"With affection and a few queries..."

Cowboys have been singing in movies as long as sound has been in movies. In our case, it was an unusually international group: Jarvis Cocker from Sheffield, South Yorkshire; Seu Jorge from Rio de Janeiro; the French banjo player Jean-Yves Lozac’h; Spanish Pere Mallén on the double bass; young Preston George Mota out of Dallas, Texas; and Rupert Friend from Oxford, England as “Montana” himself. We are pleased to add “Dear Alien” to the sturdy list of cowboy songs performed on the big screen. (Many thanks to Richard Hawley who guided Montana and the Ranch Hands each step of the path.) Other cowboy voices yodel over the radio in the story too: Roy Rogers; Tex Ritter; Slim Whitman; Burl Ives; Spade Cooley; Tennessee Ernie Ford; and the King of Western swing, Bob Wills with his Texas Playboys. Plus: we have our longtime collaborator Alexandre Desplat who composed a unique and wonderful original score which somehow puts us in the territory of extraterrestrial mystery while simultaneously evoking the smell of the greasepaint. We hope you enjoy these four sides of vinyl which might transport you back in time and space to 1955, a small town on the California/Arizona/Nevada desert, a play in three acts called ASTEROID CITY.

I went to a party in Paris twenty years ago at an old nightclub called Castel.

I was seated next to a small, long-haired, slightly birdlike man with a white beard. He wore blue-tinted sunglasses. He didn’t speak much English, and I didn’t speak much French. Nevertheless, we shared a warmly abstract, blurry conversation throughout the dinner. Just before dessert, someone appeared over his shoulder and whispered in his ear. My companion nodded and wandered over to a little Yamaha keyboard on a stand in the corner and turned it on. He started playing a tune and singing in his equally-birdlike voice—and, at the chorus, the entire nightclub exploded in unison singing along with him. At which point, I realized, the small, soft-spoken, birdlike man was a legendary French pop icon.

The song was “Aline,” and Christophe died after we made our movie—but before we could release it. The duet we had hoped he and the magnificent Jarvis Cocker would perform together was not to be. Our character of Tip-top is an homage to him, to Jacques Dutronc, to Françoise Hardy, to Serge Gainsbourg, to a generation of unforgettable French musical stars unlike those of any other nation.

The photographs in this book were taken by people I have never met, of places and things I have, almost without exception, never seen—but I must say: I intend to.

Wally Korval and his collaborators have put together both a very entertaining collection of images and also an especially alluring travel guide (at least in the opinion of this actual Wes Anderson). There must be about 200 locations here, which should keep me busy for several decades, but I plan not to let any of these experiences escape me, especially the Croatian pancake stand (page 95).

I now understand what it means to be accidentally myself. Thank you. I am still confused what it means to be deliberately me, if that is even what I am, but that is not important. I send my very best wishes and much gratitude to this group for discovering and sharing all these peculiar and fascinating vistas.

“While Juman Malouf and I can take no credit for the conception and creation of any of the works of art included in this exhibition, we do harbor the humble aspiration that the unconventional groupings and arrangement of the works on display may influence the study of art and antiquity in minor, even trivial, but nevertheless detectable ways for many future generations to come.

“Some of the links are more immediately apparent than others. We situate the seventeenth century emerald vessel in a confined space opposite the bright green costume from a 1978 production of Hedda Gabler in order to call attention to the molecular similarities between hexagonal crystal and Shantung silk; we place the painting of a seven-year-old falconer (Emperor Charles V) next to the portrait of a four-year-old dog owner (Emperor Ferdinand II) in order to emphasize the evolution of natural gesso; a box for the storage of Spanish powdered wigs goes next to a case for the storage of the crown of the king of Italy because both were so clearly shaped and formed by the introduction of the hinge. The list goes on.

“True: one of the Kunsthistorisches Museum’s most senior curators (educated, of course, at the University of Heidelberg) at first failed to detect some of the, we thought, more blatant connections; and, even after we pointed most of them out, still questions their curatorial validity in, arguably, all instances. But, should our experiment fail on these levels, we are, nevertheless, confident it will, at the very least, serve the purpose of ruling out certain hypotheses, thereby advancing the methods of art history through the scientific process of trial-and-error. (In this case, error.)

