布达佩斯大饭店 The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)【完整台词】
布达佩斯大饭店 The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) 全部台词 (当前第1页,一共 7 页)
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
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