All language subtitles for Amelie_2001.eng

On September 3rd 1973
at 6:28pm and 32 seconds,

a bluebottle fly capable
of 14,670 wing beats a minute

landed on Rue St Vincent, Montmartre.

At the same moment,
on a restaurant terrace nearby,

the wind magically made two glasses
dance unseen on a tablecloth.

Meanwhile, in a 5th-floor flat,
28 Avenue Trudaine, Paris 9,

returning from his best friend's funeral,
Eugène Colère erased his name

from his address book.

At the same moment,
a sperm with one X chromosome,

belonging to Raphaël Poulain,

made a dash for an egg in his wife Amandine.

Nine months later,

Amélie Poulain was born.

[The Fabulous Life Of Amélie Poulain]

Her father, an ex-army doctor,

works at a spa in Enghien-Les-Bains.

[TIGHT LIPS = HARD HEART]

Raphaël Poulain dislikes:

Peeing next to someone else. He also dislikes:

Catching scornful glances at his sandals.

Clingy wet swimming trunks.

Raphaël Poulain likes:

Peeling off large strips of wallpaper.

Lining up all his shoes and polishing them.

Emptying his tool box,

cleaning it out,

and putting everything back.

Amélie's mother, Amandine,
a schoolmistress from Gueugnon,

has always had shaky nerves.

[FACIAL TWITCH = WEAK NERVES]

Amandine Poulain dislikes:
Getting puckered fingers in the bath.

When someone she doesn't like

brushes against her hand.

Pillow marks on her cheek in the morning.

Amandine Poulain likes:
Figure skaters' costumes on TV.

Polishing the parquet with slippers.

Emptying her handbag,

cleaning it out,

and putting everything back.

Amélie is six.

Like all little girls,
she'd like to be hugged by her daddy.

But he never touches her,
except for a monthly checkup.

The thrill of this rare contact

makes her heart beat like a drum.

As a result,

he thinks she has a heart defect.

Declared unfit for school,

Amélie is taught by her mother.

Four...

hens...

brood...

here...

henceforth.

Four hens brood...

Very good.

...hens fourth!
- No!

Deprived of playmates,

tossed about
between a neurotic and an iceberg,

Amélie retreats into her imagination.

In this world, LPs are made like pancakes.

The neighbor’s comatose wife

has chosen to get all her life's sleep in one go.

After this, I can stay awake day and night.

Amélie has one friend, Blubber.

Alas, the home environment
has made Blubber suicidal.

Blubber's suicide attempts
destroy Mother's nerves.

A decision is made.

Enough!

To comfort Amélie, her mother
gives her a second-hand Instamatic camera.

Little girl! Look what you did!

A neighbor fools her into thinking
her camera causes accidents.

Because she'd been taking pictures
all afternoon, Amélie is petrified.

She stares at the TV, racked by the guilt

of causing a huge fire,

two derailments

and a jumbo jet crash.

A few days later,

realizing she'd been had,

Amélie gets her revenge.

What...?

One day tragedy strikes.

Amandine takes Amélie to Notre Dame
to light a candle and pray for a baby brother.

Three minutes later, heaven sends,

alas, not a baby boy, but Marguerite,
a tourist from Quebec,

bent on ending her life.

Amandine Poulain is killed instantly.

After her mother's death,
Amélie lives alone with her father.

His unsociable tendencies increase.

He's obsessed with building a miniature shrine

to house his wife's ashes.

Days, months and years go by.

In such a dead world,

Amélie prefers to dream
until she's old enough to leave home.

Five years later,
she's a waitress in Montmartre

at The Two Windmills.

It is August 29th.

In 48 hours, her life will change forever.

But she doesn't know it yet.

She lives quietly among her colleagues
and the café's regulars.

That's Suzanne, the owner.

She limps a little but she's never spilt a drink.

When she was younger, she was a circus rider.

She likes athletes who cry with disappointment.

