All language subtitles for the-grand-budapest-hotel-yify-english

It is an extremely common mistake,

people think the writer's
imagination is always at work,

that he's 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're a writer,

they bring the characters
and events to you

and as long as you maintain
your ability to look

and to carefully listen,

these stories will continue to...

Stop it. Stop it! Don't!
Don't do it!

Will continue to seek you
out over your lifetime.

To him who has often told
the tales of others,

many tales will be told.

- Sorry.
- It's all right.

The incidents that follow
were described to me

exactly as I present them here

and in a wholly unexpected way.

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 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.

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,

in the Arabian baths,

and onboard the
Colonnade Funicular.

We were a very reserved
group, it seemed,

and, without exception, solitary.

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 Monsieur Jean,

who struck one as being, at once, both
lazy and, really, quite accommodating.

I expect he was not well paid.

In any case, one evening,

as I stood conferring
elbow-to-elbow with Monsieur Jean,

as had become my habit, I noticed
a new presence in our company.

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.

Who's this interesting old fellow?

I inquired of Monsieur Jean.

To my surprise, he was
distinctly taken aback.

- Don't you know?
- He asked.

Don't you recognize him?

He did look familiar.

That's Mr. Moustafa himself.
He arrived earlier 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.

Monsieur 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,

Zero 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?

At that moment, the curtain rose on
a parenthetical, domestic drama...

Shit.

which required the immediate
and complete attention

of Monsieur Jean,

but, frankly, did not
hold mine for long.

However,

this premature intermission in the
story of the curious, old man

had left me,
as the expression goes,

"gespannt wie ein Flitzebogen,"

that is, on the edge of my seat,

where I remained throughout
the next morning, until,

in what I have found to be its
mysterious and utterly reliable fashion,

fate, once again,
intervened on my behalf.

I admire your work.

I beg your pardon?

I said, I know and admire
your wonderful work.

Thank you most kindly, sir.

Did Monsieur Jean have a word
or two to share with you

about the aged proprietor
of this establishment?

I must confess, I did
myself inquire about you.

He's perfectly capable,
of course, Monsieur Jean

but we can't claim he's a first,

or, in earnest, even
second-rate concierge.

But there it is.

Times have changed.

The thermal baths
are very beautiful.

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.

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

The Grand Budapest.

I didn't.

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.

Two ducks roasted with olives.

Rabbit, salad?

Pouilly-Jouvet '52, plus
a split of the brut.

That should provide us ample time

- if I commence promptly.
- By all means.

Well, it begins, as it must, with
our mutual friend's predecessor.

The beloved, original concierge
of The Grand Budapest.

It begins, of course, with...

- Bring the table to the window.
- Yes, Monsieur Gustave.

- Bring the tray to the table.
- Right away, Monsieur Gustave.

Right there. Have those
been brushed and blocked?

- Of course, Monsieur Gustave.
- Pack them in the hat boxes.

- Is that from Oberstdorf & Company?
- I believe so, Monsieur Gustave.

- Second trunk. Who has the tickets?
- I do, Monsieur Gustave.

Give them to me.

These are in order.
Wait in the corner.

- I'm not leaving.
- I beg your pardon?

- I'm not leaving.
- Why not?

- I'm frightened.
- Of what?

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

Why on earth would
that be the case?

Well, I can't put it into
words, but I feel it.

For goodness sake, there's no reason
for you to leave us if you'd...

- Come with me.
- To fucking Lutz?

- Please.
- Give me your hand.

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... Oh, dear God.
What have you done to your fingernails?

- I beg your pardon?
- This diabolical varnish.

- The color is completely wrong.
- Don't you like it?

It's not that I don't like it.
I am physically repulsed.

- Perhaps this will soothe you.
- What? Don't recite.

- Just listen to the words. Hush.
- Please. Not now.

"While questing once in noble
wood of gray, medieval pine,

"I came upon a tomb, rain-slick'd,
rubbed-cool, ethereal,

"'its inscription long-vanished,

"yet still within its
melancholy fissures..."

Will you light a
candle for me, please?

- In the sacristy of Santa Maria?
- I'll see to it myself immediately.

Remember, I'm always with you.

- I love you.
- I love you.

It's quite a thing winning the
loyalty of a woman like that

for 19 consecutive seasons.

- Yes, sir.
- She's very fond of me, you know.

Yes, sir.

But I've never seen
her like that before.

No, sir.

She was shaking like
a shitting dog.

Truly.

Run to the cathedral of Santa
Maria 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 shoe-shine boy.

- Right away, sir.
- Hold it.

- Who are you?
- I'm Zero, sir. The new Lobby Boy.

- Zero, you say?
- Yes, sir.

I've never heard of you, never
laid eyes on you. Who hired you?

- Mr. Mosher, sir.
- Mr. Mosher!

Yes, Monsieur Gustave?

Am I to understand you've
surreptitiously hired this young man

in the position of a Lobby Boy?

He's been engaged for a trial period,
pending your approval, of course.

Perhaps, yes.
Thank you, Mr. Mosher.

You're most welcome,
Monsieur Gustave.

You're now going to be
officially interviewed.

Should I go and light
the candle first, sir?

What? No.

Experience?

Hotel Kinski, Kitchen
Boy, six months.

Hotel Berlitz, Mop and
Broom Boy, three months.

- Before that I was a Skillet Scrubber...
- Experience, zero.

