Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

SHOUTING IN DISTANCE

HE SNIFFS

DOOR UNLOCKS

Quick. We can't hold them back much longer.

Hurry!

Come on!

Quick!

Faster!

THEY MURMUR

Open the doors. Come on, quickly!

CROWD SHOUTS AND JEERS

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...

..His shoulders...

..His hips...

..His legs!

He shall then be raised up to hang until dead,

and all customary acts of mercy are expressly forbidden the executioner.

'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 NEIGHS

THUNDER RUMBLES

'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.'

Here we are.

I'll get another box.

'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.'

Aaahhh!

SHE GROANS AND SCREAMS

SQUELCHING

'It was his mother's fifth birth.

'She delivered them all here, under her fish stand.

'And all had been stillbirths or semi-stillbirths.'

Are you all right?

'And by evening, the whole mess had been shovelled away

'with the fish guts into the river.

'It would be much the same today,

'but then, Jean-Baptiste chose differently.'

BABY CRIES

What's that noise?

-It's a baby!

-What's going on here?

It's a newborn.

Where's his mother?

She was just here.

She tried to kill it, her own child.

She tried to kill her baby!

There! There she is!

-Stop!

-Stop her!

-Stop where you are!

-Murderer!

'Thus, the first sound to escape Grenouille's lips

'sent his mother to the gallows.'

'And Jean-Baptiste, by official order,

'to the orphanage of Madame Gaillard.'

-How many today?

-Four. Well, three and a half.

As usual, more dead than alive.

Oh, just take the money and sign.

Make room!

Where?

Move!

Go on!

Is it dead?

HE SNIFFS

That's not staying in my bed.

Let's throw it out, then.

What if it screams?

Let's just kill him.

BABY CRIES

MUFFLED CRYING

Harder! Push!

What are you doing?

'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.'

HE SNIFFS

'It was not that the other children hated him.

'They felt unnerved by him.'

'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.

Wormwood.

Grass.

Wet grass.

Stones.

Warm stones.

Water.

Cold water.

Frog.

Wet stones.

Big, wet, frog stones.

Something...

Something, something.

'By the age of 13,

'Madame Gaillard no longer had room for Jean-Baptiste

'and therefore decided to sell him.'

Come on!

Ten francs.

'From his first breath of the odour 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.'

'Unfortunately for Madame Gaillard...'

'..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.'

Grenouille!

Come with us.

I'm taking you to town for delivery.

'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 odours.

'His only condition being that they were new ones.'

'Thousands upon thousands of odours formed an invisible gruel

'which he dissected into its smallest

'and most remote parts and pieces.'

Grenouille!

Come on!

Get your arse over here.

He wants 2,000 skins by next week. Can you do that?

Yeah.

What is it called?

Amour and Psyche, madame.

My latest creation.

May I try it?

If you'll allow me, mademoiselle.

Sheer heaven.

Monsieur Pelissier, you are truly an artiste.

What do you want?

Want to buy some?

Two for a sou.

FIREWORK EXPLODES

Ahhhh...

LAUGHTER

< Come on!

HE SNIFFS

Next time you run off like that,

I'll kill yer!

'That night, he could not sleep.

'The intoxicating power of the girl's scent

suddenly made it clear to him

'why he had come 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 centre 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, out of fashion,

'and spent his days waiting for customers that no longer came.'

-Chenier! 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's asked for something like...

I think he said it was called Amour and Psyche.

That swindler in the rue Saint Andre des Arts...

-Pelissier...

-Pelissier!

That's him. Ha!

Amour and Psyche!

HE LAUGHS

Do you know it?

Oh, yes. You can smell it everywhere these days, monsieur.

-Hm.

-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, 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 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, Chenier.

And don't let anyone come near me.

Inspiration requires peace and tranquillity.

Vanessa! Fazzoletti.

Ecco i fazzoletti.

Grazie. Grazie. Grazie.

Is there anything else you need?

