[ethereal music playing]
[sniffing]
[door clangs]
[creaks]
[keys jangling]
Quick. We can't hold them back
much longer.
-[prisoner gasps]
-Hurry!
-[distant crowd shouting]
-Come on!
[chains clanging]
Quick!
[crowd shouting, pounding]
[door rattling]
Come on, faster!
[murmuring]
Open the doors.
Come on, quickly!
[crowd roaring]
[crowd jeering]
[man 1] String him up,
the burning scum!
[man 2] Let him suffer
like my sister suffered!
Give him to the people!
[crowd roaring]
Just read them the sentence.
The sentence of the court...
is that in two days hence,
the perfumer,
journeyman
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille,
shall be bound
to a wooden cross
with his face raised
towards heaven!
And whilst still alive...
be dealt 12 blows
with an iron rod...
breaking the joints
of his arms...
-[cheers]
-...his shoulders...
-[cheers]
-...his hips...
-[cheers]
-...his legs.
[cheering]
He shall then be raised up
to hang until dead,
and all customary acts
of mercy
are expressly forbidden
the executioner!
[cheering]
[narrator]
In 18th-century France,
there lived a man
who was one of the most gifted
and notorious personages
of his time.
His name was
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille...
and if his name
has been forgotten today,
it is for the sole reason
that his entire ambition
was restricted to a domain
that leaves no trace
in history.
To the fleeting realm
of scent.
[horse whinnies]
In the period
of which we speak,
there reigned
in the cities a stench
barely conceivable
to us modern men and women.
Naturally, the stench
was foulest in Paris,
for Paris was
the largest city in Europe.
And nowhere in Paris
was that stench
more profoundly repugnant
than in the city's fish market.
[fisherman] Here we are.
I'll get another box.
[narrator]
It was here, then,
on the most putrid spot
in the whole kingdom,
that Jean-Baptiste Grenouille
was born
on the 17th of July, 1738.
[groaning]
[shrieking]
[baby delivered]
It was his mother's
fifth birth.
She'd delivered them all here
under her fish stand
and all had been still-births,
or semi-still-births.
You all right?
[narrator]
And by evening,
the whole mess
had been shoveled away,
with the fish guts,
into the river.
It would be much
the same today.
But then Jean-Baptiste
chose differently.
[baby sniffing, heart beating]
-[dogs snarling]
-[rats squeaking]
[wailing]
[woman] What's that noise?
[wailing continues]
-It's a baby.
-[man] What's going on here?
[baby wailing]
[woman] It's a newborn.
Where's its mother?
She was just here.
She tried to kill it.
Her own child.
She tried to kill her baby!
There! There she is!
[officer] Stop!
Stop where you are!
Murderer!
[narrator]
Thus,
the first sound
to escape Grenouille's lips
sent his mother
to the gallows...
[floor drops]
[man] Whoa!
...and Jean-Baptiste,
by official order...
...to the orphanage
of Madame Gaillard.
[Gaillard] How many today?
[man] Four.
Well, three and a half.
As usual,
more dead than alive.
[man] Just take the money
and sign.
[man] Make room.
-Where?
-[man] Move!
Go on, now!
[boy] Is it dead?
[sniffing]
[whispering]
That's not staying in my bed.
Let's throw it out, then.
What if it screams?
Let's just kill it.
[crying]
[baby wailing]
[muffled wailing]
-[baby wailing]
-[boys shouting]
[boy] Harder! Push!
-[Gaillard] What are you doing?!
-[thunder rumbles]
[crying]
[boys shrieking]
[narrator]
For Madame Gaillard,
Grenouille
was a source of income
just like any other.
The children, however,
sensed at once
that there was something
different about him.
By the age of five,
Jean-Baptiste
still could not talk.
But he had been born
with a talent
that made him unique
among mankind.
[sniffing]
It was not that
the other children hated him.
They felt unnerved by him.
[Grenouille sniffing]
Increasingly he became aware
that his phenomenal sense
of smell
was a gift that had been
given to him, and him alone.
When Jean-Baptiste
did finally learn to speak,
he soon found that everyday
language proved inadequate
for all
the olfactory experiences
accumulating within himself.
Wood.
Warm wood.
Grass.
Wet grass.
Stones.
Warm stones.
Water.
Cold water.
Frog.
Wet stones.
Big, wet frog stones.
Something...
something, something...
[narrator] By the age of 13,
Madame Gaillard no longer
had room for Jean-Baptiste
and therefore decided
to sell him.
Come on.
Ten francs.
[narrator]
From his first breath of
the odor enveloping this man...
Seven, and not one sou more.
...Grenouille knew that
his life in Grimal's tannery
would be worth
precisely as much
as the work
he could accomplish.