- Thank you again, Monsieur Gustave.
- Straighten that cap, Anatole.

- The pleasure's mine, Herr Schneider.
- The strap's busted.

- These are not acceptable.
- I fully agree.

- Education?
- I studied reading and spelling.

I started my primary school.
I almost...

- Education, zero.
- Now it's exploded.

Good morning, Cicero.
Call the goddamn plumber!

- This afternoon, Monsieur Gustave?
- Without fail, Frau Liebling.

- What in hell is this?
- Not now.

Family?

Zero.

Six, Igor.

Why do you want to be a Lobby Boy?

Well, who wouldn't, at
the Grand Budapest, sir?

It's an institution.

Very good.

- A thousand Klubecks.
- My goodness.

Were you ever a Lobby Boy, sir?

What do you think?

Well, I suppose you'd have
to start somewhere...

- Go and light the goddamn candle.
- Yes, sir.

And so, my life began.

Junior Lobby Boy in-training,

Grand Budapest Hotel,

under the strict command
of Monsieur Gustave H.

I became his pupil, and he was
to be my counselor and guardian.

What is a Lobby Boy?

A Lobby Boy's 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 is, above
all, discreet to a fault.

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.
- Yes, sir.

That's all for now.

I began to realize that
many of the hotel's

most valued and distinguished
guests came for him.

It seemed to be an essential
part of his duties,

but I believe it was
also his pleasure.

The requirements were
always the same.

They had to be rich,

old,

insecure,

vain,

superficial,

blonde,

needy.

Why blonde?

Because they all were.

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.

I worked six days each week
plus a half-day Sunday,

5:00 AM until just after midnight.

Our meals were small but
frequent, for stamina.

Two breakfasts, two lunches
and a late supper.

Monsieur Gustave also
delivered a nightly sermon.

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 am reminded of a verse,

"The painter's brush
touched the inchoate face

"by ends of nimble bristles

"and with their blush of first color,
rendered her lifeless cheek living."

His own dinner, he took
alone in his room.

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.

On these occasions, Monsieur
Gustave and our business manager,

Herr Becker, met with him in private
consultation above Reception.

This was also when I met Agatha,

but we won't discuss that.

- What do you want?
- Look.

Dear God.

I'm terribly sorry, sir.

- We must go to her.
- We must?

Tout de suite. She needs me, and I need
you to help me with my bags and so on.

- How fast can you pack?
- Five minutes.

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.

I blame myself.

She tried to tell me she had
a premonition. I didn't listen.

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.

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,

but one never knows until the ink
is dry on the death certificate.

She was dynamite in
the sack, by the way.

She was 84, Monsieur Gustave.

I've had older.

When you're young,
it's all fillet steak,

but as the years go by, you have
to move on to the cheaper cuts,

which is fine with me,
because I like those.

More flavorful, or so they say.

Why are we stopping
at a barley field?

Well, hello there, chaps.

Documents, please.

With pleasure.

It's not a very flattering
portrait, I'm afraid.

I was once considered
a great beauty.

What does the "F" stand for?
Fritz? Franz?

- Franz.
- I knew it!

He's making a funny face.

That's a Migratory Visa with Stage
Three Worker Status, Franz, darling.

He's with me.

Come outside, please.

Now, wait a minute. Sit down, Zero.
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.

Stop it, damn you!

Never mind, Monsieur Gustave!
Let them proceed!

Ow! That hurts!

You filthy, goddamn,
pock-marked, fascist assholes!

Take your hands off my Lobby Boy!

What's the problem?

This is outrageous.

The young man works for me at the
Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad.

Monsieur Gustave?

My name is Henckels.

I'm the son of Dr. and Mrs. Wolfgang
Henckels-Bergersdofer.

Do you remember me?

I know exactly who you are.
It's uncanny. You're little Albert.

I'm terribly embarrassed.
Release them.

Release them.

Your colleague is stateless.

He'll need to apply for a
revised Special Transit Permit,

which at this point may be
very difficult to acquire.

Take this.

It's temporary but it's the
best I can offer, I'm afraid.

And how's your wonderful mother?

- She's very well, thank you.
- I adore her.

- Send my love.
- I will.

Your companion was very kind to me
when I was a lonely little boy.

My men and I apologize
for disturbing you.

I beg your pardon, sir.

You see? There are still faint
glimmers of civilization

left in this barbaric slaughterhouse
that was once known as humanity.

Indeed, that's what we provide in our
own modest, humble, insignificant...

Oh, fuck it.

Where is she, Clotilde?
Take me to her.

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.

Oh, you changed it after all.
It's perfect.

- Clotilde?
- Oui, Monsieur Gustave?

A glass of chilled water
with no ice, please.

All right, then.

I shan't be long, darling.

We were escorted through
a green baize door,

down a narrow service corridor
and into the butler's pantry.

A moment later, the kitchen
passage swung open

and a small servant dressed in
white jolted into the room.

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

What the devil is going on?

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

I understood very little about
the events that were to follow.

But, eventually,
I came to recognize,

when the destiny of a great
fortune is at stake,

men's greed spreads like a
poison in the bloodstream.

Uncles, nephews, cousins,

in-laws of increasingly
tenuous connection.

The old woman's most
distant relations

had come foraging out
of the woodwork.

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.

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 46 years ago,

in combination with 635 amendments,

notations, corrections,
and letters of wishes

executed during the
subsequent decades.

