by Wes Anderson
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:
M. GUSTAVE
You’ve nothing to fear. You’re always anxious before you travel. I admit you appear to be suffering a more acute attack on this occasion, but, truly and honestly – (Suddenly taken aback.) Dear God. What’ve you done to your fingernails?
Madame D. wears an understated, pale-pink polish. She stiffens.
MADAME D.
I beg your pardon?
M. GUSTAVE
This diabolical varnish. The color’s completely wrong.
MADAME D.
(slightly uncertain)
Really? You don’t like it?
M. GUSTAVE
It’s not that I don’t like it. I’m physically repulsed. (Checks his watch again.) Time to go!
INT. CORRIDOR. DAY
The procession of trunks, cases, and assistants goes in one direction, and M. Gustave, Madame D., and Zero (carrying a small leather jewel case) go in the other.
Cut to:
The elevator on its way down. M. Gustave sits with Madame D. (now wearing gloves) on a velvet-upholstered bench. She clutches his arm and looks deeply concerned. Zero with the jewel case stands at attention alongside a veteran elevator operator.
M. GUSTAVE
Perhaps this will soothe you.
MADAME D.
(alarmed)
What? Don’t recite.
M. GUSTAVE
Just listen to the words.
MADAME D.
(anxious)
Please. Not now.
M. GUSTAVE
Hush! (Declaiming gently.) ‘While questing once in noble wood of grey, medieval pine, I came upon a tomb, rain-slick’d, rubbed-cool, ethereal; its inscription long-vanished, yet still
within its melancholy fissures –’
Madame D. sighs deeply yet does seem to calm somewhat as she accepts the inevitability of these stanzas.
EXT. FRONT ENTRANCE. DAY
The trunks are piled on the roof of a long, silver limousine. More suitcases stick out of the rumble seat (along with the two bellboys). Madame D. and her secretary sit inside the car. M. Gustave reaches in the window and tightens a fur stole around Madame D.’s shoulders.
MADAME D.
Will you light a candle for me, please? In the sacristy at Santa Maria.
Madame D. digs a five-Klubeck coin out of her handbag and presses it into M. Gustave’s hand. He accepts it:
M. GUSTAVE
I’ll see to it myself immediately. (Saintly.) Remember: I’m always with you.
M. Gustave begins to withdraw, but Madame D. grips his shoulder tightly. She whispers, sincere and impassioned, what she fears will be their last communication:
MADAME D.
I love you.
M. GUSTAVE
(as if to a child)
I love you.
(Barking at the driver.) Abfahren!
The driver hits the gas. M. Gustave watches as the vehicle races away, spitting ice-chips off the packed snow. Zero lingers outside the front door. M. Gustave says with discreet pride as he continues to stare off down the road into the village of Nebelsbad:
M. GUSTAVE
It’s quite a thing winning the loyalty of a woman like that for nineteen consecutive seasons.
Zero hesitates – uncertain that he is, in fact, being addressed. He ventures:
ZERO
Yes, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
She’s very fond of me, you know.
ZERO
Yes, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
I’ve never seen her like that before.
ZERO
No, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
(mildly concerned)
She was shaking like a shitting dog.
ZERO
(unfamiliar with the expression)
Truly.
M. Gustave holds out the five-Klubeck coin, still staring off into the distance, and says rapidly, though distracted:
M. GUSTAVE
Run to the cathedral of Santa Maria Christiana in Brucknerplatz. Buy one of the plain, half-length candles and take back four Klubecks in change. Light it in the sacristy, say a brief rosary, then go to Mendl’s and get me a Courtesan au chocolat. If there’s any money left, give it to the crippled shoeshine boy.
M. Gustave points to a blind child in leg braces crouched at the top of the funicular tracks. The boy whistles a war march while he polishes a man’s boots.
ZERO
Right away, sir.
Zero nods briskly and takes the coin. M. Gustave looks squarely at him for the first time.
M. GUSTAVE
Hold it.
Zero freezes, poised to dash off. M. Gustave frowns slightly. He says finally, pointing:
M. GUSTAVE
Who are you?
ZERO
(stammering)
Zero, sir. The new lobby boy.
M. GUSTAVE
(mystified)
Zero, you say?
ZERO
Yes, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
Well, I’ve never heard of you. I’ve never laid eyes on you. Who hired you?
ZERO
(worried)
Mr. Mosher, sir.
M. GUSTAVE
(sharply)
Mr. Mosher!
M. Gustave snaps his fingers. A man with neat, oily hair and a thin moustache briskly approaches. He is Mr. Mosher.
MR. MOSHER
Yes, M. Gustave?
M. GUSTAVE
Am I to understand you’ve surreptitiously hired this young man in the position of a lobby boy?
MR. MOSHER
He’s been engaged for a trial period – pending your approval, of course.
M. GUSTAVE
(vaguely remembering)
Perhaps. Thank you, Mr. Mosher.
MR. MOSHER
You’re most welcome, M. Gustave.
M. Gustave looks back to Zero. He says ominously:
M. GUSTAVE
You’re now going to be officially interviewed.
