Anderson The Grand Budapest Hotel

Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-31436-2
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 112 Seiten

The Grand Budapest Hotel recounts the adventures of Gustave H (Ralph Fiennes), a legendary concierge at a famous European hotel between the wars, and Zero Moustafa (Tony Revolori), the lobby boy who becomes his most trusted friend. Acting as a kind of father-figure, M. Gustave leads the resourceful Zero on a journey that involves the theft and recovery of a priceless Renaissance painting; the battle for an enormous family fortune; a desperate chase on motorcycles, trains, sledges and skis; and the sweetest confection of a love affair - all against the back-drop of a suddenly and dramatically changing Continent. Inspired by the writings of Stefan Zweig, The Grand Budapest Hotel recreates a by-gone era through its arresting visuals and sparkling dialogue. The charm and vibrant colours of the film gradually darken with a sense of melancholy as the forces of history conspire against a vanishing world.

Wes Anderson is the writer/director of Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Acquatic with Steve Zissou, Darjeeling Limited, Fantastic Mr Fox and Moonrise Kingdom.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Anderson, Wes

Leseproben

The Grand Budapest Hotel

EXT. CEMETERY. DAY

The Grand Budapest Hotel

AUTHOR

IN MEMORY OF OUR NATIONAL TREASURE

INT. STUDY. DAY

AUTHOR

It is an extremely common mistake: people think the writer’s imagination is always at work, that he is constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes, that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you are a writer, they bring the characters and events to – and as long as you maintain your ability to look and carefully listen, these stories will continue to seek you out –

AUTHOR

Don’t do it. Don’t!

AUTHOR

Over your lifetime. I can’t tell you how many times. Somebody comes up to me. (.) To him who has often told the tales of others, many tales will be told.

AUTHOR

The incidents that follow were described to me exactly as I present them here, and in a wholly unexpected way.

EXT. MOUNTAIN RANGE. DAY

AUTHOR

()

A number of years ago, while suffering from a mild case of ‘Scribe’s Fever’ (a form of neurasthenia common among the intelligentsia of that time), I had decided to spend the month of August in the spa town of Nebelsbad below the Alpine Sudetenwaltz – and had taken up rooms in the Grand Budapest –

– a picturesque, elaborate, and once widely celebrated establishment. I expect some of you will know it. It was off-season and, by that time, decidedly out-of-fashion; and it had already begun its descent into shabbiness and eventual demolition.

AUTHOR

()

What few guests we were had quickly come to recognize one another by sight as the only living souls residing in the vast establishment – although I do not believe any acquaintance among our number had proceeded beyond the polite nods we exchanged as we passed in the Palm Court and the Arabian Baths and on board the Colonnade Funicular. We were a very reserved group, it seemed – and, without exception, solitary.

INT. LOBBY. EVENING

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()

AUTHOR

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Perhaps as a result of this general silence, I had established a casual and bantering familiarity with the hotel’s concierge, a west-continental known only as M. Jean, who struck one as being, at once, both lazy and, really, quite accommodating.

AUTHOR

()

I expect he was not well-paid.

In any case, one evening, as I stood conferring elbow-to-elbow with M. Jean, as had become my habit, I noticed a new presence in our company.

AUTHOR

()

A small, elderly man, smartly dressed, with an exceptionally lively, intelligent face – and an immediately perceptible air of sadness. He was, like the rest of us, alone – but also, I must say, he was the first that struck one as being, deeply and truly, lonely (a symptom of my own medical condition, as well).

AUTHOR

()

‘Who’s this interesting, old fellow?’ I inquired of M. Jean. To my surprise, he was distinctly taken aback. ‘Don’t you ?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you him?’ He did look familiar. ‘That’s Mr. Moustafa himself! He arrived early this morning.’

This name will, no doubt, be familiar to the more seasoned persons among you. Mr. Zero Moustafa was, at one time, the richest man in Zubrowka; and was still, indeed, the owner of the Grand Budapest. ‘He often comes and stays a week or more, three times a year, at least – but never in the season.’ M. Jean signaled to me, and I leaned closer. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. He takes only a single-bed sleeping-room without a bath in the rear corner of the top floor – and it’s smaller than the service elevator!’

It was well-known: Moustafa had purchased and famously inhabited some of the most lavish castles and palazzos on the continent – yet, here, in his own, nearly empty hotel, he occupied a servant’s quarters?