Come on. [Grimal grunts]
[narrator] Unfortunately
for Madame Gaillard...
-[boy] Take it!
-...the bargain
was short-lived.
Life expectancy in the tannery
was a mere five years...
but Jean-Baptiste proved
to be as tough
as a resilient bacterium.
He adjusted to his new fate
and became a paragon
of docility and diligence,
slaved 15, 16 hours a day,
summer and winter.
Gradually he became aware
of a world beyond the tannery,
where a utopia
of unexplored smells
lay in store for him.
-[gears creaking]
-[boys chatting, coughing]
[man shouting orders]
Grenouille!
Come with us.
I'm taking you to town
for delivery.
[narrator]
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille
had triumphed.
He was alive...
and at last he was
in his element.
He was not choosy.
He did not
differentiate between
what are commonly considered
to be good smells
from bad...
At least not yet.
He was very greedy.
The goal was to possess
everything the world had
to offer in the way of odors.
[woman]
Good morning, Monsieur.
[narrator]
His only condition being
that they were new ones.
Thousands upon thousands
of odors
formed an invisible gruel,
which he dissected
into its smallest and most
remote parts and pieces.
[man] Buy your pennant here
for tonight's fireworks
at Notre Dame!
[Grimal] Grenouille!
Come on!
Get your ass over here.
[man] He needs two dozen
skins by next week.
Can you do that?
Yeah. Yeah.
[man] Come with me.
[sniffing]
What is it called?
[perfumer]
"Amor and Psyche," Madame.
My latest creation.
[young woman] May I try it?
[perfumer] If you'll allow me,
Mademoiselle.
[sniffs]
[young woman] Sheer heaven.
Monsieur Pelissier,
you are truly an artiste.
[sniffing]
[woman] Please, take them.
I've got far too many.
[gasps]
What do you want?
Want to buy some?
Two for a sou.
-[sniffing]
-[woman gasps]
[gasps]
[fireworks bursting]
-[fireworks crackling]
-[crowd cheering]
[man] Stand clear!
[crowd roaring]
Stand back there!
[sniffing softly]
[gasps]
[screams]
-[footsteps on stairs]
-[man laughing]
[man, laughing] I told you...
-[muffled scream]
-[footsteps descending stairs]
[man sighs]
-[woman] Come on.
-[man laughing]
[couple chatting softly,
laughing]
[laughter fades]
[groaning]
[Grimal] Next time you run off
like that, I'll kill ya!
[narrator] That night,
he could not sleep.
The intoxicating power
of the girl's scent
suddenly made it clear to him
why he'd clung to his own life
so tenaciously, so savagely.
The meaning and purpose
of his miserable existence
had a higher destiny.
He would learn
how to preserve scent
so that never again would he
lose such sublime beauty.
There were about
a dozen perfumers in Paris
in those days.
One of them,
the once-celebrated
Italian perfumer,
Giuseppe Baldini,
had set up shop
in the center of the bridge
called the Pont au Change
on his arrival in Paris
over 30 years ago.
To be sure,
at one time in his youth
Baldini had created
several truly great perfumes,
to which he owed his fortune.
But now Baldini
was out of touch...
[Baldini snorts, sniffs]
...out of fashion,
and spent his days
waiting for customers
that no longer came.
-[snorts]
-[door closes]
Chénier.
There you are.
-Monsieur Baldini.
-Put on your wig.
Put on your wig.
You going out?
I wish to retire to my study
for a few hours
and do not want to be disturbed
under any circumstances.
Will you be creating a new
perfume, Monsieur Baldini?
Correct.
For Count Verhamont.
He has asked for something
like, uh...
I think he said
it was called, uh...
Amor and Psyche...
from that swindler
in the Rue Saint André des Arts.
-Pelissier?
-Pelissier, that's him.
Ha! Amor and Psyche.
[chuckles]
-Do you know it?
-Oh, yes.
You can smell it everywhere
these days, Monsieur.
On every street corner.
In fact, I just
purchased you a sample.
In case you wanted to test it.
What on earth makes you think
I'd be interested in testing it?
You're right.
It's nothing special.
Actually... [chuckles]
it's a very common scent.
I believe the head chord
contains lime oil.
Really?
-And the heart chord?
-Orange blossom, I believe.
And civet in the base chord,
but, you know,
I cannot say for sure.
Well, I couldn't care less
what that bungler Pelissier
slops into his perfumes.
Naturally not, Monsieur.
And I am thinking of creating
something for Count Verhamont
that will cause
a veritable sensation.
I'm sure it will,
Monsieur Baldini.
Take charge of the shop,
Chénier,
and don't let anyone
come near me.
Inspiration requires peace
and tranquility.
Teresa!
[speaking in Italian]
Ah... sì.