Inspiration, perhaps.

-Ah, my Giuseppe!

-Ah.

-You are still the great perfumer Baldini.

-Mm.

RUMBLING

Bellissimo.

Wonderful.

He did it again.

Hm. Lime oil.

Yes, indeed.

Orange blossom, to be sure.

And a hint of cloves, perhaps?

No.

Or could be cinnamon.

It's gone.

Cinnamon.

It's not cinnamon.

Ah!

Cloves.

No.

Musk?

No.

Ach!

SNORING

KNOCK ON DOOR

KNOCK ON DOOR

Who's there?

I'm from Grimal's tannery.

I've brung the goatskins you ordered.

Follow me.

This way.

There.

Leave 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 Amour 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, Amour and Psyche is, master.

There's too much rosemary in it, and too much of...

That and that.

Bergamot.

And patchouli.

P...

Patchouli...

Patchou...

What else?

That and that.

That and that.

Orange blossom.

Lime.

Musk.

Rosemary.

And cloves.

And this.

Storax?

That's in it, too.

-Storax.

-Storax.

-Storax.

-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, learn them all.

-No! No! No! Basta!

You don't interrupt me when I'm speaking.

You're both impertinent and insolent!

Even I don't know every scent.

I have, of course, known for some time the ingredients of Amour 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 Amour and Psyche? Hm?

Best nose in Paris?

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...

I don't know what a formula is.

But I can make Amour and Psyche for you now.

Ah! And you think I'll 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-hm. Mm-hm, mm-hm.

Very well, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille...

You shall have the opportunity now, at 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 Amour and Psyche do you want?

-Huh?

Shall I fill this flask?

No! You shall not!

You may fill this one.

Yes, master.

-But, Master Baldini...

-Hm?

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 this perfume to be shaken like that.

I must've been insane to listen to your asinine gibberish.

It's all done.

Mamma mia.

This is Amour 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.

Hm.

Don't you want to smell it, master?

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?

Er, 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.

Ahhh...

I love you.

I'll give you 50 francs for him.

Grenouille!

'Grimal's transaction had a profound effect on all three parties...'

Hey, watch out!

'Not least upon Monsieur Grimal himself.'

'As for Giuseppe Baldini, the acquisition of Grenouille

'miraculously transformed his dwindling business,

'even surpassing its former glory.'

'While at last, for Jean-Baptiste,

'the mysterious secrets of the perfumer's craft began to unfold.'

Now, pay careful attention to what I tell you.

Just like a musical chord, a perfume cord 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.

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.

12 essences could be identified.

But the 13th,

the vital one...

..Could never be determined.

Why not?

"Why not?" What do you mean, "Why not?"

Because it's a legend, numbskull.

What's a legend?

Never mind.

Jean-Baptiste? Jean-Baptiste?

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 a scent and 'reprose' it for ever.

You mean 'preserve'.

You have to teach me that.

All right, calm down, my boy. Hm? 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.

Imagine, Jean-Baptiste,

10,000 roses to produce one single ounce of essential oil.

That's the last of 'em!

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.

Perfect!

Now help me with the boar'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.

RUMBLING

Not to worry!

It happens all the time.

To Grasse.

Master!

Look.

The very soul of the rose.

SNORING

CREAKING

EXPLOSION

SCREAMING

Jean-Baptiste!

What's wrong?

Jean-Baptiste?

What have you done?

-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?

What do you smell?

Nothing.

What were you expecting to smell?

Glass.

But glass doesn't smell.

Of course it does. What's this?

I don't smell a thing.

-Basta!

-It should smell like copper!

Enough!

You were trying to distil the smell of copper?

Iron? Glass? Copper?

What else did you try?

No?!

Madonna mia, have you gone completely insane?

You told me I had to experiment.

Experiment?

Experiment?

With a cat?!

What kind of a human being are you?

Don't you know anything?

You can no more distil the scent of a cat

than you can distil the scent of you or me!