She dislikes seeing men humiliated
in front of their kids in her café.

Georgette is the tobacconist.
She's a hypochondriac.

Migraines one day, sciatica the next.
She hates the words

"fruit of thy womb".

Gina works with Amélie.
Her grandmother was a healer.

She likes cracking bones.

She's bringing a kir to Hipolito, a failed writer.

He likes seeing bullfighters gored on TV.

Scowling at them is Joseph,
Gina's rejected lover.

He's always jealously spying on her.

All he likes

is popping bubble wrap.

And here's Philomène, an air hostess.

Amélie looks after her cat Rodrigue
when she's away. Philomène likes

the sound of the cat's bowl on the tiles.

Rodrigue likes overhearing children's stories.

No, thanks, ma'am. I never work on Sundays.

At weekends, Amélie often takes a train
from the Gare du Nord to see her father.

- Why don't you use your retirement to...?
- To do what?

Travel. You've never been away.

When we were young,
your mother and I longed to travel.

But we couldn't.

- Because of your heart.
- Yes. I know.

So now...

Now...

Some Friday evenings,
Amélie goes to the cinema.

I like turning round
and looking at people's faces in the dark.

I like noticing details
that no-one else ever sees.

But I hate it in old American movies
when drivers don't watch the road.

Amélie doesn't have a boyfriend.

She tried once or twice,
but the results were a let-down.

Instead, she cultivates a taste
for small pleasures.

Plunging her hand deep into a sack of grain.

Cracking crème brûlée

with a teaspoon.

And skimming stones on the Canal St Martin.

They call him the Glass Man.

He was born with bones as brittle as crystal.

All his furniture is padded.

A handshake would be enough
to crush his fingers.

He's stayed indoors for 20 years.

Time has changed nothing.

Amélie still takes refuge in solitude.

She amuses herself with silly questions
about the world below,

such as: "How many couples
are having an orgasm now?"

Fifteen.

Finally, on the night of August 30th 1997.

comes the event
that will change her life forever.

Lady Di, Princess of Wales,
died in a car crash in Paris last night

with her companion Dodi Al Fayed...

Only the first man
to discover Tutankhamen's tomb

would understand how she felt

on finding this treasure

hidden by a little boy 40 years ago.

On August 31st at 4am,

Amélie has a dazzling idea.

Wherever he was,
she would find the box's owner

and give him back his treasure.

If he was touched,
she'd become a regular do-gooder.

If not, too bad.

The girl from the 5th floor!
We don't see much of you.

Would you know of a boy
who lived in my flat in the '50s?

A boy? Come and have a glass of port.

- No, thanks.
- Come in! Close the door.

Boys? I've known so many.

They're cute until they discover
snowballs and chestnuts.

I've known so many boys.

- When did you come here?
- In '64.

You'll have heard the story.

No, I don't think so.

I'm amazed. Sit down.

My husband worked for Ladybird Insurance.

It's no secret that he slept with his secretary.

They used every hotel around.

Not the grotty ones, either.

The bimbo liked spreading her legs,

but only on satin.

So my husband swiped from the till.

A little at first, then 50 million.

Off they flew to South America.

Drink up.

On January 20th 1970,

my doorbell rang.

"Your husband's been killed
in a car crash in South America."

My life stopped there.

And Black Lion died of heartbreak.

Poor creature.

See how lovingly

he still stares at his master?

One day

I'll read you his letters.

No, don't go!

You can spare five minutes.

He wrote this

from the barracks.

"Darling Mado." That's me.

I'm called Madeleine.

"I can't sleep, can't eat,

knowing that my only reason to live
is far away in Paris.

I won't see her until a fortnight on Friday,

when my sweet little weasel
appears at the station

in her strappy blue dress."

In brackets: "The one you think
is too transparent."

Has anyone ever written to you like that?

No. I'm nobody's little weasel.

My name's Madeleine Wells.

Madeleine, like Mary Magdalene.