[speaking in Italian]
Grazie, grazie, grazie.
Is there anything else you need?
Inspiration, perhaps.
-Ah, my Giuseppe.
-Ah...
You are still
the great perfumer Baldini.
-[building rumbles]
-[bottles tinkling]
[blows nose]
Bellissimo.
Wonderful.
He did it again.
[sniffing]
Hmm. Lime oil.
Yes, indeed.
Orange blossom, to be sure.
And a hint of cloves, perhaps.
No.
Or could be cinnamon?
It's gone. Mm.
Cinnamon.
It's not cinnamon.
Uh... cloves.
No. Musk?
No. Aah!
[snoring]
[knocking on door]
[snorts]
[knocking]
[door creaks]
Who's there?
[Grenouille]
I'm from Grimal's tannery.
I've brought the goat skins
you ordered.
[Baldini] Follow me.
This way.
[coughs]
There.
Lay them there.
Tell your master
that the skins are fine.
I'll come by in the next
few days and pay for them.
Yes, Monsieur.
You want to make this leather
smell good, don't you?
Why, of course.
And so it shall.
With Amor and Psyche
by Pelissier?
Whatever gave you
the absurd idea
I would use
someone else's perfume?
It's all over you.
It's on your forehead,
your nose, your hands.
It's bad,
Amor and Psyche is, master.
There's too much rosemary in it
and too much of...
that and that...
Bergamot.
And patchouli?
Pa...
Patchouli.
Patchouli, patchouli.
What else?
That and that.
[bottles rattling]
That and that.
Orange blossom.
Lime.
-Musk.
-Rosemary.
-And cloves.
-And this.
[Baldini] Storax?
That's in it, too.
-Storax?
-Storax.
[Baldini] Storax?
You have, it appears,
a fine nose, young man, but--
My nose knows all
the smells in the world.
It's the best nose in Paris,
only I don't know the names.
-I need to learn the names--
-No, no, no, basta!
You don't interrupt me
when I'm speaking.
You are both impertinent
and insolent!
Even I don't know every scent.
I've known
for some time the ingredients
of Amor and Psyche, but
all it needs to find that out
is a passably fine nose,
nothing else.
But it needs the craft
of a true perfumer
to detect the exact formula.
Which notes, which chords,
and in what
precise measurements.
Could you tell me the exact
formula of Amor and Psyche?
Hmm?
Best nose in Paris.
[chuckling]
Speak up.
You see, you can't, can you?
And I'll tell you why.
Because talent means
next to nothing...
while experience acquired
in humility and hard work...
means everything.
I don't know what a formula is.
But I can make Amor and Psyche
for you now.
Uh-huh. And you think I'd
just let you slop around
in my laboratory
with essential oils
that are worth a fortune?
-You?
-Yes.
Now, pay attention.
What is your name, anyway?
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm.
Very well,
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
You shall have the opportunity
now, this very moment,
to prove your assertion.
Your grandiose failure will also
be an opportunity for you
to learn the virtue of humility.
-How much do you
want me to make?
-How much of what?
How much Amor and Psyche
do you want?
[Baldini] Huh?
Shall I fill this flask?
No! You shall not.
You may fill this one.
Yes, master.
-But, Master Baldini?
-Mm-hmm.
You must let me do it
in my own way.
As you please.
No. Don't drop that!
That's pure alcohol.
You want to blow up
the entire building?
You have to measure it first.
Stop! Stop it.
That's enough.
Basta! You know nothing.
Essential oils are always
to be mixed first,
then the alcohol added.
And never, ever is perfume
to be shaken like that.
I must have been insane
to listen
to your asinine gibberish.
It's all done.
Mamma mia.
This is Amor and Psyche.
But it's not
a good perfume, master.
If you let me again, master,
I'll make it more better.
Now it's a really good perfume.
Don't you want to smell it,
master?
[Baldini] I'm not in the mood
to test it now.
I have other things on my mind.
Go now.
-But, master--
-Go! Now.
Can I come to work for you,
master? Can I?
Uh, let me think about it.
Master!
I have to learn
how to keep smell.
What?
Can you teach me that?
I shall have to think about it.
Now, go.
[sighs]
-[women laughing]
-[birds singing]
Oh...
I love you.
I'll give you 50 francs
for him. [coughs]
-[man] Put your measly
weight behind it...
-[chuckling]
-[kid 1] Keep pulling!
-[kid 2] Push! Push, man!
[Grimal] Grenouille!
[narrator]
Grimal's transaction
had a profound effect
on all three parties.
[driver] Hey, watch out!
[Grimal yells]
Uggh!
Not least upon
Monsieur Grimal himself.
