELS
It’s temporary, but it’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid.
M. GUSTAVE
How’s your wonderful mother?
HENCKELS
Very well, thank you.
M. GUSTAVE
I adore her. Send my love.
HENCKELS
I will.
Henckels motions politely for Zero to return to his seat and hands the scrap of paper back to him. Zero tucks it carefully into an envelope. His hands are shaking. Henckels says gently: