Original subtitles

Down in the valley: Pension Alpenrose

Alpenrose Restaurant: the place for authentic Styrian cuisine.

Karin Frenzel and her Mother share a family meal.

Go ahead, call me a bitch. I deserve it.

You think I hate you.

But you are, as usual, only half right.

I strongly dislike you.

It's nothing personal.

There's just never been any chemistry between us.

You're not my type as far as daughters go.

I really tried over and over to find love in my heart for you.

But there's nothing.

You are unlovable.

Sit.

Drink your juice.

This schnitzel is raw.

You ate half.

I had to. Before it ate me.

Enjoying the show?

What now, honey?

God, I hate this place.

Come on, baby. This was our dream...

My nightmare.

Ugh, you stink!

Can't they read? No dogs allowed! Says someone.

Can I help you?

Syrians ask if they can order a Syrian dish off the menu.

Syrians apologize — in particular for causing any kind of trouble.

But they are hungry and willing to work for food.

Part of the package deal: A guided Styrian tour!

I'm sorry.

I said I'm sorry. What more do you want?

Are you ladies having fun yet?

Need a drink?

Mother says: watch the road.

I didn't know it was legal to drink and drive in this part of Austria.

It's practically a requirement.

You have to stay loose around these curves.

What is that?

A factory.

A few years ago, this local — former Nazi guy — bought it.

He wanted to turn it into something to do with movies.

But then he died.

His widow went crazy. For two years, she hasn't let anyone anywhere near the place.

Come on, you moron!

Alright. Everybody buckle up!

And THAT — is what we call The Niederalpl roller coaster!

Karin!

What are you doing, Karin? You can't do this to me!

Police interview the driver of the Dutch tour bus.

It's my fault! It should be me down there!

I'm sure you did your best.

Accident.

Third this month.

They should really put up signs.

Or set up seating — and charge money to watch.

I knew we should have gone to Greece.

I'm sorry, baby.

A bona fide road party.

All that's missing is music and dancing.

Isn't it nice how tragedy can bring a community together?

Deep in the Styrian woods.

The Forester.

He knows every tree, but now sees none of them.

His heart and mind weighted down.

What's that? Who's there?

He tracks the shadow. Deeper into the forest.

Hello?

Again, he hears it. Like the rustling of leaves.

And chases the sound — deeper into the trees.

He calls again for the ghost. But hopes it won't come back.

It's time now. No more procrastination.

Just do it. Pull the trigger.

When suddenly.

Again?

Who's there?

Come out or I'll shoot!

Do you speak English?" the Bush asks.

Forester offers them bacon.

But their poor poetic digestive systems are too delicate.

They can only eat Syrian food.

They flick him their Bic pens.

Why are you so downtrodden?" they ask the Forester.

Being poets, they are extra sensitive to human suffering.

Forester explains that his sons are — alas! — no longer of this world.

As poets, we have access to more worlds than just this one."

Forester opens his heart.

And out pours the story of how his sons took their own lives.

That it was his fault.

That he is still looking for his sons — every day — everywhere.

The poets, sadly, understand.

They, too, have lost friends and family in Syria.

But he shouldn't give up hope of ever seeing his sons again.

Because the Dead are coming.

Markus?!

Moritz!?

Wait! It's me!... Papa!

Karin, running up a slippery slope.

Her Double right behind her.

Not quite in "hot"hot pursuit. But a pursuit, nonetheless.

The slowest chase scene in cinema history.

Maybe some driving music would help to convey a sense of urgency.

Mother Mary, you sit up there holding your baby, Jesus.

But where's MY baby? Who's holding her now?

I want her back!

Karin!

Karin!

Karin!

The zombs are coming!

You don't want to go out there!

Lady, seriously, please believe me — it's crawling with zombs outside!

With WHAT?

ZOMBS!

What's zombs?

You know... zombs! They eat your brains?

You mean ZOMBIES?

Zombies, zombs, whatever!

Somebody get her away from this door!

What are you staring at, assholes? Help me!

Outside the church doors, Syrian poets are dying of starvation.

Using up the last dregs of dignity,

banging and kicking for their lives against this giant door.

The door to all other doors.

So imposing, awesome, it can only lead to heaven or hell.

Their leader, on whom they've been relying for translation,

has evidently lost her English skills along with her wits.

And is shouting in Arabic — a language better suited to

express rage and despair anyway.

The Dutch tour bus pulls in front of the church.

What IS that?

It's suffering.

I feel bad.

I can't watch.

Don't let it in!

I'm going out there.

This is a local thing. We shouldn't interfere.

You'll upset the ecosystem.

What if it's contagious?

I'm going with you.

I have to do this alone.

Take this. Just in case.

This is nature taking its course.

All we can do is watch.

It's hungry!

I have potato chips!

Karin and her relentless Doppelgänger.

Finally reaching the "Totes Weib" waterfall — as night approaches.

What do you want from me?

What do you want from ME?

Why are you following me?

Why are you following ME?

Stop it.

What?

Copying me.

You're copying ME.

I always suspected a conversation with myself would be boring.

Who are you?

Who do you want me to be?

What exactly are we doing here?

I just want to say that I love you. And that you are not alone.

I never thought I'd be involved in a love scene.

Especially not with myself.