As for Giuseppe Baldini,
the acquisition of Grenouille
miraculously transformed
his dwindling business,
even surpassing
its former glory.
[indistinct conversation]
While at last,
for Jean-Baptiste,
the mysterious secrets
of the perfumer's craft
began to unfold.
[woman] He's a genius.
It's magnificent!
[Baldini] Now, pay careful
attention to what I tell you.
Just like a musical chord,
a perfume chord
contains four essences,
or notes, carefully selected
for their harmonic affinity.
Each perfume contains
three chords:
the head, the heart
and the base,
necessitating 12 notes in all.
The head chord contains
the first impression,
lasting a few minutes before
giving way to the heart chord,
the theme of the perfume,
lasting several hours.
Finally, the base chord,
the trail of the perfume,
lasting several days.
[sighs] Ha! Mind you,
the ancient Egyptians believed
that one can only create
a truly original perfume
by adding an extra note,
one final essence
that will ring out
and dominate the others.
Legend has it that an amphora
was once found
in a pharaoh's tomb
and when it was opened,
a perfume was released.
After all those thousands
of years,
a perfume of such subtle beauty
and yet such power,
that for one single moment,
every person on earth believed
they were in paradise.
Twelve essences could be
identified,
but the 13th, the vital one...
could never be determined.
Why not?
What do you mean, why not?
Because it's a legend,
numbskull.
What's a legend?
Never mind.
[Baldini] Jean-Baptiste.
Jean-Baptiste?
[gasps]
What's the matter?
Master, I have to learn
how to capture scent.
What are you talking about?
I have to learn
how to capture scent
and reprise it forever.
You mean preserve.
-You have to teach me that.
-All right.
Calm down, my boy. Hmm.
Calm down.
We have work to do.
"The soul of beings
is their scent."
You said that, master.
Did I?
I will make you
as many perfumes as you want,
but you have to teach me
how to capture the smell
of all things.
Can you do that?
Well, naturally.
Then teach me
everything you know.
And I'll make you the best
perfume in the whole world.
[man] Mind yourselves.
Imagine, Jean-Baptiste.
Ten thousand roses
to produce one single ounce
of essential oil.
[man] That's the last of them.
[Baldini]
Now, keep the air flowing
or the bottom petals
will begin to stew...
while I set up the alembic.
And take care
not to damage them.
We have to let them
go to their deaths
with their scent intact.
[vat clangs]
Perfect.
Now, help me
with the Moor's head.
Temperature is vital.
When the quicksilver is here,
the heat is precisely correct
and the oil will gradually rise.
Note that this mechanism
is a remarkable invention
of my own devising.
You will observe how cold water
is pumped through here...
allowing the essence
to condense here
until it finally...
appears...
here.
Of course, out on
the hillside above Grasse,
we had only to bellow pure,
fresh air.
Ah, Grasse.
What a town.
The Rome of scents.
The Promised Land of perfume.
No man can rightly
call himself a perfumer
unless he has proved his worth
in that hallowed place.
[building rumbling]
Not to worry.
Happens all the time.
To Grasse.
Master.
Look.
The very soul of the rose.
[snoring]
[Grenouille groans]
[tools clatter]
[Grenouille groaning]
-[Baldini] Jean-Baptiste!
-[feet descending stairs]
-What's wrong?
-[Grenouille sobbing]
Jean-Baptiste.
What have you done?
-[Grenouille] You lied.
-What?
You lied to me.
How dare you
talk to me like that?
You said I could capture
the scent of anything.
And so you can.
What do you smell?
Nothing.
[glass shatters]
What were you expecting
to smell?
Glass.
But glass doesn't smell.
Course it does.
What's this?
I don't smell a thing.
-[shatters glass]
-Basta!
-It should smell like copper.
-Enough!
You were trying to distill
the smell of copper?
Iron? Glass? Copper?
What else did you try?
[liquid bubbling]
No! Madonna mia!
Have you gone completely insane?
You told me I had
to experiment.
Experiment?
But not with the cat.
What kind of a human being
are you?
-[rod clangs]
-Don't you know anything?
You can no more distill
the scent of a cat
than you can distill
the scent of you or me.
I can't?
Of course not.
-[doctor] He is
in stadio ultimo.
-[Baldini] What?
-[doctor] He's dying.
-[Baldini] Is there nothing
you can do?
-[doctor] I fear not.
-[Baldini] No!
-He cannot die.
-[doctor] Well, my fee
is 50 francs.
[Teresa] 50 francs?
You charlatan!
You can't even name
the disease.
[doctor] Indeed, I can, ma'am.
Festering measles...
[Baldini, sighing]
Oh, dear, Jean-Baptiste.
You cannot do this to me.
Please, don't die on me.
Not now.
Not yet.
Dio, Dio. Why?