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,

with special allowances
for his sisters,

Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina,

and minor gifts for various
members of the extended family

as shown in the List of Recipients,
which I will elucidate in due course.

However.

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.

"To my esteemed friend who
comforted me in my later years

"and brought sunshine into
the life of an old woman

"who thought that she would
never be happy again.

"Monsieur Gustave H,

"I bequeath, bestow and
devise, free of all taxation

"and with full and absolute
fiduciary entitlement,

"the painting known as
'Boy with Apple...'"

- Wow!
- "...by Johannes van Hoytl..."

- I can't believe it.
- "...the younger..."

- What?
- "which gave us both so much pleasure."

The van Hoytl?

- Tax-free?
- Can she do that?

Who's Gustave H?

I'm afraid that's me, darling.

That fucking faggot!

He's a concierge. What
are you doing here?

I've come to pay my respects
to a great woman whom I loved.

- This man is an intruder in my home!
- It's not yours yet, Dmitri.

Only when probate is granted,
and the Deed of Entitlement...

You're not getting Boy with
Apple, you goddamn little fruit!

How's that supposed
to make me feel?

Call the police.
We're pressing charges.

This criminal has plagued my
family for nearly 20 years.

He's a ruthless adventurer
and a con-artist

who preys on mentally
feeble, sick old ladies,

and he probably fucks them, too!

I go to bed with all my friends.

Where's Celine?

What? She's dead.
We're reading her will.

Oh, yes, yes, of course.

If I learn you ever once laid
a finger on my mother's body,

living or dead, I swear to God,
I'll cut your throat! You hear me?

I thought I was supposed
to be a fucking faggot.

- You are, but you're bisexual.
- Let's change the subject.

I'm leaving.

That picture, Boy with Apple,
is priceless. Understand?

Congratulations, Monsieur Gustave!

They're going to fight me
for the son of a bitch.

- Is it very beautiful?
- Beyond description.

"E'en the most gifted
bard's rhyme can only sing

"but to the lack of her
and all she isn't!

- "His tongue doth..."
- Can I see it?

I don't see why not.

This is van Hoytl's
exquisite portrayal

of a beautiful boy on
the cusp of manhood.

Blond, smooth.
Skin as white as that milk.

Of impeccable provenance.

One of the last in private hands,
and unquestionably, the best.

It's a masterpiece.

The rest of this shit
is worthless junk.

What did you want
to tell me, before?

I think I cannot say right now.

Write me tomorrow.
Lutzbahn Station!

I'll never part with it.

It reminded her of me.
It will remind me of her. Always.

I'll die with this
picture above my bed.

See the resemblance?

Oh, yes.

Actually, we should sell it.

Sooner rather than later, in
case they try to steal it back.

Plus, something about those lunatic
foot-soldiers on the express...

This could be a tricky war and a
long dry spell in the hotel trade.

For all we know, they could
board us up tomorrow.

Let's make a solemn blood-pact.

We'll contact the black market
and liquidate Boy with Apple

by the end of the week,

then leave the country and lay low
somewhere along the Maltese Riviera

until the troubles blow over
and we resume our posts.

In exchange for your
help, your loyalty

and your services as
my personal valet,

I pledge to you 1.5%
of the net sale price.

- 1.5?
- Plus room and board.

- Could we make it 10?
- 10? Are you joking?

That's more than I'd
pay an actual dealer,

and you wouldn't know chiaroscuro
from chicken giblets.

No, 1.5 is correct. But
I'll tell you what,

if I die first, and I most certainly
will, you will be my sole heir.

There's not much in the kitty except
a set of ivory-backed hairbrushes

and my library of romantic poetry,

but when the time comes,
these will be yours,

along with whatever we haven't
already spent on whores and whiskey.

This is our sacred bond.

I'll draw it up right now.

I, Monsieur Gustave H, being of
relatively sound mind and body,

on this day, the 19th of October,
in the year of our Lord 1932...

He never told me where he came from.

I never asked who his
family had been.

Excuse me.

Uh-huh?

The police are here.
They asked for you.

Tell them I'll be right down.

Okay.

Have you ever been questioned
by the authorities?

Yes, on one occasion I was arrested
and tortured by the rebel militia

after the Desert Uprising.

- You know the drill, then. Zip it.
- Of course.

You've never heard the word "van
Hoytl" in your life. Okay, let's go.

How may we serve you, gentlemen?

Ah, Inspector Henckels.

"By order of the Commissioner
of Police, Zubrowka Province,

"I hereby place you under
arrest for the murder

"of Madame Ceine Villeneuve
Desgoffe und Taxis."

I knew there was something fishy.
We never got the cause of death.

She's been murdered and
you think I did it.

Hey!

Stop!

What happened?

What happened, my dear Zero,
is I beat the living shit

out of a sniveling little
runt called Pinky Bandinski

who had the gall to
question my virility,

because if there's one thing we've
learned from penny dreadfuls,

it's that, when you find
yourself in a place like this,

you must never be a candy-ass.

You've got to prove
yourself from Day One.

You've got to win their respect.

You should take a long look
at his ugly mug this morning.

He's, actually,
become a dear friend.

You'll meet him, I hope.

So. You've talked to Kovacs?

I saw him last night in secret.

He made me take an oath on a
Bible I wouldn't tell a soul.

- You're supposed to also.
- I'll do that later.

- He suspects you're innocent.
- Of course he does.

What's the charge?