I can't?

Of course not!

He is in stadio ultimo.

-What?

-He's dying.

-Is there nothing you can do?

I fear not.

No! He cannot die.

Well, the fee is 50 francs.

50 francs? You charlatan!

Oh, dear, Jean-Baptiste!

You cannot do this to me.

Please, don't die on me.

Not now, not yet!

Is there...

..any other way...

..to preserve smell besides distilling?

Jean-Baptiste!

Is there, master?

Well, yes, I... 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?

'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.

'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.'

'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 road 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.'

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

'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.'

HE SNIFFS

'For the first time in his life,

'Grenouille realised that he had no smell of his own.'

'He realised 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.'

Go on.

Laura?

Laura?

Coming, Papa.

Ah!

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 skilfully 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.

Stop it.

I'm not in the mood.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

I said...

No!

Ah!

Suit yourself.

Lucien?

Fetch me back the ladder!

Fetch it yourself!

CREAKING

Lucien?

Lucien!

CREAKING

Lucien?

Lucien?

Lucien?

Tuberoses.

For Madame Arnulfi.

She here?

She's busy.

Seems such a waste to boil 'em.

Or whatever you do with 'em.

So, what do you do with 'em?

Warm them in animal fat.

What for?

The fat soaks up their scent.

Then what?

Then I cool it to a pomade, and...

And then I filter it, before...

Before what?

Before adding alcohol and other essences to make a perfume.

Don't touch anything!

What's in there?

Nothing, just flowers.

Can I look?

No. Not now, I've got work to do. You must go now.

-Ah, come on, let me look.

-Don't touch!

Tuberoses. >

Morning, madame.

Morning.

Why have you covered the tank?

It's an experiment, madame,

to... to...

to protect the blossoms from daylight,

to preserve the scent better.

Mm-hm.

Well, if you say so.

Come with me. I'll settle your master's account.

To preserve their scent better, you say?

I don't smell much.

No.

Then my experiment was a failure.

Make sure it's your time you're wasting, not ours.

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.

Ugh!

It feels horrible.

It's only animal fat.

To soak up your scent.

Creating a perfume, eh?

Come on, admit it.

You're getting some sort of bang out of this, aren't you?

Aren't you?

I enjoy my work.

Hold your arm still.

Don't think you're going to 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?

-Just for scraping off the fat.

-Are you mad?

-I said relax.

You'll ruin everything.

If you're frightened, you stink, and your perfume will be spoilt.

I've had enough!

Get out!

Here, take your money!

Basting me with all this goo! What do you think I am,

a Christmas goose? Get out of here!

DOG WHINES

DOG BARKS

-Quickly, blow them out before the roses melt.

-Roses can't melt, Papa.

These ones can.

Now I'd like to propose a toast to our guest of honour,

His Excellency, the Marquis de Montesquieu.

-May our trade continue to flourish.

-< Hear, hear!

I thank you all, and would ask of you the honour

to be the first to offer my congratulations to your beautiful daughter,

and present her with a small token of my affection.

MAN: It's beautiful.

WOMAN: It's beautiful.

I am 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! But everyone must play.

MAN: The men catch the women.

Wait!

SHE SCREAMS Run!

A-A-AH!

Put me down, please.

Now there's no escape.

Game's over, everybody!

Laura!

Time to go in now.

Laura!

-MAN:

-Albine! Francoise!

Laura, have you seen the twins?

No, not since the game started.

Albine! Francoise!

-Albine! Francoise!

-Jacques!

Take this way.

You two, with me.

Your Excellency...through here.

Albine! Francoise! Girls, where are you?

Albine! Francoise!

I've told that cretin ten times to get these ready.

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-Baptise?

Certainly, master.

Hey, look!

Sweet... 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!

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!

I should've thought that was obvious. Use your imagination!

And if I were to tell you 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.

MURMURING Supposing there isn't a next time.

If we introduce a curfew, we may all go bankrupt for nothing.