Is there...
any other way...
to preserve smell
besides distill it?
Jean-Baptiste?
Is there, master?
Well, yes,
I believe there is.
What is it?
It is known as the mysterious
art of enfleurage.
Can you teach me?
Not even I am intimate
with its secrets.
But could I learn it
in Grasse?
Ah, well...
Could I?
Where else but in Grasse?
[narrator] Within a week,
Grenouille was well again,
but in order to travel
to Grasse and find a job,
he needed
a journeyman's papers.
Baldini agreed to provide them,
on condition that Grenouille
left him not less
than 100 formulas
for new perfumes.
Grenouille did not mind.
He could have given him
a thousand.
[Grenouille]
One ounce of cedar...
[narrator] The morning
of Grenouille's departure,
Baldini was pleased.
At last, he felt rewarded for
his many years of hard work.
He could not remember
a happier day.
Deeply satisfied,
he went back to sleep
and awoke no more
in this life.
[rumbling]
[faint shouting]
[man] Look out!
[narrator]
With every step Grenouille
took away from the city,
the happier he felt.
The air above him grew clearer,
purer, cleaner,
and at last he was able
to breathe freely.
There were two ways
to reach Grasse.
The first followed the winding
roads through the villages,
while the second led straight
across the hills and mountains,
down into Provence.
The choice was quite easy.
Thus his nose led him
ever higher,
ever further from mankind,
ever more towards
the magnetic pole
of the greatest possible
solitude.
Grenouille needed a moment
to believe that he had
actually found a spot on Earth
where scent was almost absent.
Spread all around lay nothing
but the tranquil scent
of dead stone.
There was something sacred
about this place.
No longer distracted
by anything external,
he was finally able to bask
in his own existence...
and found it splendid.
After a while, he almost forgot
his plans and obsessions.
And, indeed, might have
done so altogether...
[woman] Hello?
Hello?
[gasps]
[sniffing]
[narrator] There were
a thousand smells
in his clothes.
The smell of sand, stone, moss.
Even the smell of the sausage
he'd eaten weeks ago.
Only one smell was not there.
His own.
[thunder crashing]
For the first time in his life,
Grenouille realized that
he had no smell of his own.
He realized that all his life
he had been a nobody
to everyone.
What he now felt was
the fear of his own oblivion.
It was as though
he did not exist.
By the first light
of next morning,
Grenouille had a new plan.
He must continue
his journey to Grasse.
There he would teach the world
not only that he existed,
that he was someone,
but that he was exceptional.
And with this decision,
it seemed that the gods had
at last begun to smile on him.
[horses galloping]
[ethereal music playing]
Go on.
[man] Laura?
Laura?
Coming, Papa.
[man groans]
Haven't seen you here before.
It's my first season.
Picking together
is always more fun.
They say you pick
everything you find.
Idiot.
How many times have I told you
not to cram the blossoms in
like you're stuffing a chicken?
Watch how Grenouille does it.
Look how skillfully
he handles them.
The whole art of enfleurage
is to allow the flowers
to die slowly.
In their sleep, as it were.
Handle them as you would
a lady.
Wouldn't you agree with me,
Druot?
If you say so, Madame.
You. Check the jonquil blossoms.
They need more time.
Do what I say.
[liquid splashing]
Stop it.
I'm not in the mood.
Hmm. Are you sure?
[Jeanne] Of course I'm sure.
[giggles]
I said...
no!
[groans]
Suit yourself.
[door rattles]
Lucien?
-Fetch me back the ladder!
-[Lucien] Fetch it yourself.
[rattling]
Lucien?
Lucien!
[rattles door]
[door creaking]
Lucien?
[distant rattling]
[horse trotting]
Tuberoses for Madame Arnulfi.
She here?
She's busy.
Seems such a waste
to boil them.
Or whatever you do with them.
So, what do you do with them?
Warm them in animal fat.
[woman] What for?
The fat soaks up their scent.
[woman] Then what?
Then I cool it
to a pomade and...
and then I filter it before...
-[sniffs]
-Before what?
Before I add in alcohol
and other essences
to make a perfume.
Don't touch anything.
[vat rumbles]
[board rattles]
What's in there?
-Nothing. Just flowers.
-Can I look?
No. Not now.
I've got work to do.
-You must go now.
-Come on. Let me look.
-Don't touch.
-Ah, my tuberoses.
Oh.
Morning, Madame.
Morning.
Why have you covered the tank?
It's an experiment, Madame.
To, to...
protect the blossoms
from daylight.
To preserve the scent better.
Mm-hmm.
Well, if you say so.
Come with me. I'll settle
your master's account.
To preserve their scent better,
you say?
[sniffs]
I don't smell much.
No. Then my experiment
was a failure.