In the small hours of the
evening of 19 October,

an individual well-known to the house
and staff, a Monsieur Gustave H,

did arrive at the Desgoffe
und Taxis residence in Lutz

and entered by the
rear service alley,

alerting no one to his presence,

and did then proceed by way of
back stairs and servants' passage,

to deliver himself into the
private chambers of Madame D.

There is no evidence to
indicate whether this visit

had been pre-arranged
with her or not.

The next morning Madame D was found
dead by strychnine poisoning.

Monsieur Gustave was not
observed on the premises again

until, of course, 24 hours later.

The identity of his accusers is made
clear in this notarized deposition.

They include, essentially, all
members of the extended family,

but the key witness who actually
ostensibly saw the alleged events

appears to have fled
the jurisdiction.

His whereabouts are
currently unknown,

but he's being sought and pursued
by the relevant authorities.

Who is he?

- Serge?
- I'm afraid so.

That little prick.

No, I don't believe it.
They put him up to it.

I've been dropped into
a nest of vipers.

You have an alibi?

Of course, but she's married
to the Duke of Westphalia.

I can't allow her name to get
mixed-up in all this monkey business.

- Your life may be at stake.
- I know, but the bitch legged it.

She's already onboard the Queen
Nasstasja halfway to Dutch Tanganyika.

Don't give up.

The details of the conspiracy,

now a matter of public record,

were, at that time, impossible
for us to apprehend.

I'm looking for Serge X,

a young man in the
service of my employer,

the family Desgoffe und
Taxis of Schloss Lutz.

- Yes, sir?
- You're his sister?

- Yes, sir.
- Seen him lately?

- No, sir.
- No, sir?

No, sir.

I need to find him right
away, for his own safety

and everybody else's.

If he shows up...

- Yes, sir?
- Tell him Jopling says,

"Come home."

But one thing was certain,

the Desgoffe und Taxis were
a very powerful family,

and time was not on our side.

A letter from
Monsieur Gustave. Zero.

- You want me to?
- Read it.

"My dear and trusted colleagues..."

I miss you deeply as I
write from the confines

of my regrettable and
preposterous incarceration.

Until I walk amongst you
again as a free man,

the Grand Budapest
remains in your hands,

as does its impeccable reputation.

Keep it spotless and glorify it.

Take extra special care of
every little-bitty bit of it

as if I were watching
over you like a hawk

with a horse whip in its
talons, because I am.

Should I discover a lapse of
any variety during my absence,

I promise, swift and merciless
justice will descend upon you.

A great and noble house has been
placed under your protection.

Tell Zero if you see
any funny business.

"Your devoted Monsieur Gustave."

Then there's a poem, but we
might want to start on the soup

since it's 46 stanzas.

"A moist, black ash dampens the
filth of a dung-dark rat's nest

"and mingles with the
thick scent of wood rot

"while the lark song
of a guttersnipe..."

I never trusted that butler.

- He's too honest.
- Too honest, you say?

Right, well, be that as it may,
find him quick and make it snappy.

May I offer any of you
inmates a plate of mush?

No? Anyone?

You with the very large
scar on your face?

Try it. It's actually quite warm
and nourishing this morning.

It needs a dash of salt.

Good day.

Mush, gents? Any takers?

Suit yourselves.

Rise and shine. Chop, chop.

Good morning, Pinky.

- Mendl's again?
- Precisely.

Who's got the throat slitter?

- Out of this world.
- Mendl's is the best.

- Well, back to work.
- Monsieur Gustave?

Yes?

Me and the boys talked it over.

We think you're a
really straight fellow.

Well, I've never been
accused of that before,

but I appreciate the sentiment.

You're one of us now.

What a lovely thing to say.

Thank you, dear Pinky.
Thank you, Günther.

Thank you, Wolf.

Anything else?

Tell him, Ludwig.

Checkpoint 19 ain't
no two-bit hoosegow.

You got broad-gauge iron bars
on every door, vent and window.

You got 72 guards on the floor
and 16 more in the towers.

You got a 325-foot drop into
a moat full of crocodiles.

But, like the best of them,
it's got a soft spot,

which in this case
happens to take the form

of a storm-drain sewer system

dating from the time of the
original rock fortification

way back in the Middle Ages.

Now, nobody's saying it's a stroll
down a tree-lined promenade

with a fine lady and
a white poodle,

but it's got what you'd
call "vulnerability,"

and that's our bread and butter.

Take a look.

Who drew this?

What do you mean,
"Who drew this?" I did.

Very good. You've got a
wonderful line, Ludwig.

This shows great artistic promise.

Question, how do you intend to
penetrate this lowest rudiment?

It's 25 inches of reinforced
granite masonry, is it not?

Digging with the throat-slitter,

I expect this would take three to
six months of continual effort,

during which time
several of our members

will have been violently executed.

You hit the nail on the
head, Mr. Gustave.

We got fake documents,
second-hand street clothes,

a rope ladder made of
sticks and bunk-linens,

but we need digging tools,

which are proving hard to
come by in this flop-house.

At this point in the story,

the old man fell silent and
pushed away his saddle of lamb.

His eyes went blank as two stones.

I could see he was in distress.

- Are you ill, Mr. Moustafa?
- I finally asked.

- Oh, dear me, no.
- He said.

It's only that I don't
know how to proceed.

He was crying.

You see, I never speak of Agatha,

because even at the
thought of her name

I'm unable to control my emotions.

Well, I suppose there's
no way around it.