(About the book: “In the following pages, an international group of artists, curators, authors, and cultural figures have selected up to ten photographs apiece from Stephen Shore’s Uncommon Places archives. None of the images appear in the current edition of his landmark book of the same name; most are published here for the first time. Each suite of photographs, chosen from over four hundred newly scanned or rediscovered negatives, offers an idiosyncratic commentary on Shore’s distinctive vision of America and proposes new perspectives on this seminal body of work from the 1970s and early ‘80s.”)

A successfully completed jig-saw puzzle looks its very best nailed to this dry-wall siding. (Caption for Cabin #8, Beach Motel, Ashland, Wisconsin July 9, 1973)

Put a nickel in the parking meter, stop by the dime-store, pick up a bottle of whiskey for a dollar and a quarter. (Watertown, New York July 31, 1974)

A weekend morning at this silent dentist’s office or possibly an accountant. Is there a small atrium in the building? With a turtle in it. (Lovers Lane, University Park, Dallas, Texas June 16, 1976)

Thirty seconds after time-vault opens: get-away car moves into position and idles. (Stone Street, Watertown, New York July 31, 1974)

Perhaps this image conjures up August Sander’s wandering documentation of the people of his day. This man thinks: what is so interesting about ME? (West Fourth Street, Fort Worth, Texas June 18, 1976)

Waiting for the scrimmage to end. An ice-chest somewhere filled with Nehi grape sodas? (Penfield, New York August 12, 1977)

What electrical appliance requires its power down there below? It is a mystery. (Room 31, Forks Motel, Forks, Washington August 28, 1974)

Certain shades of green and orange are best experienced when cast in deeply lustrous plastic. (Mrs. Evans, 17 Teresa Place, South Buffalo, New York October 25, 1977)

This might have been a very good location for a special episode of Three’s Company recorded outside the studio. (Boca Bayou, Boca Raton, Florida January 4, 1974)

My father was the first person to mention to me, several years ago, that some people in California were putting on an art show with pictures based on characters in my movies—and that it was going to be called Bad Dads.

He did not like the title at all. (He has always been more of a good dad, and it rubs him the wrong way when people confuse him with some of our fictional characters. He monitors with Google Alert.) He did, however, like the pictures. For me, it is extremely encouraging to know that somebody-or-other somewhere is interested enough to make something-or-other new of their own inspired by something-or-other old of my own—that was in itself inspired by all sorts of other something-or-others somebody else invented before that. In fact, I have, on more than one occasion, turned to an artist represented/discovered in this series of exhibitions to make pictures for use in my own ongoing movies. (Rich Pellegrino, in particular, made a sort of a Schiele-esque watercolor for The Grand Budapest Hotel which is known as Two Lesbians Masturbating, and I think we can say he got that one just right.)

Jason Schwartzman and I paid a visit to the last Bad Dads show when it made its appearance in New York. By the time you get yourself out of the cutting room on a movie, you usually have a strong desire no to be exposed to the material ever again for the rest of your life. But, it turns out, after a decade or two, it can be a nice feeling to revisit the old characters. Jason and I moved from picture to picture with our hands in our pockets, nodding and murmuring. I guess we were kind of walking down memory lane. I cannot take credit for much of anything on these pages, and I do not even know if it is actually legal to publish this book? It probably violates if not my own personal copyrights then almost certainly those of a number of multinational entertainment conglomerates. But, for whatever it is worth, I approve, and I hope you will, too.

PROSPECTUS

I hope soon to secure the means to commission the construction of an important and sizable theme park to be conceived and designed entirely by Mark Mothersbaugh.