Do you love me?" the Double asks.

I have to go back.

Already? Where?

This is as far as I go. From here, you're on your own.

Let me come with you.

Don't be stupid, Karin.

What would people say if they saw us together?

Don't call me stupid.

What's wrong?

I've never loved anyone as much.

Or been more afraid of losing something.

Nothing has changed.

Nothing has changed.

Later, on the outskirts of Neuberg.

Where's your husband?

He never tells me anything.

My wife's in hospital... again.

So shall we get out of here?

A sudden, sinister gust of wind.

Clandestine cine-séance in progress.

Memorial movies of lost loved ones. Forever separated by death.

One wretched woman has brought the unwashed gym shirt of her deceased brother.

And huffs it like glue. That's meant to mend her.

Near her, a guy with his nose inside his dead lady's high heeled shoe.

A teenaged girl in a fit of hysterical laughter provokes judgmental stares.

But she's too devastated to give a shit.

This clip of an adorable feline followed by an ear-splitting shriek.

Making even registered cat-haters weep sympathetically.

One man, no longer mourning, is now jealous.

He wants to be missed as intensely as the dead on screen.

This calls for extreme measures. The nurses perform euthanasia on him.

A smile twitches on his face. In deathspectation.

This is where I found my husband.

Hanging from that beam.

I miss my husband terribly.

Only the sight of other people hurting more than me brings me comfort.

You are special.

Being neither quite dead yet — nor fully alive anymore.

You have access to both worlds.

I want you to find my husband.

And bring him back.

The white screen becomes a fiery black hole.

A portal from which emerge the dead or undead, whatever.

Up Main Street, tonight, a midnight parade: Styrian carnival of the dead!

Everyone sporting a grin. They must have a great dental plan in hell.

Famous dead Austrians.

A private pancake "palatschinken" parade.

Everyone scatters to pursue their own agenda.

The unruly Undead visit the local grocery store.

The parking lot.

The forest.

Forester stumbles in opposite direction of totentanzing zombs.

Reaching, at last —

a dead end. (no pun intended)

No!

Their fighting gives Forester a chance to escape.

They chase after him.

It would be too simple

if this were just good versus evil, man against monster.

A monster has needs, too, but no one to cheer for him.

His loneliness and agony are commensurate to his monstrosity.

They drag his limp body off.

He begs, "please don't kill me."

I wanted to die, but now that I've found you...

He squirms a little — like we all do before we die — playing hard to get.

But we want it, secretly.

Death is home.

The Dead make their way to Alpenrose Gasthaus.

For some this must be their first holiday ever.

Handing out keys. Keys! Keys! Keys! Like Halloween candy.

While in the restaurant.

Everything jam-packed beyond capacity.

Flash photos, high fives. Styria fucking rocks!

Afraid to stop moving. Lest they never move again.

Everyone stuck in simple loops of pleasure pursuits.

Each heart dangling from a sleeve. Its own inferno.

Isolated in her own reek of unfiltered grief.

Karin's Mother.

She's barely touched her trout.

What's wrong with the trout?

What's NOT wrong with it?

Technically it's still alive.

There's too much hair in the dish. And not enough vitamin fuck.

Undead Syrian poets turn the Alpenrose kitchen into halal paradise.

Grilling kebabs — Allahu akbar! — on jumbo Koobideh skewers.

All sooper inspired. Collaborating on an epic poem.

Oh muse, the merciful, thank you, thank you!

A female Poet transcribes it all with a flaming red Bic pen.

Into a notebook whose pages are also on fire.

The poem, erased by flame as soon as it is written.

Leaving no history behind.

Landlady, freaking out, calling Syrians animals.

Get your filthy paws off my shit and fuck out of my kitchen.

Hospitality being synonymous with Syrian customs.

They offer her a smoldering skewer of kebab.

Honey, you've gotta try it.

It's delicious.

To exact poetic justice — the only kind they know — Syrians go down on her.

Back at the restaurant. Party off the hook.

A mini talent show in progress.

The world champion of Styrian schnitzel juggling!

Suddenly all heads turn.

Where have you been?

I've missed you so much, Karin.

I'm so happy to see you!

If I'm Karin...

Then who the fuck is that?

Play something sexy.

What's the worst you could do to me?

I don't know yet.

Still trying to figure it out.

Come on, Karin, dig deep.

Don't let yourself down. Like you did with me.

Now Mother's turn.

Not the double-fish makeover!

You are just like me. An exact replica.

That's MY gesture.

TROUT FIGHT!" spreads across the restaurant.

Forgive me.

For what?

Everything.

Why should I?

Hellish hurly-burly.

Suddenly Syrian poets. With exquisite Syrian dishes.

Turning the Alpenrose into a Michelin-star Syrian restaurant.

Syria fucking rocks!

Reciting with fundamentalist fervor the collectively composed prophetic poem.

All about the world's end. A plague of pink flamingos.

The band is bleeding.

A primal scream.

Their impact shakes loose a destructive force.

It rises up to the Alpenrose.

A cloud of pink glitter which — when it clears —

reveals a flamboyance of pink flamingos.

Standing on one leg, always.

A tenuous foothold on this world. The other poised over the next.

And the Dutch tourists returned home safely in a replacement vehicle.

THE END.