She wept, right? And Wells as in water.

Talk about being born to cry!

About your question...

Ask Collignon, the grocer.
He's lived here all his life.

Hello, Amélie-mellow!

A fig and three hazelnuts, as usual?

Who lived in my flat in the '50s?

- What was their name?
- You've got me there, dear.

In 1950, I was two.
The mental age of this cretin.

The "cretin" is Lucien.

He's no genius, but Amélie likes him.
She likes the way

he handles each endive like a precious object

to be treated with care.
It's his way of showing

his love of good work.

Look at him!

Like he's nursing a baby bird
that's fallen out of its nest!

Don't ask him for currants!

You'd be here till Monday!

Get moving, spastic!

She hasn't got all day.

Here.

Go and see my mother.
She has the memory of an elephant.

Elephant Mum!

Thank you.

Bredoteau.

Sorry?

It's the name you're after.

But if it's me that says so,
it won't count. I'm senile.

Ignore him. He's senile.

See what he's done to my laurel?

His old job was punching métro tickets.

For three months now,
he's got up every night to punch holes

- in my laurels!
- I'd have preferred lilacs. Such is life!

- We all need a way to relax.
- I skim stones.

- You do?
- I'll find it. Don't worry.

- I file everything.
- Like what?

Your son's nearly 50
and I'm still doing his book-keeping.

You were still squeezing his toothpaste at 15,
so it follows.

Right. Camus...

2nd floor on the right. Brossard...
Brossard was on staircase B.

Got it!

Bredoteau, 5th floor on the right.

They were from the Pas de Calais.

Bredoteau. What more can I say?

Groping under the photo booth
is Nino Quincampoix.

When Amélie lacked playmates,
Nino had too many.

Five miles apart, one dreamed
of having a sister, the other a brother

to spend all their time with.

Hi, Dad.

A new friend?

No, I've had him for years.

Your mother hated him,
so he lived in the tool shed.

There. Let's reconcile them.

There. Not bad, eh?

Dad, if you found a precious relic
from your childhood,

how would it make you feel?
Happy? Sad? Nostalgic? What?

I didn't have this gnome when I was a child.

He was a retirement gift from my old regiment.

No, I mean something you hid
like a secret treasure.

I should varnish him before autumn.

I'll make some tea. Do you want some?

Breathe in. Hold still.

Better now?

Shut the door!

There's a howling gale.

It's hardly Siberia.

I can see you're not allergic

to car fumes.
I almost coughed up my pleura last night.

Coughed up a pleura? Sure.

- What's on the menu today, Suzanne?
- Endives au gratin.

They'll have you on your knees, you'll see.

They're good, then?

- Depends where.
- If it's at the toilet...

Not good!

12:15, laughs orgasmically
to attract alpha male.

He's going to drive me berserk!

Can't he give up?
There are plenty of other bars.

Goodbye.

Suzanne.

- Suzanne.
- Yes.

"Au gratin" means white sauce, right?

Yes, why?

I can't stomach it. Like you and horse meat.

It's not my stomach, it's my memory.

I'd rather cook human flesh.

You're kidding!

Suzanne, would you mind if I left early today?

What's his name?

Dominique Bredoteau.

Hello.

Are you Dominique Bredoteau?

That's me.

Why?

It's about...

...the petition.

Petition?

Yes. The petition to...

...to canonize Lady Di.

No, thanks.

No.

Ladies and gentlemen, sorry to bother you...

- Yes?
- Hello.

I'm looking for Dominique Bredoteau
for the European census.

Come up. Third floor.

Hello, kitten.

Earl Grey?

Jasmine?

What will you have?

I'm working.

There. I'm coming.

Do you know where I can find
Dominique Bredoteau?

Oh, my poor dear!

You just missed him.

Look, there he goes now.

Bre-to-deau.

Not Bre-do-teau.

You need

a glass of mulled wine.

Come in.

Come on in.