It will include hundreds of animatronic characters and creatures, rides through vast invented landscapes and buildings, extensive galleries of textiles and sculptures, plus an ongoing original music score piped-in everywhere. The only stipulation required for the park’s contents are that they all be his. You see, Mr. Mothersbaugh works in virtually every form and medium, and his work has always been unified and singular (perhaps a result of the simple fact that it all comes from the same exotic and densely populated alien planet: his brain). For forty years, he has set about creating a body of work which amounts to his own Magic Kingdom, and I suggest that the time has come for it to be fully realized on a humongous plot of suburban real estate beyond the outskirts of Akron, Ohio.

The visitor will be amused and frightened, often simultaneously. There will be numerous motifs: medical experimentation, mutated portraiture, mysterious manifestos, strange little babies. There will be a constant influx of new images  –  because he is always drawing. There will be virtuosic performances, surprising costumes, and always something a bit inscrutable. In short, like all his work, it will resemble a visit with the man himself.

INTRODUCTION

by Hugo Guinness

I remember in Paris, 2007, Wes and I spent some time in restaurants and cafés and on walks in public parks discussing a mutual friend of ours. We talked about the things he said, his life, his mannerisms. He was an unusual character – full of anecdotes, charm, and bon mots.

He made us laugh.

Wes would write occasional casual notes about him. I then returned to New York and heard nothing from Wes about this character for five or six years. He was forgotten.

In 2012, out of the blue, Wes revived him.

We worked together over a period of several weeks and then multiple telephone calls. The character became M. Gustave H, the bisexual concierge of a hotel in middle Europe. A plot was devised around him, and dialogue was written, inch by inch. I would offer the occasional comment and answer Wes’s hypothetical questions. If an idea or a line of dialogue by me actually got into the script, it was a good day. Mostly I just listened, and my suggestions were ignored. In a few short weeks, the script was finished, and Wes was off to East Germany to shoot The Grand Budapest Hotel.

 FOOTNOTE

by Wes Anderson

Hugo has either deliberately or involuntarily distorted the above account of our collaboration.

I do not recall him ever being satisfied to see his suggestions ignored. He would, instead, become extremely moody and irritated in those instances, which usually makes him slightly funnier, and it’s when he came up with some of our best bits.

Zauerli: a measured, lingering type of Swiss yodeling featured in Werner Herzog’s mesmerizing film HEART OF GLASS (the movie where he hired a hypnotist to put the cast and crew into a trance each day, but then he fired the hypnotist after the week and took over the job of entrancing everybody himself).

Cymbalom: a variation on the hammer-dulcimer mostly identified with Hungarian/Romani folk music, expanded and refined into a concert instrument. It can be played very fast and wild, but can also sound elegiac and nostalgic.

Balalaika: the three-stringed, triangular, Russian form of the mandolin. In an orchestral setting, a large group of balalaikas creates an expansive, humming, winter-fantasy wall-of-sound.

Alpenhorn: traditionally, the most efficient way to communicate from one mountain village to another. They are usually about eight feet long.

Gregorian Chant: at a certain point in our story, we find ourselves in a monastery above a ski resort.

THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL takes place in an imaginary country in Mittel Europe about a hundred years ago. We always thought of this region as being a bit Czech, a bit Hungarian, a bit Polish, a bit Russia, a bit German  – and also a little bit 1930’s movie-studio in Culver City. We started, however, in Paris, with our gifted French composer Alexandre Desplat, who incorporated all the sounds and forms above to make what we called “Zubrowkian” music: something vaguely familiar (Alexandre’s music voice is always unmistakable), but nevertheless not quite like anything else.

A few discoveries Randall Poster and I gathered together which helped to inspire our score and colored the atmosphere of our movie:

Appenzeller Zäuerli by the Öse Schuppel Group

Balalaika Favorites by the Osipov State Russian Folk Orchestra

The performances of the great Zimbalist Mr. Gianni Lincan

We also owe special thanks to our arranger/conductor Mark Graham and our music editor Yann McCullough for their very important contributions to this musical project. 

Sometimes the music comes first.

