All language subtitles for Crimen 2006

Perfume The Story Of A Murderer - Crime 2006 English

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

Hurry.

Come on!

Quick!

Faster!

Open the doors. Come on, quickly!

String him up, the burning scum!

Let him suffer like my sister suffered!

Give him to the people!

May you burn in the
eternal fires of damnation!

Just read them the sentence.

You killed my sister!
You'll pay, you will!

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 toward heaven.

And whilst still alive

be dealt twelve 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.

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.

It was his mother's fifth birth.

She'd delivered them
all here under her fish stand

and all had been stillbirths,
or semi-stillbirths.

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.

What's that noise?

- It's a baby.
- What's going on here?

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!

Stop! 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.

Just take the money and sign.

Make room.

Where?

Move!

Go on, now.

Is it dead?

That's not staying in my bed.

Let's throw it out, then.

What if it screams?

Let's just kill it.

Harder! Push!

What are you doing?!

For Mme 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.

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.

Warm wood.

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 soul more.

Grenouille knew that his life
in Grimal's tannery

would be worth precisely as much as
the work he could accomplish.

Come on.

Unfortunately for Madame Gaillard

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.

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.

Buy your pennant here
for tonight's fireworks at Notre Dame.

Grenouille!

Come on!

Get your ass over here!

He needs two dozen skins
by next week. Can you do that?

Yeah. Yeah, come with me.

What is it called?

Amor and Psyche, madame.

My latest creation.

May I try it?

If you'll allow me, mademoiselle.

Sheer heaven!

Monsieur Pйlissier,
you are truly an artiste.

Please, take them.
I've got far too many.

What do you want?

Want to buy some?

Two for a sou.

Stand clear!

Next time you run off like that,
I'll kill you!

That night, he could not sleep.

The intoxicating power of the girl's
scent suddenly made it clear to him

why he'd 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
thirty 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 has asked for something like

I think he said it was called
Amor and Psyche

from that swindler in
the Rue Saint Andre des Arts.

Pйlissier?

Pйlissier, that's him.

Amor and Psyche

- 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

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 Pйlissier 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.

Is there anything else you need?

Inspiration, perhaps.

Ah, my Giuseppe.

You are still the great perfumer Baldini.

Wonderful.

He did it again.

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.

Cloves.

No.

Musk?

No.

Who's there?

I'm from Grimal's tannery.

I've brought the goat skins
you ordered.

Follow me.

This way.

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 Pйlissier?

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?

Patchouli.

Patchouli, patchouli.

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.

You have, it appears,
a fine nose, young man. But a...

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.

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

You are both impertinent and insolent!

Even I don't know every scent!

I've, of course, 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?

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 know what a formula is

but I can make
Amor and Psyche for you now.

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.

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?

Shall I fill this flask?

No! You shall not!

You may fill this one.

Yes, master.

But, Master Baldini?

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!

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.

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?

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?

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.

I love you.

I'll give you 50 francs for him.

What have I said? Put your measly
weight behind it and push!

- Keep pulling!
- Come on, you heap of bones!

Push! Push hard!

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.

He's a genius!

It's magnificent!

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 twelve 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.

Twelve 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, numb skull!

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 scent
and reprise it forever.

You mean, preserve.

You have to teach me that.

All right. Calm down, my boy.

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.

Mind yourselves.

Imagine, Jean-Baptiste

ten thousand roses

to produce one single
ounce of essential oil.

That's the last of them.

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 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.

Not to worry. Happens all the time.

To Grasse.

Master.

Look.

The very soul of the rose.

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.

Course it does. What's this?

I don't smell a thing.

It should smell like copper!

Enough!

You were trying to distil
the smell of copper?

Iron? Glass? Copper?

What else did you try?

No!

Have you gone completely insane?!

You told me I had to experiment.

Experiment?

Experiment?! But not with the 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, my fee is 50 francs.

50 francs?! You charlatan!
You can't even name the disease!

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 distil 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?

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 one hundred 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
roads through the villages

while the second lead 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.

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.

Laura?

Laura?

Coming, Papa.

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 skill fully 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!

Suit yourself.

Lucien?

Fetch me back the ladder.

Fetch it yourself.

Lucien?

Lucien?!

Lucien?!

Lucien?!

Lucien?!

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.

What for?

The fat soaks up their scent.

Then what?

Then I cool it to a pomade

and then I filter it before.

Before what?

Before I add in 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.

Come on. Let me look.

Don't touch.

Ah, my tuberoses.

Morning, Madame.

Morning.

Why have you covered the tank?

It's an experiment, Madame.

To protect the blossoms from daylight.

To preserve the scent better.

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.

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 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?!

- 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!

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.

Here, here.

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.

It's beautiful.

- Splendid.
- 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.

But everyone must play.

Let the men catch the women.

Bravo! Bravo!

Put me down.

Please?

Now there's no escape.

Game's over, everybody.

Laura?

Time to go in now.

Laura?

Albine?

Franзoise?

Laura, have you seen the twins?

No, not since the game started.

Albine? Franзoise?

Albine? Franзoise?

Jacques?

Take this way.

You two with me.

Your Excellency?

Through here.

Albine! Franзoise!

I 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-Baptiste?

Certainly, master.

Hey, look!

Sweet.

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 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.

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?

Lord save us. It's Pauline.

- Curfew! Go back to your homes!
- Stay inside.

It's a curfew. Back inside.

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.

We must arrest every Gypsy
in Provence! 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,

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?

Get out! Get out of my store!

You murdering scum!

Whatever it is...

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

There you are. Next.
Quick as you can. Right.

You, too.

Monsieur.

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.

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.

Stand clear! Stand clear!

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!

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!

Oh, hallelujah. Hallelujah!

Praise be to God!

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

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.

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!

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 were to happen to you.

I know. But you must stop
worrying about me all the time.

Sweet dreams, my love.

Sweet dreams, Papa.

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!

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?

Grenouille?!

Grenouille?!

Grenouille?!

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 Оles de Lйrin

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 one?

Yes, but the view cannot be compared...

I have no interest in the view.

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 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.

On your feet!

Hands in the air!

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 twelve 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.

What do you think they'll do to him?

Apparently they're gonna break every
bone in his body with an iron bar.

Filthy piece of bile.

Fathead!

Look, there he comes.

Unchain the prisoner.

That's enough!

Let him be brought to the scaffold.

What's that?

Is he coming? What is it?

This man is innocent.

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

He's innocent!

An angel.

This is no man!

This is an angel!

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 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 11 o'clock at night

Grenouille entered the city through
the Port d'Orlans

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
they have done something

purely out of love.

Over here!

Look!

A jacket.

Let's take them all home.

You can wear them.