I've lived here for five years.
This is the first time we've met.

I never go out on the landing.

I'm fussy about who I meet.

They're all creeps anyway.

Come in. Here.

Come in.

They call me the Glass Man,

but my name is Raymond Dufayel.

- Amélie Poulain. I'm a waitress at...
- The Two Windmills. I know.

And you've come back empty-handed
from your search for Bretodeau.

Because it's not "do", it's "to".

- Like "Toto".
- Thank you.

I love that painting.

It's the Luncheon Of The Boating Party.

By Renoir.

I've painted one each year for twenty years.

The hardest part is the looks.

I sometimes feel they deliberately change
their mood as soon as my back's turned.

They look quite happy there.

They should be.

This year they had hare with morels.

And waffles with jam for the children.

Now, what have I done
with that piece of paper?

Ah, you've noticed my video camera
at the window.

It's a gift from my sister-in-law.

I put it there

so I don't need to wind up my clocks.

After all these years,

the only person I still can't capture

is the girl with the glass of water.

She's in the middle,

yet she's on the outside.

Maybe she's just different from the others.

In what way?

I don't know.

When she was little, she can't
have played much with other children.

Maybe never.

Here.

Dominique Bretodeau, 27 Rue Mouffetard.

It's for you.

Every Tuesday morning,
Dominique Bretodeau goes to buy a chicken.

He usually roasts it
and has it with sauté potatoes.

After carving the legs,
the breast and the wings,

he loves picking the hot carcass
with his fingers,

starting with the oysters.

But not today. Bretodeau won't buy a chicken.

He'll go no further

than this phone booth here.

In a flash, it all came back to him.

Federico Bahamontes
winning the Tour de France in '59.

Aunt Josette's slips.

And most of all, that tragic day.

That tragic day
when he won all the marbles at break time.

Bretodeau!

Bretodeau!

The pinch, Bretodeau!

Do you understand, Bretodeau?

Cognac, please.

It's amazing, what just happened to me.

It must be my guardian angel.
It's the only explanation.

It was as if the phone booth was calling me.

It rang and rang.

Same here. The microwave's calling me.

I'll have another cognac.

Life's strange.

To a kid, time always drags.
Suddenly you're 50.

All that's left of your childhood

fits in a little box,

a little rusty box.

Have you got kids, miss?

I have a daughter.
She must be about your age.

We haven't spoken for years.

I heard she had a child, a boy.

His name is Lucas.

I think it's time I looked them up
before I'm in a box myself.

Don't you think?

Amélie suddenly has a strange feeling
of complete harmony.

It's a perfect moment. Soft light,
a scent in the air, the quiet murmur of the city,

She breathes deeply.
Life seems so simple and clear.

A surge of love,
an urge to help mankind suddenly engulfs her.

Let me help you. Step down.

Off we go!
We just passed the drum major's widow!

She's worn his coat since the day he died.
Careful.

The horse's head on the butcher's
has lost an ear.

That's the florist laughing. He has crinkly eyes.

In the bakery window there are lollipops!

Mmm. Smell that.

They're giving out melon slices.

Sugarplum ice cream!

We're passing the pork butcher.

Ham, 79 francs. Spareribs, 45!

Now the cheese shop.
Picodons are 12.90, cabecous 23.50.

At the butcher's a baby's watching a dog
that's watching the chickens roasting.

Now we're at the newspaper kiosk
by the métro.

I'll leave you here. Bye.

"She can't relate to other people."

"She was always a lonely child."

On a sparkling evening in July,

while on the beaches holidaymakers

relax in the new-found sun,

and in Paris the sweltering crowds

gaze at the first bursts

of the traditional fireworks,
Amélie Poulain,

godmother of outcasts,

Madonna of the unloved,

finally succumbs to exhaustion.

In Paris' grief-stricken streets,

a vast throng of mourners

line her funeral route in silence

with the measureless sorrow
of newly orphaned children.

