布达佩斯大饭店-英文台词资料讲解.doc

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布达佩斯大饭店,英文台词精品文档 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! Uh, 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. YOUNG WRITER: 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 on board 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. MR. MOUSTAFA: 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? Mmm. 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..." MADAME D.: Will you light a candle for me, please? In the sacristy of Santa Maria? GUSTAVE H: 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. Um... 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. Uh... 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. MR. MOUSTAFA: 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. GUSTAVE H: 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. MR. MOUSTAFA: 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... Ah! ...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." MR. MOUSTAFA: 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. GUSTAVE H: 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! GUSTAVE H: 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-Bergersd?rfer. 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. Hmm. 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 glimme

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