You see, she saved us.

On our third formal rendezvous,

I had asked for her hand in
marriage and she had agreed.

- Will you marry me?
- Yes.

We did not have 50 Klubecks
between the two of us.

No one knew, of course, but,
then, who would have cared?

We were each completely
on our own in the world,

and we were deeply in love.

- Here.
- Thank you.

- It's a book.
- I see.

Romantic Poetry, Volume One.

Monsieur Gustave recommended it.
I have a copy of my own as well.

- I ruined the surprise, I suppose.
- I'll go ahead and open it, anyway.

Read the inscription.

Monsieur Gustave insisted

on an immediate and thorough
cross-examination...

She's charming. She's so charming.

during which he presented
Agatha with a porcelain pendant

and five dozen individually
tissue-wrapped white tulips

in a box the size of
a child's coffin.

- It's not right.
- I beg your pardon?

Why is he sulking?

She's my girlfriend.
You can't just buy her things.

I'm only interviewing this vision
of loveliness on your behalf.

Never be jealous in this life,
Zero, not even for an instant.

Is he flirting with you?

- Yes.
- I approve of this union.

Agatha, my beauty,
return to your beloved.

Soon we learned...

Blessings upon you both.

not only was Agatha
immensely skilled

with a palette knife and a
butter-cream flourish...

- Mendl.
- Go.

she was also very brave.

I believe she was born that way.

Something's missing.

A crucial document, either misplaced
or, conceivably, destroyed.

I don't know what it contains,
I don't know what it represents,

I don't know what it is,

but there are traces and
shadows of it everywhere.

Now, I don't want to alarm you,

and I don't expect to see
any significant change

in the magistrate's ultimate decision
vis-a-vis your own inheritance,

but, especially given the
circumstances of the death,

as well as the disappearance of the key
witness in the murder case, Serge X,

I suggest that we immediately
bring this matter

to the attention of the
municipal inspector

so that there can be
absolutely no question

of impropriety at any future date.

- Agreed?
- Not agreed.

- Not agreed?
- Not agreed.

- Can I ask you a question, Vilmos?
- Yes, Dmitri?

- Who are you working for?
- I beg your pardon?

Who are you working for? I thought
you're supposed to be our lawyer.

Well, in point of fact, I'm
the executor of the estate.

In this particular situation,
I represent the deceased.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah. A provision for my fees
was included in the...

Just wrap it up and don't
make waves. Agreed?

I'm an attorney. I'm obligated to
proceed according to the rule of law.

Not agreed.

This stinks, sisters.

Did he just throw my
cat out the window?

I don't think so.

- No. Did he?
- Jopling?

Okay.

There's something I
haven't told you, Agatha.

- Okay.
- We stole a painting.

It's very valuable, maybe five
million Klubecks, in fact.

I don't know if anyone's even
noticed it's missing yet,

but if something
should happen to me...

You steal art?

One picture. Anyway, we need to
make a plan for your survival.

Hide this. It's in code and you might
need a magnifying glass to read it,

but it tells you exactly where
and how to find Boy with Apple.

Don't take less than half the
retail asking price. Also...

- Zero, I'm a baker.
- You're a pastry chef.

I'm not a fence,
if that's the term.

I don't trade in stolen property.

I said it wrong.
She willed it to him.

Go to sleep.

Yes, Herr Mendl.

- Hide this.
- No.

Okay, but take it anyway.

The next morning, Herr
Becker received a peculiar,

last-minute notice from the
office of Deputy Kovacs,

postponing their scheduled
meeting, in perpetuity.

Let's blow.

- How did you get out there?
- Shut the fuck up.

These guys are trying to escape.

What's wrong with you,
you goddamn snitch?

Guard! Guard!

It's you. Thank you.
Thank you, you sweet, kind man.

Okay.

I suppose you'd call that a draw.

Good evening.

Let me introduce you. Pinky, Wolf,
Ludwig, this is the divine Zero.

Günther was slain in the catacombs.

Well, boys, who knows when we'll
all meet again, but if one day...

Hold it.

No time to gab.

Take care of yourself, Mr. Gustave.

Good luck, kid.

- Which way to the safe house?
- I couldn't find one.

No safe house? Really? We're
completely on our own out here?

I'm afraid so.
I asked around, but...

I understand. Too risky. We'll
just have to wing it, I suppose.

Let's put on our disguises.

- We're wearing them.
- No, we're not.

We said false whiskers and
fake noses and so on.

- You didn't bring any?
- I thought you were growing one.

And it wouldn't look
realistic, would it?

No, when done properly,
they're perfectly convincing.

But I take your point. So be it.

Give me a few squirts of L'air
de Panache, please, will you?

- Can I not get a squirt, even?
- I forgot the L'air de Panache.

Honestly, you forgot
the L'air de Panache?

I don't believe it. How could you?

I've been in jail, Zero! Do you
understand how humiliating this is?

I smell.

That's just marvelous, isn't it?

I suppose this is to be expected back
in... Where do you come from again?

- Aq Salim al-Jabat.
- Precisely.

I suppose this is to be expected
back in Aq Salim al-Jabat

where one's prized possessions

are a stack of filthy carpets
and a starving goat,

and one sleeps behind a tent flap and
survives on wild dates and scarabs.

But it's not how I trained you.

What on God's earth
possessed you to leave

the homeland where
you obviously belong

and travel unspeakable distances
to become a penniless immigrant

in a refined,
highly-cultivated society

that, quite frankly, could've
gotten along very well without you?