MURMURED AGREEMENT

So we wait until he's killed what... Six? Seven? Eight?

SHE GASPS

SCREAMING

Curfew! Go back to your homes.

-What's happening?

-It's a curfew. Back to your home.

Agh!

Gentlemen! Gentlemen!

We have to face the fact that our police are helpless in this matter.

I suggest that we ask for support from Paris.

-Paris won't be smarter than we are.

-Arrest every gypsy and every beggar.

-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. It seems to me

it's their beauty itself that he wants.

It's almost as if as if he's trying to gather something.

As if his ambitions are those of a collector.

A collector? Of what?

Their hair?

Get out! Get out! You murderer!

THEY SHOUT ABUSE

Whatever it is...

I fear he won't stop killing until his collection is complete.

Here you are. Next! Quick as you can. You too!

-Monsieur?

-Ah!

'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.

What good would that do?

Have you no faith in the power of our Holy Mother Church?

This is not a matter of faith. There's a murderer out there!

And we must catch him by using our God-given wits.

I say, until we submit to Mother Church,

these killings will not cease.

Oh... Ah! Agh!

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 the city, and by his wanton acts,

has brought our trade, our livelihood,

our very existence to the brink of eternal darkness!

We therefore declare

that this vile viper,

this ignominious carbuncle,

this extricable evil in our midsts,

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...

Stand clear! Stand clear!

..defected... 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 stope of his bones. Amen!

My Lord! My Lord! It's a miracle.

He's been caught! 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!

Hallelujah! HALLELUJAH!

-CONGREGATION CHEERS

-Thanks be to God.

And we thank him for listening to our prayers and answering them.

Amen!

ALL: Amen! Amen!

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.

MUSIC PLAYS

-Papa, what's the matter?

-We're going home, now!

But why? I'm enjoying myself!

-Don't argue with me.

-Stop it! I'm grown-up...

Laura!

Laura!

Out of my way!

Laura!

-Laura!

-Papa!

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 would happen to you...

-I know.

But you must stop worrying about me all the time.

Sweet dreams, my love.

Sweet dreams, Papa.

Ah...

Laura!

Papa, what's the matter?

Did you open the window?

No. Why?

Have this letter dispatched to the Marquis de Montesquieu immediately.

Marie, quickly!

HE SNIFFS

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?

Grenouille!

Grenouille!

Grenouille!

DOG SNARLS

Good God!

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.

It will be our pleasure, monsieur.

And tomorrow, at first light, we wish to be ferried to the Iles de Lerins.

-It's deserted except for a few monks.

-I'm aware of that.

Very well, monsieur.

Our finest room, mademoiselle.

With a superb view of the sea.

One moment.

Very well.

Do you have a room next to this?

Yes, but the view cannot be compared to...

I have no interest in the view.

Oh, my 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.

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 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.

HE CRIES AND WAILS

On your feet! Hands in the air!

GUNSHOT

Why did you kill my daughter?

Why?

I needed her.

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.

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.

What do you think they'll do to him?

Apparently, they'll break every bone in his body with an iron bar.

CROWD SQUABBLE

Look, there he comes!

-CROWD ROAR

-To hell with him, where he belongs!

CHEERS

Unchain the prisoner.

That's enough.

Let him be brought to the scaffold.

What's that?

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancti, amen.

Is he coming? What is it?

This man is innocent.

He didn't do it. It's impossible!

-He's innocent!

-He's innocent!

CROWD GASP

An angel!

This is no man! This is an angel!

ALL CHEER

Grenouille!

You can't fool me!

Forgive me!

My son!

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.

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 a 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 25th June, 1766, around 11 o'clock at night,

Grenouille entered the city through the Porte d'Orleans.

And like a sleepwalker,

his olfactory memories drew him back to the place where he was born.

An angel!

I love you.

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.

Hey, over here! Look!

Let's take 'em away. You can wear them.

THEY LAUGH