On the evening of 22 February 1942, Stefan Zweig walked into the bedroom of his rented bungalow in Petropolis, Brazil. He combed his hair, lay down beside his wife, and reached for a lethal dose of sleeping pills. “The world of my own language sank and was lost to me and my spiritual homeland, Europe, destroyed itself” he wrote in his suicide note. Europe’s most popular author had died over 6000 miles from his birthplace of Vienna.
It is hard think that this morbid scene inspired Wes Anderson to create The Grand Budapest Hotel, yet the similarities between Zweig and Anderson’s own Gustave H. soon become clear. Zweig was a die-hard cosmopolitan, extensively travelled and broadly networked, he had little regard for international borders and had open arms for all. Meanwhile, Gustave H. is well-known as a legendary concierge who welcomes all guests to his exquisite hotel, regardless of their background. Everything about his character, right down to his promiscuous bisexuality evokes a sense of openness and acceptance.
DMITRI
He’s a ruthless adventurer and a con-artist who preys on mentally feeble, sick old ladies — and he probably fucks them, too!
M. GUSTAVE
I go to bed with all my friends.
The origin of such open-mindedness probably comes from the era that both men grew up in. Zweig was born into the multi-ethnic Habsburg Empire, where Austrians, Hungarians, Slavs, and Jews peacefully coexisted under a decree from the emperor that “All races of the empire have equal rights, and every race has an inviolable right to the preservation and use of its own nationality and language”. Zweig later described this reality in his memoir:
We were able to devote ourselves to our art and to our intellectual inclinations, and we were able to mould our private existence with more individual personality. We could live a more cosmopolitan life and the whole world stood open to us. We could travel without a passport and without a permit wherever we pleased. No one questioned us as to our beliefs, as to our origin, race, or religion.
This relatively open society started to degrade with the ultranationalism of the early 20th century. After the first world war, a rising tide of fascism soon swept across Europe and threatened to destroy this liberal coexistence. Passports and permits soon became a way of life.
M. GUSTAVE
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.
These cracks in the old-world-order are clear to see throughout the film. Through his love affairs with wealthy old women, Gustave desperately tries to hold on to the grandeur of this decaying, cosmopolitan world. Yet, as the fascists descend on the fictional state of Zubrowvka, he begins to recognise his own denial and can no longer illude himself.
M. GUSTAVE
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 — (sighs deeply) Oh, fuck it.
The introduction of the fascist soldiers into the story not only helps to accentuate this pivotal moment in European history, they also serve to highlight the virtuous qualities of Gustave’s character, as Daniel Garrett writes.
The fascists of the era, authoritarian and illiberal, have precise ideas of human perfection and the requirements of nation, an inhuman ideal of humanity — but Gustave, despite very particular standards, accepts human imperfection. Gustave is not surprised by feelings of anxiety or desire, or contemptuous of a scarred or crippled body; and he shares his values with his staff, with Zero. Gustave sees the heart and the effort, the spirit, despite his regard for excellence, ritual, and style.
Yet despite the fascist affront to his long-held values, Gustave can see their inhumanity as simply a manifestation of fear. The “fear of the foreigner” as Zweig wrote in his memoir.
M. GUSTAVE
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.
We see this play out when Gustave meets the fascist commander, Henckels. He can see the scared little boy hiding behind the hard-nosed fascist exterior.
HENCKELS
My name is Henckels. I’m the son of Dr. and Mrs. Wolfgang Henckels-Bergersdörfer. Do you remember me?
M. GUSTAVE
I know exactly who you are. It’s uncanny. You’re little Albert.
HENCKELS
I’m terribly embarrassed. (to the soldiers) Release them…Your companion was very kind to me when I was a lonely little boy. My men and I apologize for disturbing you.
This acceptance of difference, despite class, race and visual appearance is not only expressed through Gustave’s understanding of the fascist soldiers or his unrelenting defence the vulnerable refugee Zero but it is also found in his praise of Agatha.
M. GUSTAVE
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.
This is Gustave’s unrivalled strength, and his antidote to fascism. He can see through Agatha’s poverty, unusual appearance, and manual labour, to find the true value of another human being. He always, and invariably sees the best in people, proving himself to be that final glimmer of civilization.
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?
Yet far from seeing the glimmer of civilization vanish with his death, we see it transcend the ages. Gustave’s exploits in 1932 are retold through Mustafa in 1968 before being written in a novel by the unnamed author in 1985. Finally, Gustave’s story arrives in the present through the young reader. Each era seems deliberately chosen by Anderson to convey the endurance of Gustave’s cosmopolitan principles. They survived the rise of fascism, a second world war and the iron curtain of communism before finding a home after the fall of the Berlin Wall — a literal tearing down of divisions between people.
It is almost as if Anderson is paying a sombre tribute to his favourite author with this complex framing structure. Whilst Stefan Zweig tragically saw no more hope for Europe back in 1942, Anderson corrects this with the benefit of hindsight. Not only was Europe able to shun war and come together in pursuit of unity, but his writings were also able to inspire an Oscar-winning film that will no doubt inspire many future Gustaves.
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