[Druot] Make sure it's your time
you're wasting, not ours.
[indistinct chatter]
[Grenouille]
How much must I pay...
to be with you?
Depends what you want.
What's that stuff?
I'm creating a perfume.
Lie down, please.
Eww! It feels horrible.
It's only animal fat.
To soak up your scent.
Creating a perfume, eh?
Come on, admit it.
You're getting a bang
out of this, aren't you?
Aren't you?
I enjoy my work.
Hold your arm still.
Don't think you're gonna
tie me up.
Hold out your arm, please.
I've come across
some strange men in my time--
Just...
relax.
Holy Mother, what's that?
[Grenouille]
Just for scraping off the fat.
-Are you mad?
-I said relax.
You'll ruin everything.
If you're frightened,
you stink.
Then your perfume
will be spoiled.
I've had enough.
Get out.
Here, take your money.
Basting me up in all this goo.
What do you think I am?
A Christmas goose?
Get out of here!
[thwack, body thuds]
-[dog whimpers]
-[boards rattle]
ALCOHOL
[indistinct conversation]
[dog yips]
[dog whines]
[barks]
[applause]
Quickly, blow them out
before the roses melt.
Roses can't melt, Papa.
These ones can.
[laughter]
-[man] Ah!
-[laughter]
Now I'd like to propose a toast
to our guest of honor,
His Excellency,
the Marquis de Montesquieu.
May our trade continue
to flourish.
-[man] Hear, hear!
-[murmured approval]
[Marquis] I thank you all,
and would ask of you the honor
to be the first to offer
my congratulations
to your beautiful daughter
and present her with a small
token of my affection.
[guests gasping]
[man 1] It's beautiful.
-[man 2] Splendid.
-[woman] It's beautiful.
I'm overwhelmed,
Your Grace.
"Your Grace"?
I had hoped that we would be
on more familiar terms by now.
Let's have a game
of hide-and-seek.
-Oh, yes!
-[man] Oh, yes.
But everyone must play.
[Marquis] Let the men
catch the women.
-[applause]
-Bravo!
-Bravo.
-[women giggling]
[Françoise] Albine. Wait.
[giggles]
[woman] Come on!
[giggling]
[shrieks]
[woman laughing]
-Ahhhh!
-[shrieks]
[chuckling]
Put me down. Please?
[Marquis] Now there's no escape.
[glass shatters]
[laughter]
Game's over, everybody.
Laura?
Time to go in now.
[cart rattling]
Laura?
[man] Albine?
Françoise?
Laura, have you seen the twins?
No, not since the game started.
[woman] Albine? Françoise?
Albine? Françoise?
Jacques?
-Take this way.
-You two, with me.
Your Excellency?
Through here.
-[man 1] Albine.
-[man 2] Girls, where are you?!
-[man 3] Françoise!
-[man 4] Albine!
[man 5] Françoise!
I told that cretin ten times
to get these ready.
[chuckles] Don't keep picking
on the boy.
I'll kill him,
the useless little sewer rat.
Grenouille!
What are you doing?
Why aren't
the enfleurage frames...
Yes, Master?
I mean, would you be
good enough
to prepare the enfleurage
frames, Jean-Baptiste?
Certainly, master.
[man] Hey, look.
See? There.
A curfew? Are you mad?
Jasmine can only be picked
before dawn.
We all know that.
This could mean the ruin
of our trade.
Yours.
And yours and yours.
[murmuring]
Supposing it's
your daughter next time?
Of course a curfew is necessary,
but we also
have to catch this man,
and the only way
to do that is to understand
how he thinks, what he wants.
[councilor] I should have
thought that was obvious.
Use your imagination.
And if I were to tell you
that all except the prostitute
went to their graves
with their chastity intact?
How would you know?
The coroner had each girl
examined.
They were all found
to be virgins.
[councilors murmuring]
Supposing there isn't
a next time?
If we introduce a curfew, we may
all go bankrupt for nothing.
So we wait until he's killed,
what, six, seven, eight?
-[woman gasps]
-[board thumps, body thuds]
[woman screams]
-[woman] It's Pauline!
-[officer] Curfew!
-Go back to your homes.
-Stay inside.
It's a curfew.
Back inside.
[shrieks]
-[mayor] Gentlemen. Gentlemen.
-[murmuring]
We have to face the fact
that our police are helpless
in this matter.
I suggest that we ask
for support from Paris.
-[man 1] Paris won't be smarter.
-[man 2] We must arrest
every Gypsy in Provence.
-And every beggar.
-[man 3] And every man
without a wife and family.
Listen.
We have to put ourselves
inside the mind of this man.
Each of his victims
had an especial beauty.
We know he doesn't want
their virginity,
so it seems to me that
it's their beauty itself
that he wants.