What a strange destiny for one

who gave her all,

yet took such joy in life's simple pleasures.

Like Don Quixote, she pitted herself

against the grinding windmill
of all life's miseries.

It was a losing battle

that claimed her life too soon.

At barely 23, Amélie Poulain

let her young, tired body merge

with the ebb and flow of universal woe.

As she went, she felt a stab of regret
for letting her father die

without trying to give his stifled life

the breath of air she had given

to so many others.

Wait!

Wait!

Wait...

Wait, wait!

Pages full of dud ID photos
torn up and discarded by their owners,

carefully reassembled by some oddball.

Some family album!

A pack of Gauloises.

Just a second. It's so smoky in here.
Can you tell me where they are?

- I can't see a thing.
- More to the left.

- There?
- A bit more. There.

Thank you. You need change.

Forget it.

- Yes?
- A mauresque.

A mauresque for the young man.

One kir aligoté, one mauresque,
and two mint sodas.

Was that prenuptial or post-coital smooching?

Is your bullshit congenital?

- Prenuptial.
- Don't worry.

You'll find Mr. Right one day.

All women want to sleep on a man's shoulder.
All of them.

All men snore after a few drinks,
and I have a musical ear.

I had an operation on my nasal cavities.

I see you're a born romantic.

I see you've never known true love.

I did. It shortened my leg.

- I thought you fell off a horse.
- I did.

I was in love with a trapeze artist.

I should have known.
They always drop you at the last minute.

He dropped me just before my act.

It floored me. And the horse.

With me under it.

The mauresque?

Still, true love does exist.

I'm not saying it doesn't.
After 30 years behind this bar,

I'm an expert. I can even give you the recipe.

Take two regulars.

Let each think the other fancies them.
Leave it to simmer.

It never fails.

Excuse me!

Excuse me.

- I've had enough.
- I'll go.

Haven't you hurt enough people?

Gina can defend herself.

I don't mean Gina. I mean Georgette.

Georgette?

Open your eyes! She craves your attention

but you only have eyes for Gina.

Poor girl! The things she does

to catch your eye!

You really must be blind.

I'm off on a date. Bye!

Goodbye.

Whoever her new one is,

he can't be worse
than that nut with his tape recorder.

Joseph's not so nutty.

He's just in pain.

Come off it, Amélie.
They split up two months ago.

To keep on coming here every day,
he must be a masochist.

Don't say you haven't noticed.

Noticed what?

He always sits here, right?

Yes.

Sit down.

Sit down, Georgette.

- What can you see?
- My cigarette counter.

And nothing's missing?

No.

Make an effort.

I don't get it!

I'll leave you to think about it. Good night.

Good morning.

Letter Arrives 30 Years Late.

A mailbag found by climbers
on a glacier on Mont Blanc was part of a cargo

lost in a plane crash in the late 1960s.

So sad! A young, pretty princess for once.

Would it be less sad if she were old and ugly?

Of course. Look at Mother Teresa.

Is he still chasing Gina?

No, he's after somebody else now.

- Anyone I know?
- Yes.

Funny about this glacier.

Somebody at The Two Windmills?

Not you, surely!

No.

Not Suzanne.

Surely not!

Yes.

- Look. There he is again.
- How strange.

- And here.
- Him again.

"Gare de Lyon."

And here.

"March 5th, Austerlitz."

Always the same blank expression.

Twelve times.

I counted.

It's very odd.

Why keep taking your picture all over town
only to throw them away?

Good ones, too.

It's like a sort of ritual.

Maybe he's so terrified

of growing old, it's his only consolation.

He's dead.

Dead?

Yes. He's scared of being forgotten.

So he uses the photo booths
to remind people what he looks like.

Like faxing his portrait from the afterlife.

A dead man who's scared of being forgotten.

At least these guys here have made it.

They're long dead,

but they'll never be forgotten.

- The girl with the glass...
- Yes.