The war.

Say again?

Well, you see, my
father was murdered

and the rest of my family were
executed by firing squad.

Our village was
burned to the ground

and those who managed to
survive were forced to flee.

I left because of the war.

I see. So you're, actually, really
more of a refugee, in that sense?

Truly.

Well, I suppose I'd better take
back everything I just said.

What a bloody idiot I am.
Pathetic fool.

Goddamn, selfish bastard.

This is disgraceful, and it's beneath
the standards of the Grand Budapest.

I apologize on behalf of the hotel.

It's not your fault. You were
just upset I forgot the perfume.

Don't make excuses for me.
I owe you my life.

You are my dear friend and protégé
and I'm very proud of you.

You must know that.

I'm so sorry, Zero.

We're brothers.

How's our darling Agatha?

"'Twas first light when I saw
her face upon the heath,

"and hence did I return,
day-by-day, entranced,

"tho' vinegar did brine
my heart, never..."

Very good. I'm going to stop you
there because the alarm has sounded,

but remember where we left off
because I insist you finish later.

I want roadblocks at
every junction for 50km.

I want rail blocks at every
train station for 100km.

I want 50 men and 10 bloodhounds
ready in five minutes.

We're going to strip-search every
pretzel-Haus, Waffel-hut, Biergarten

and especially every grand hotel
from Augenzburg to Zilchbrock.

These men are dangerous,
professional criminals.

At least three of them are anyway.

Who are you?

What are you doing here? Civilian personnel
aren't permitted in the cellblock.

- This is a military investigation.
- This is Mr. Jopling, sir.

His employer's mother
was one of the victims...

Shut up.

You work for the family
Desgoffe und Taxis?

Are you aware of the murder of Deputy
Vilmos Kovacs on 23rd October?

I'm aware of his disappearance.

His body was found stuffed in a
sarcophagus behind a storage room

at the Kunstmuseum late last night.

He was short four fingers.

- What do you know about that?
- Nothing.

Escort Mr. Jopling
off the premises.

Mendl's.

Operator, get me the Excelsior
Palace in Baden-Jurgen

and reverse the charges, please.

We've no choice.
There's nowhere else to turn.

I'll hold. Thank you.

It's our only hope. Otherwise, I shouldn't
even mention its existence to you.

It goes without saying, never breathe
a word about this to a living soul.

- Do you swear?
- Of course. What is it, in fact?

I can't say.

How does one come by
front-row aisle seats

for a first night at the Opera
Toscana with one day's notice?

How does one arrange
a private viewing

of the tapestry collection
at the Royal Saxon Gallery?

How does one secure a corner table

at Chez Dominique on a Thursday?

Ivan, darling, it's Gustave. Hello.

Well, I was until about
five minutes ago.

We've taken it upon ourselves to clear
out in a hurry if you see what I mean.

Well, through a sewer,
as it happens. Exactly.

Listen, Ivan, I'm sorry to cut you
off, but we're in a bit of a bind.

This is an official request.

I'm formally calling upon
the special services of...

I'll call you back, Gustave.

Right. Stand by.

I beg your pardon.
Do you prefer to walk?

We're right here. It's very simple.

Straight down the
corniche, then left.

Jojo, see the gentleman out.

Get me Monsieur Georges at
the Château Luxe, please.

Happy birthday to you

Take over.

Happy birthday, dear...

Hello, Ivan?

Got it.

Get me Monsieur Dino at the
Palazzo Principessa, please.

Higher, goddammit, higher!

Take over.

- Monsieur Georges.
- Higher.

I see. Straightaway.

Get me Monsieur Robin at
l'Hotel Cote du Cap, please.

and two and three.

Monsieur Robin. There's a call
from Monsieur Dino for you.

Take over.

- One, two, three.
- Yes, Dino.

Yes, Dino. Okay, Dino.

Get me Monsieur Martin at
the Ritz Imperial, please.

Too much salt.

Not enough pepper.

Take over.

- Robin? Martin.
- Too much salt.

So I've heard.

Maybe. Let me make a few calls.

Serge X, missing.
Deputy Kovacs, also missing.

Madame D, dead. Boy with
Apple, stolen, by us.

Dmitri and Jopling, ruthless,
cold-blooded savages.

Gustave H, at large. What else?

- Zero, confused.
- Zero, confused, indeed.

The plot "thickens," as they say.

Why, by the way?
Is it a soup metaphor?

I don't know.

Get in.

We found the butler.

He's hiding out in the remote
foothills near Gabelmeister's Peak.

Our contact convinced him
to meet you midday tomorrow

at the observatory on the summit.

Tell no one.
He'll explain everything.

Your train departs in
four and a half minutes.

Here's your tickets.

- Third class?
- It was overbooked

but the conductor used to be a
sommelier at the old Versailles.

He pulled some strings.

You'll need these
for the dining car.

One last thing.

L'air de Panache.

They only had the half-ounce.

We should give him something
as a symbolic gesture.

- How much money you got?
- 42 Klubecks and 3 postage stamps.

Give me 25. Yes.

- Bless you.
- Please.

- I've got to hand it to him.
- Jesus Christ.

I didn't see that coming.
Well, what do you want next?

Talk to the club-footed sister again,
and, this time, be persuasive.

Goddamn son of a bitch.

Holy fuck!

What's the meaning of this shit?