In the late fifties, Benjamin Britten created a sort of opera called “Noye’s Fludde” which he intended to be performed by amateur groups in churches (with a few ringers thrown in, I think - the way the fancy ones sometimes do). The members of the chorus are the animals on Noah’s ark. My friend Sanjay and I played a pair of otters, and my older brother sang an elk. This was in 1979 at St. Francis Episcopal Day School, 345 Piney Point Road, Houston, Texas, 77024. I remember the full details and zip code because there was a poster contest each year for our school book fair, and that was the key information you had to get across. Anyway, I can more or less trace all the inspirations for MOONRISE KINGDOM to that address. The events are fictional  – and most of the names have not been changed.

Also: Alexandre Desplat created a special, unique orchestral suite for our characters. He is, as we say, the third author.

And: Mark Mothersbaugh and Peter Jarvis provided the rhythms of the Khaki Scouts of North America.

Plus: the wonderful voice of Leonard Bernstein and majestic performances by the New York Philharmonic under his direction.

Perhaps one of the recordings on this record will inspire someone among you to make a movie, as it did for me. If so, I will look forward to seeing it.

My first plan for Fantastic Mr. Fox was to commission an operetta and use its music as our score. I was excited about this idea. Our own operetta. Maybe it would even be performed independently of the film one day? Randall Poster and I started listening to Gilbert and Sullivan. In fact, we listened to every operetta we could get our hands on, repeatedly – and then we began to ask ourselves, “What was, supposedly, so great about operetta, in the first place, and why are we doing this?” Randall came up with a variation: old English dancehall standards, a genre the existence of which I had not been previously aware. This held our interest very briefly. Next came folk music from Scotland and Ireland, then bluegrass, then a vast catalogue of “jug band” records. We also spent several months researching the history of children’s music. I think the meandering might have been the result of the fact that it took us ten years to make the film. Eventually, our soundtrack included Davy Crockett, Burl Ives, The Beach Boys, The Rolling Stones, Georges Delerue, and Bobby Fuller (whom Marshall Crenshaw describes as “the most famous rock star ever to be murdered by gangsters”)  –  plus our friend Jarvis Cocker who wrote a wonderful song that became the animated centerpiece of the story. You probably needed to be there with us from the beginning to follow our train of thought.  

But somehow Alexandre Desplat did just that. He wrote a score in his studio in Montparnasse (which I am told was formerly the sculptor Brancusi’s atelier) that seemed to combine every influence that we ever contemplated and then filtered them all through his own exceedingly refined and unique musical perspective. The result is something delicate and lyrical –  yet grand. It is not particularly like anything else I can put my finger on. (He also taught me about tea, as he is something of an expert in this area, as well, and keeps various vintages on hand from Taiwan and Bhutan and Upper Cambodia). 

He conducted with the puppets on the stand beside him at Abbey Road Studios in London  –  as you can see here.  

I do not know much about Indian music, but I love the soundtracks to Satyajit Ray’s and James Ivory’s movies. Ray wrote the scores for most of his films himself, and he also scored one of Merchant-Ivory’s: “Shakespeare Wallah.” His movies, especially the first one I saw (on Beta), “Teen Kanya,” which is sometimes called “Three Daughters” and sometimes only two, were part of what inspired me to try to make movies in the first place. He tells personal stories that function  –  at least for me  –  like novels, and draw you in more in the ways a great book does than a movie. I especially enjoy his “Calcutta Trilogy” from the early to mid-seventies, but I also love “Charulata” and the very beautiful “Days and Nights in the Forest.” Ivory’s “Bombay Talkie” begins with possibly the best title sequence of all time, and we use the musical cue from this scene twice in our film. My favorite of Ivory’s movies, however, may be the first one, “The Householder,” which has the gentleness and beauty of Ray’s films  – but it is in English, and it is set in Delhi as opposed to West Bengal where most of Ray’s films take place. This distinction would never have occurred to me and would not have had any meaning to me whatsoever before I finally went to India two years ago, and I would never have been inspired to visit and work in this place if I had not loved it already through these filmmakers’ work (along with Louis Malle’s documentaries and Jean Renoir’s “The River”).

I am very happy to have been allowed to use the music from these films, which cast such a spell over me, and I hope it will do the same for you in this new context.