The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) Poster

F. Murray Abraham: Mr. Moustafa



  • Mr. Moustafa : There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity... He was one of them. What more is there to say?

  • Young Writer : Is it simply your last connection to that banished world - his world, if you will?

    Mr. Moustafa : 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.

  • Mr. Moustafa : 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 distant relations had come foraging out of the woodwork.

  • Mr. Moustafa : [Recounting his memories of M. Gustave at the Budapest Hotel]  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.

    Young Writer : Why blonde?

    Mr. Moustafa : Because they all were.

  • Mr. Moustafa : [Recounting his memories of M. Gustave at the Budapest Hotel]  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.

  • Young Writer : 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. Mustafa?" I finally asked.

    Mr. Moustafa : Oh dear me, no.

    Young Writer : He said.

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

    Young Writer : He was crying!

    Mr. Moustafa : You see, I never speak of Agatha, because even at the thought of her name I'm unable to control my emotions.

    [wipes the tears] 

    Mr. Moustafa : Well, I suppose there's no way around it. You see, she saved us.

See also

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