Boy with Apple? I thought
you'd hidden it.

- Why are you only noticing now?
- I assumed it went to the tax appraiser.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I believe it was removed
by Monsieur Gustave.

I'm not angry with Serge.

You can't blame someone for their
basic lack of moral fiber.

He's a frightened, little,
yellow-bellied coward.

- It's not his fault, is it?
- I don't know. It depends.

Well, you can say that
about most anything.

"It depends." Of course it depends.

Of course it depends.
Of course it depends.

Yes, I suppose you're right.
Of course it depends.

That doesn't mean I'm not going
to throttle the little swamp rat.

May I officiate, by the way?
The ceremony?

With pleasure.

I must say, I find that
girl utterly delightful.

Flat as a board, enormous birthmark

the shape of Mexico
over half her face,

sweating for hours on end
in that sweltering kitchen

while Mendl, genius though he is,

looms over her like
a hulking gorilla.

Yet without question, without fail,

always and invariably,
she's exceedingly lovely.

Why?

Because of her purity.

She admires you as well,
Monsieur Gustave.

- Does she?
- Very much.

That's a good sign, you know.
It means she "gets it."

That's important.

Don't flirt with her.

A radio telegram was delivered and
signed for by the girl at 4:00 AM.

The envelope was found near the body,
but its contents were missing.

However, the telegraph office always keeps
a carbon of the ticker tape for 24 hours.

I copied it down.
It reads as follows,

"Pack your things stop.

"Be ready to leave at
moment's notice stop.

"Hide-out is vicinity of
Gabelmeister's Peak stop.

"Destroy this message
all my love full stop."

Where's the basket?

Where you headed, mister?

Skiing? Sledding?
Mountain climbing?

Three Klubecks.

By express wireless, I wrote Agatha

with instructions to move to
our pre-arranged hideout,

a Gypsy caravan on the
outer Nebelsbad road,

while Monsieur Gustave
and I continued east

into the Zubrowkian Alps,

toward our high-altitude rendezvous
with the butler Serge X.

As a precaution, we
disembarked quietly

in the freight yard just
outside the station.

L'air de Panache.

It's a hell of a view. I give
them that, for what's it's worth.

I agree.

"'Tis oft'-remarked, no single,
falling-flake does any other

- "in its pure and perfect form..."
- Somebody's coming.

Are you Monsieur Gustave of the
Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad?

- Uh-huh.
- Get on the next cable car.

Are you Monsieur Gustave of the
Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad?

- Uh-huh.
- Switch with me.

Are you Monsieur Gustave of the
Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad?

- Uh-huh.
- Put these on and sing.

- Are you Monsieur Gustave of the...
- Yes, dammit.

Confess.

I'm innocent.

Hmm? No, no.

Forgive me, Monsieur Gustave.
I never meant to betray you.

They threatened my life and now
they've murdered my only family.

No. Who did they kill this time?

- My dear sister.
- The girl with the club foot?

- Yes.
- Those fuckers!

I tried to warn you
at the beginning.

I know, darling. Let's
put that behind us.

Listen, I hate to put you on the spot, but
I really must ask you to clear my name.

- Obviously you're grieving...
- There's more.

- To the story.
- I get it. Go on.

I was the official witness
in Madame D's presence

to the creation of a second will

to be executed only in the
event of her death by murder.

- A second will?
- Right.

- In case she got bumped off?
- Right.

- Uh-huh?
- But they destroyed it.

- Oh, dear.
- However...

- Uh-huh?
- I pulled a copy.

A second copy of the second will?

- Right.
- Uh-huh?

What does it say? Where is it?
What's it all about, dammit?

Don't keep us in suspense. This has
been a complete fucking nightmare.

Just tell us what the
fuck is going on!

Serge? Serge? Serge!

Bloody hell. They've
strangled the poor slob.

Come on! Let's go!

- What do we do if we catch him?
- I don't know.

He's a homicidal psychopath.
Let's stop.

I can't. I can barely steer.

You sick, pathetic creep.
I hate you.

"'If this do be me end, farewell!'
cried the wounded piper-boy,

"whilst the muskets cracked and
the yeomen roared 'Hurrah!'

"And the ramparts fell.

"'Methinks me breathes me
last, me fears!' said he..."

Holy shit! You got him!

Well done, Zero!

Gustave H! You are a
fugitive from justice!

Surrender lawfully and I
will personally vouchsafe

your fair treatment.

Do not attempt to flee!

- What do you think?
- I don't know.

I'd rather jump off this cliff right
now than go back to fucking prison.

I say we steal that sick maniac's
motorcycle, go fetch Agatha,

take back Boy with Apple and head for
the Maltese Riviera, once and for all.

Very good! You're so extraordinary,
Zero. Thank you.

A moment of silence in
memoriam of a devoted servant

killed violently during the
conduct of his duties.

Goodbye, Serge.

Okay, let's go.

The war began at midnight.

Pffeifelstad fell by lunch
under heavy shelling,

and 10 battalions surged across
the long western border.

High-command advanced to Nebelsbad.

Compliments of Herr Mendl,
for the executive staff.

General Stieglitz requests a garden-view
sitting room with an extra roll-away.

Let's put him in the
Duke Leopold Suite.

Secretary Woroniecki's
office cabled.

He's checking in a day early.
Rooms 401-2-3.

Tell Tactical Logistics
we're moving them

to a standard double
on the third floor.