INT. LOBBY. DAY
M. Gustave strides through the front doors. Zero is quickly at his heels, terrified. M. Gustave withdraws a small notebook from his pocket as they walk. Zero asks, uncertain:
ZERO
Should I go and light the candle first?
M. GUSTAVE
(not sure what he means)
What? No. (Starting the interview.) Experience?
ZERO
(anxious, very formal)
Hotel Kinski, kitchen boy, six months. Hotel Berlitz, mop and broom boy, three months. Before that I was a skillet scrubber in the banquet hall at –
M. GUSTAVE
(noting this)
Experience: zero.
At this moment, a criss-crossing group of people simultaneously engage M. Gustave all at once. They are: a man in a finely tailored business suit with a pair of opera tickets in his hand, a doorman in a long coat holding a bouquet of white roses, and a tiny bellboy (this is Anatole).
HOTEL GUEST NO. 1
Thank you again, M. Gustave.
M. GUSTAVE
(curtly to Anatole)
Straighten that cap, Anatole. (Warmly to the hotel guest.) The pleasure is mine, Herr Schneider.
ANATOLE
(working on it)
The damn strap’s busted.
M. GUSTAVE
(studying the roses)
These are not acceptable.
DOORMAN
I agree, M. Gustave.
Suddenly, M. Gustave and Zero are alone again. M. Gustave resumes his interrogation as they proceed across the carpet:
M. GUSTAVE
Education?
ZERO
(worried)
I studied reading and spelling. I completed my primary school certificate. I almost started –
M. GUSTAVE
(noting this)
Education: zero.
A second criss-crossing group of people now engage M. Gustave. This time: a very old Washroom Attendant carrying a monkey-wrench, the head waiter wearing an apron and waving a menu, and a woman of a certain age in a beautifully embroidered dress with a small dachshund cradled in her arms.
WASHROOM ATTENDANT
Now it’s exploded.
M. GUSTAVE
(sweetly to the dachshund)
Good morning, Cicero. (Coldly to the Washroom Attendant.) Call the goddamn plumber.
HOTEL GUEST NO. 2
(flirtatious)
This afternoon, M. Gustave?
HEAD WAITER
(angrily)
What in the hell is this?
M. GUSTAVE
(equally flirtatious)
Without fail, Frau Liebling. (Sharply to the Head Waiter.) Not now!
The second interruption ends. M. Gustave continues:
M. GUSTAVE
Family?
ZERO
(long pause)
Zero.
M. GUSTAVE
(noting this)
I see.
M. Gustave leads Zero through a rotunda, below a grand, winding staircase, and back into the elevator. He closes his notebook. The elevator operator awaits instruction.
M. GUSTAVE
Six.
The elevator operator throws a lever and they begin to ascend. M. Gustave locks eyes with Zero.
M. GUSTAVE
Why do you want to be a lobby boy?
The elevator operator casts a sideways look. Zero searches for the honest answer – then finds it:
ZERO
Well, who wouldn’t – at the Grand Budapest, sir? It’s an institution.
M. GUSTAVE
(deeply impressed)
Very good.
INT. SI
TTING ROOM. DAY
M. Gustave and Zero re-enter Madame D.’s suite. M. Gustave walks directly over to a pedestal where an envelope waits tucked beneath a vase. He tears it open and withdraws a letter and a stack of bills folded in half. He counts the money and says coolly:
M. GUSTAVE
A thousand Klubecks.
ZERO
(astonished)
My goodness.
M. Gustave skims the letter. He holds it up for Zero to see. There is a lipstick-kiss at the bottom of the text. Zero is unsure how to interpret this. M. Gustave raises his eyebrows and tucks the note and the bills inside his jacket. His eyes glaze over in a moment of reverie. He sighs. Zero makes a sudden realization:
ZERO
Were you ever a lobby boy, sir?
M. GUSTAVE
(bristling but playful)
What do you think?
ZERO
(speculative)
Well, I suppose you had to start –
M. GUSTAVE
Go light the goddamn candle.
Title:
ONE MONTH LATER
INT. LOBBY. DAY
The crowded room buzzes in all corners. Zero circulates among tables and sofas holding up a folded telegram while he calls out a name, searching. A military officer in a grey uniform hails him, and Zero dashes over to deliver the missive.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
And so, my life began. Junior lobby boy (in training), Grand Budapest Hotel, under the strict command of M. Gustave H. I became his pupil, and he was to be my counselor and guardian.
M. GUSTAVE
(voice-over, rhetorical)
What is a lobby boy?
Montage:
Zero pushes an old man in a wheelchair. Zero arranges a white bouquet. Zero replaces dirty ashtrays, rearranges furniture, and shields a large woman with a toothpick from view as she excavates between her teeth.
M. GUSTAVE
(voice-over)
A lobby boy is completely invisible, yet always in sight. A lobby boy remembers what people hate. A lobby boy anticipates the client’s needs before the needs are needed. A lobby boy, above all, is discreet, to a fault.