It's almost as if he's trying
to gather something.
As if his ambitions
are those of a collector.
A collector? Of what?
Their hair?
[woman] Get out!
Get out of my store!
You murdering scum!
[women screaming]
Whatever it is,
I fear he won't stop killing
until his collection
is complete.
[gasps]
[man] There you are.
Next. Quick as you can.
Right. You, too.
-[servant] Monsieur.
-[gasps]
[councilor] This man,
this man is a demon.
A phantom who cannot be fought
by human means.
Now, I insist that we call upon
our bishop to excommunicate him.
-[crowd murmuring]
-What good would that do?
Have you no faith in the power
of our Holy Mother Church?
[Richis] This is not
a matter of faith.
There's a murderer out there
and we must catch him
by using our God-given wits.
[councilor] I say until we
submit to Mother Church,
these killings will not cease.
[gasping]
[screaming]
[bishop] Citizens of Grasse,
we hereby declare
that this murderer,
this demon in our midst,
has incurred the sentence
of excommunication!
Not only has
this depraved monster
robbed us of our daughters,
the young and fair blossom
of this city,
and by his wanton acts
has brought our trade,
our livelihood,
nay, our very existence,
to the brink
of eternal darkness.
We therefore declare
that this vile viper,
this ignominious carbuncle,
this execrable evil
in our midst
shall henceforth
be solemnly banned
from our holy presence,
rejected from the communion
of Holy Mother Church,
as a disciple of Satan,
slayer of souls.
[rider]
Stand clear! Stand clear!
[bishop] An infected limb,
an outsider of the faith,
a necromancer, a diabolist,
a sorcerer
and a damned heretic.
Oh, God,
in Thy most merciful spirit,
bring down thunderbolts
upon his head
and may the Devil
make soup of his bones.
-Amen!
-My Lord!
My Lord!
It's a miracle.
He's been caught.
My Lord,
the fiend has been caught.
In the city of Grenoble.
He's confessed to everything.
He's confessed to everything!
-[murmuring]
-[bishop] Oh...
Hallelujah.
-Hallelujah!
-[all] Hallelujah!
[bishop]
Praise be to God.
And we thank Him for listening
to our prayers
and answering them.
Amen!
[all] Amen!
[woman] Amen!
[Richis]
Just read the report.
This cannot possibly be
the same man.
He confessed to everything.
Including the murders
in Grasse.
Yes. Under torture.
Look. Here.
He admits to strangling
his victims,
pulling out their hair
and ravaging them.
The girls of Grasse
were killed by a single blow
to the back of their heads,
their hair was carefully
cropped, and not one
of them was violated.
Antoine,
we're all happy it's over.
Let it go.
-[dance music playing]
-[cheering, laughter]
-Papa, what's the matter?
-We're going home.
-Now.
-But why? I'm enjoying myself.
-Don't argue with me, Laura.
-Stop it. I'm going--
Laura!
Out of my way! Laura!
Laura!
Papa.
[Richis] I'm so sorry.
I know you must think me
a very foolish man,
but try to understand.
You're all I have left.
You don't need
to explain, Papa.
If anything were to happen
to you...
I know.
But you must stop worrying
about me all the time.
[shutters rattling]
[shutters banging]
Sweet dreams, my love.
Sweet dreams, Papa.
[door closes]
[door locks]
[shrieks]
Laura!
[gasps]
Papa, what's the matter?
Did you open the window?
No. Why?
[woman] Make sure
all the furniture's covered...
Have this letter dispatched to
the Marquis de Montesquieu
immediately.
[woman] Marie? Quickly!
[sniffs]
Whoa.
Steady.
Stay on the road north
into the mountains.
Did Monsieur Richis leave?
He did.
Which way?
North.
You sure it wasn't south?
I saw them with my own eyes.
Why do you want to know?
I said north. North!
Grenouille?
[worker] It doesn't feel flat.
There we go.
[Druot] Grenouille?
Grenouille?
[dog snarling]
[dog whimpering]
Good God.
[sniffs]
[innkeeper]
Good afternoon, Monsieur.
Good afternoon.
Do you have anyone else
staying here?
No, Monsieur.
Then I would like to take all
your rooms for the night.
[innkeeper] It will be
our pleasure, Monsieur.
And tomorrow, at first light,
we wish to be ferried
to the Ile de Lérin.
It's deserted,
except for a few monks.
I'm aware of that.
Very well, Monsieur.
[woman] Our finest room,
Mademoiselle.
With a superb view of the sea.
One moment.
Very well.
Do you have a room
next to this one?
Yes, but the view
cannot be compared--
I have no interest in the view.
[woman, sobbing] Oh... God.
Monsieur.