They'll need more space than that.

The beginning of the end of the
end of the beginning has begun.

A sad finale played off-key
on a broken-down saloon piano

in the outskirts of a
forgotten ghost town.

I'd rather not bear witness
to such blasphemy.

Me neither.

The Grand Budapest has
become a troops' barracks.

I shall never cross its
threshold again in my lifetime.

- Me neither.
- Never again shall I...

Actually, I think we might be going
in there right now after all.

Dmitri.

Agatha.

Good evening, Mr. Desgoffe und Taxis.
I'm Monsieur Chuck.

We've booked you and your sisters
into the King Ferdinand Suite.

Good evening. General von
Shrecker asked me...

- Who's that?
- I beg your pardon?

I think that girl's got my picture.
Excuse me.

- Six.
- Hold it.

Six.

Compliments of Herr Mendl.

Excuse me.

Have you seen a pastry girl
with a package under her arm

in the last minute and a half?

Yep. She just got on the elevator
with Mr. Desgoffe und Taxis.

Thank you.

I'm sorry. Who are you?

- Otto, sir, the new Lobby Boy.
- You haven't been trained properly.

A Lobby Boy never provides
information of that kind.

You're a stone wall. Understood?

Pretty picture.

Sixth floor.

Where's Boy with Apple?

None of your goddamn business!

I'm going to blast your candy-ass
once and for all right now.

Drop your weapon!

- Cease fire! Cease fire!
- Whoa!

Stop it!

Who's shooting who?

That's Gustave H! The escaped
murderer and art thief.

I've got him cornered!

That's Dmitri Desgoffe und Taxis!

He's responsible for the
killing of Deputy Kovacs,

Serge X and his club-footed
sister, plus his own mother!

Nobody move. Everybody's
under arrest.

Who's out the window?

Agatha!

310-bis.

Hang on! Here I come!

Something's on the back of the...

Agatha!

Agatha!

- Are you all right?
- I think so.

Something's on the
back of the picture.

She left everything to
Monsieur Gustave, of course.

The mansion, known as Schloss Lutz,

the factories, which produced
weapons, medicine and textiles,

an important newspaper syndicate,

and perhaps you've already deduced

this very institution, the
Grand Budapest Hotel.

He anointed me his successor,

and as the war continued,
I served my adopted country

from the narrow desk still found
against the wall in the next room.

He was the same as his disciples,

insecure, vain,
superficial, blond, needy.

In the end he was even rich.

He did not succeed,
however, in growing old.

"Dearly beloved, we are
gathered together..."

Nor did my darling Agatha.

She and our infant son would
be killed two years later

by the Prussian grippe.
An absurd little disease.

Today we treat it in a single week,
but, in those days many millions died.

On the 21st day of the occupation,

the morning the independent
state of Zubrowka

officially ceased to exist,

we traveled with Monsieur
Gustave to Lutz.

In answer to your earlier
question, by the way,

of course.

Zero asked me about my humble
beginnings in the hotel trade.

I was, perhaps, for a time,
considered the best Lobby Boy

we'd ever had at the
Grand Budapest.

I think I can say that.

This one finally surpassed me.

Although, I must say, he had
an exceptional teacher.

Truly.

"Whence came these two
radiant, celestial brothers,

"united, for an instant,

"as they crossed the stratosphere
of our starry window?

"One from the East and
one from the West."

Very good.

Don't flirt with her.

Why are we stopping at
a barley field again?

I find these black
uniforms very drab.

Well, hello there, chaps.
We were just talking about you.

- Documents, please.
- With pleasure, as always.

You're the first of the
official death squads

to whom we've been
formally introduced.

How do you do?

Plus ça change, am I right?

That's a migratory visa with stage
three worker status, darling.

Read this.

- Come outside.
- Now, stay there.

I give you my word, if you
lay a finger on this man,

I'll see you
dishonorably discharged,

locked up in the stockade
and hanged by sundown.

There are still faint
glimmers of civilization

left in this barbaric slaughterhouse
that was once known as humanity.

You filthy, goddamn,
pock-marked, fascist assholes!

He was one of them.

What more is there to say?

What happened in the end?

In the end they shot him.

So it all went to me.

After dinner, we went to
collect the keys to our rooms,

but Monsieur Jean had
abandoned his post.

I expect he's forgotten
all about us.

In recent years, of course,

such properties and holdings
as the Grand Budapest

had with very few exceptions
become common property.

While the precise terms
of his negotiation

with the new government
had never been announced,

the result was an open secret,

Zero Moustafa had traded
a great and important fortune

in exchange for one costly,
unprofitable, doomed hotel.

Why?

Was it merely sentimental?

It was quite forward of me
and a bit out of character,

but I felt I must know,

for my health, I suppose.

Forgive me for asking.
I hope I haven't upset you.

No, of course not.

Is it simply your last connection
to that vanished world,

his world, if you will?

His world?

No, I don't think so.

You see, we shared a vocation.

It wouldn't have been necessary.

No. The hotel I keep for Agatha.

We were happy here.

For a little while.

To be frank, I think
his world had vanished

long before he ever entered it.

But, I will say,

he certainly sustained the
illusion with a marvelous grace.

- Are you going up?
- No, I'll sit for a little while.

Good night.

The next week,

I sailed for a cure
in South America

and began a long,
wandering journey abroad.

I did not return to
Europe for many years.

It was an enchanting old ruin.

But I never managed
to see it again.