A Gentleman in Moscow

No. Please.

Stop! Please!

State your name.

Alexander Ilyich Rostov.

Address?

For the last four years, I have resided

in Suite 317 of the Metropol Hotel.

Why?

My house was burned down.

Occupation?

It is not the business of gentlemen to have occupations.

You do not seem to appreciate the gravity of your position.

No, I fear I understand it perfectly.

You left Russia for Paris in the spring of 1914?

Yes, I remember apple blossom in the trees.

In all likelihood, it was spring, yes.

What concerns us here

is your return in 1918.

Why did you come back only a year after the Revolution?

You must have understood the reception a man of your...

nobility would receive.

I missed the climate.

Are you the author

of this poem of 1913:

"Where Is Our Purpose Now?"

Were you the author?

It was attributed to me, yes.

Many consider this poem

a call to revolutionary action.

Hard for us to equate with a man

who has clearly succumbed to the corruptions of his class

and now is a threat against Russia and her people.

I am one of her people.

You were.

It is our inclination to have you put against the wall.

But there are those within the senior ranks of the Party

who, because of your poem,

count you among the heroes of the revolutionary cause.

Therefore, it is the judgment of this committee,

now the Metropol is under full Party control,

that you be returned to the hotel of which you are so fond,

where you will remain for the rest of your days.

And make no mistake,

should you ever set foot outside of the Metropol again,

you will be shot.

Gentlemen, I think I can find my own way.

Move.

That day, the Count thought his life was over,

but in truth it was only the beginning.

Not just for him but for me, too.

And in the years that followed,

Count Alexander Rostov would come to mean the world to me.

Your Excellency, we didn't think you'd--

Good to see you, Vasily.

My suite is on the third floor, gentlemen.

The lift or the stairs?

How are we supposed to win on the field of battle

if we can't decide between the lift and the stairs?

Have you ever been on the field of battle?

The stairs it is.

It's a beautiful view of the Bolshoi, isn't it?

All these things are yours?

S-Save for the floorboards and the bed, yes.

I read your poem.

The tone of your voice suggests

that you are not a great admirer.

I found it hard to believe

those words came from the mouth of a man like you.

What is the meaning of all this?

I'm here to show you to your quarters.

These are my quarters.

What is this place?

Before the Revolution, these rooms were

for the servants of the hotel guests.

Well, it has a window at least.

And I'll just about fit on this bed.

G-sharp, I believe.

Yes. This will do very nicely, thank you.

Your diminished circumstances won't allow you

to keep all of your possessions.

But I will allow you to take a few personal items.

And the rest?

Becomes the property of the people.

I should add, we've liberated your currency

from the hotel safe.

Food and board will be provided.

Life for you and your kind is over in Moscow.

You must never leave this hotel.

If you do...

I'll be waiting.

Apologies.

I never thought to ask your name.

My name is not your concern.

Well, thank you. You have carried out your duties

with the greatest courtesy available to you.

You open the door,

raise the weights...

...once a week.

Without fail, Alexander.

Helena.

Good evening, Andrey.

Your Excellency, bonsoir.

I wasn't sure if you would be dining with us this evening.

I was assured food and board.

I'll show you to a table.

Thank you.

Imbeciles.

A saltimbocca requires veal wrapped in prosciutto.

Where is the prosciutto? Where is the sage?

We have no prosciutto, Chef, or sage.

Then this is not a saltimbocca!

- No, Chef. - It is merely badly cooked veal.

Sorry, Chef, we're out of veal.

Of course we're out of veal!

A saltimbocca on table seven.

For the Count.

The Count?

Is he here?

- What's he doing? - I believe

he's refusing to be beaten.

Everything to your satisfaction, Your Excellency?

The saltimbocca...

...with chicken instead of veal?

And instead of prosciutto,

shaved Ukrainian ham?

In place of the sage,

and I must admit this took me a moment,

but I think it's nettle.

A man with taste is a rare thing these days.

Nettle it was, Your Excellency.

Your palate remains, unsurpassed.

Bravo, sir.

Bravo.

Your Excellency.

I-I didn't expect you.

Yaroslav, for you, I am happy to wait.

Hello.

Hello.

I like your mustache.

I like your, hair.

Alexander Ilyich?

Is it really you?

Prince Nikolai, my dear friend, it's so wonderful to--

It's just Nikolai now.

You're looking well.

How have you been?

I-I'll be with you in a moment.

Tell me everything.

The last time I saw you, you were playing Bach

at one of your grandmother's dinner parties.

I guess I'm still playing Bach at dinner parties.

I-I'll be here most weeks.

And your mother and sister are well?

They're in Switzerland.

Yes, I think I had heard that.

Are you still, living at the old palace?

They've taken it over.

But, um, they let me keep a room.

Well, at least we have our health.

Well, I-I'd better get on.

Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you.

Perhaps w-we could have a drink at the bar

after my dinner.

I'd like that very much.

Nikolai.

They can take away your house or your rooms.

They can't take away who you are.

I thought you were in Paris.

Why on earth did you return to this madhouse?

To get my grandmother safely on a ship to England.

Audrius, could we have the same again?

Yes, Your Excellency.

Thank you.

I was sorry to hear about your sister.

What are we still doing here?

When I was a young boy,

not long after my parents died, my grandmother the Countess

invited a boy over from the neighboring estate.

She thought it might cheer me up.

Obolensky he was called.

He beat me at a game of draughts.

I didn't take it well.

Tears were shed, pieces were scattered.

I might even have uttered a curse.

Later that evening,

she found me still full of rage.

And she said,

"There's nothing pleasant to be said about losing,

and that Obolensky boy certainly is a pill,

but, Sasha, my dear, why on earth

would you give him the satisfaction?"

Obolensky...

That's not Vladimir Obolensky, is it?

Of the Nizhny Obolenskys?

Yes, the very same.

Your grandmother's correct, he is a pill.

He was.

They burned him alive in his house.

They won't stop, Sasha.

I know someone wh-who can...