Papa, will you please tell me
now what's happening?
You haven't said a word all day.
Why all this secrecy?
Last night I dreamt
you were dead.
Murdered.
Like all the other girls.
And the truth is,
I'm convinced that the killer
is still here somewhere.
All of his victims
were young and beautiful
and who is there
more beautiful than you, Laura?
Whatever his insane scheme,
it will surely be incomplete
without you.
I've written to the Marquis,
accepting his proposal
of marriage on your behalf
and requesting that it
take place as soon as possible.
Until then, you'll stay
in the safety of the monastery.
And all this
because you had a bad dream?
I've made my decision.
But I don't know
whether I even love him.
I'm afraid the circumstances
leave us no choice.
-Papa.
-It's all arranged, Laura.
[lock rattling]
[ethereal music playing]
[guard] On your feet!
Hands in the air!
[gunshot]
Why did you kill my daughter?
Why?
I needed her.
[exhaling bubbles]
Why did you kill my daughter?
I just...
needed her.
Very well.
But remember this.
I'll be looking at you...
when you're laid on the cross
and the 12 blows are
crashing down on your limbs.
And when the crowd has
finally tired of your screams
and wandered home...
I will climb up
through your blood...
and sit beside you.
I will look
deep into your eyes...
and, drop by drop...
I will trickle my disgust
into them...
like burning acid...
until...
finally...
you perish.
[woman] What do you think
they'll do to him?
[man] Apparently they're gonna
break every bone in his body
with an iron bar.
-[woman 2] Filthy piece of bile.
-[crowd arguing]
[woman 3]
Mind your own business!
-[crowd shouting]
-Fathead. [spits]
Look, there he comes.
[crowd cheering]
[man 1] To hell with him!
Where he belongs!
[man 2]
Hit him hard with that!
[cheering]
[distant shouting]
[chains clanging]
[door rattles]
Unchain the prisoner.
[chains rattling]
[guard] Hyah!
[Grenouille groaning]
That's enough.
Let him be brought
to the scaffold.
What's that?
Gloria Patri
et Filio et Spiritu Sancti.
Amen.
[coach rattling]
[woman] Is he coming?
What is it?
This man is innocent.
-He didn't do it.
It's impossible.
-He's innocent!
[crowd murmuring]
-[woman] Look at him!
-[man] He's innocent!
[murmuring continues]
[murmuring fades]
[crowd gasping]
[gasps]
[bishop drops staff]
An angel.
This is no man,
this is an angel!
[ecstatic shrieking]
[cheering]
[ecstatic shouting]
[cheering]
I love you!
[cheering fades,
soft music playing]
[music fades]
[ethereal music playing]
[music fades]
[soft music playing]
[Richis] Grenouille!
[footsteps approaching]
You can't fool me!
[sword clangs]
[Richis gasping]
Forgive me...
my son.
[narrator] The people of Grasse
awoke to a terrible hangover.
For many of them,
the experience was so ghastly,
so completely inexplicable
and incompatible
with their morals,
that they literally erased it
from their memories.
The town council was in session
by the afternoon
and an order was passed
to the police lieutenant
to immediately begin
fresh investigations
into the murders.
I'm innocent!
This is madness.
[narrator] The following day,
Dominique Druot was arrested
since it was in his backyard
that the clothes and hair
of all the victims
had been found.
After 14 hours of torture,
Druot confessed to everything.
With that, the case was closed.
By then, Grenouille was already
halfway back to Paris.
He still had
enough perfume left
to enslave the whole world
if he so chose.
He could walk to Versailles
and have the King
kiss his feet.
He could write the Pope
a perfumed letter
and reveal himself
as the new Messiah.
He could do all this
and more if he wanted to.
He possessed a power stronger
than the power of money,
or terror, or death.
The invincible power to command
the love of mankind.
There was only one thing
the perfume could not do.
It could not turn him
into a person who could love
and be loved
like everyone else.
So, to hell with it,
he thought.
To hell with the world.
With the perfume.
With himself.
On the 25th of June, 1766,
around eleven o'clock at night,
Grenouille entered the city
through the Porte d'Orléans
and, like a sleepwalker,
his olfactory memories
drew him back
to the place
where he was born.
[faint laughter]
[indistinct chatter]
[ethereal music fades]
An angel!
I love you.
[crowd shouting ecstatically]
[chatter fades]
[narrator] Within no time,
Jean-Baptiste Grenouille
had disappeared
from the face of the Earth.
When they had finished,
they felt a virginal glow
of happiness.
For the first time
in their lives
they believed
that they had done something
purely out of love.
Over here! Look.
-A jacket.
-Yeah!
Look it!
Let's take them all home.
You can wear them.
[kids laughing]
[somber music playing]