Maybe she's distracted
because she's thinking about someone.

Somebody in the picture?

No.

More likely a boy she saw somewhere,

and felt an affinity with.

You mean, she'd rather imagine herself
relating to someone who's absent

than build relationships with those around her?

No.

Maybe she tries hard
to fix other people's messy lives.

What about her?

And her own messy life?

Who'll fix that?

It's better to help people than a garden gnome.

The driver had 2.8g of alcohol in his blood!

Makes me sick!

Talk about employing irresponsible morons!

Mr. Collignon.

- You forgot your keys...
- Hold on, Amélie-mellow. Speed kills.

Model yourself on Lucien.

No radar will ever catch him
while he's working, will it?

You shouldn't do that, Mr. Collignon.

It's not his fault.

True, Mrs. Cauchoix!

It's not his fault he can't sleep. It's Lady Di's.

Guess what I found in the truck.
A lingerie catalogue.

He'd pasted Lady Di's face over the model's.

What today? Five asparagus,

or more local history?

Nothing.

[KEYS CUT WHILE YOU WAIT]

Thank you.

The migraine seems to be better.

Yes, but my sciatica kept me awake all night.

- It's ages since I saw you looking so good.
- Really?

A woman without love
withers like a flower without sun.

Strange weather today.

What's so funny?

Everyone who's come in today
has given us a weather report.

We pass the time of day
to forget how time passes.

We do it to keep us from talking crap.

I write crap but nobody wants to publish it.

- Another rejection?
- My thirtieth.

Isn't your cousin a book critic?

Forget it! Critics are like leeches

sucking the blood of writers.

Is your book a love story?

No, it's about a guy who keeps a journal.

Not about what's happened to him,

but disasters that might happen in the future.

- So he gets depressed and does nothing.
- So basically, it's about a loafer.

Suzanne,

I'll dedicate the manuscript to you.

He's only doing it so you'll write off his tab!

His scribbles for my nibbles.
That's sponsorship.

What took you so long?

Look at the time!

Somebody peed in his mother!

[Foot cream]

Without you, today's emotions
would be the scurf of yesterday's.

"Without you,
today's emotions would be the scurf

of yesterday's."

Sorry?

Without you, today's emotions
would be the scurf of yesterday's.

Tickets, please.

How's work?

- You've already asked me that.
- Yes. Yes.

You're keeping well?

Pretty much.

I feel a change.

I had two heart attacks
and had to have an abortion

because I did crack while I was pregnant.

Other than that, I'm fine.

Good.

Good.

Is something wrong?

No, nothing.

Your garden gnome's gone.

Is he back in the tool shed?

Moscow.

There.

No explanation.

Maybe he just wanted to see the world.

I can't understand it.

I can't understand it.

[LOST... BAG... PHOTOS]

Any normal girl
would call the number straightaway,

meet him at a café to return the album.

Then she would know if her dream was viable.

It's called a reality check,
but it's the last thing Amélie wants.

I say!

She's not falling in love, is she?

...and 30 makes 50.
- Thanks, Lucien.

Yes, ladies?

- A pound of leeks.
- Two artichokes.

OK.

- Where's the boss?
- Shh! He's sleeping in the cauliflowers.

What?

He's sleeping in the cauliflowers.

Oh, right.

You want me... want what?

A scratch card, please.

How does it work?

Tell you what.

I'll take one too, and we'll do this together.

You scratch it here...

...sideways.

Nothing. You?

No, me neither.

Unlucky at cards...

So they say!

I have to get back.

OK. See you.

Porno Video Palace.

I'm calling about the ad.

- Are you over 18?
- Yes.

- Shaved?
- Sorry?

Are you shaved? Fur pie doesn't sell.

How's life, Mrs. Wells?

When you've nothing to live for...

- Don't say that. Life's great!
- Sure. Dream on, kid!

Hello, Mr. Dufayel.

Hello, Lucien.

Here's your order, Mr. Dufayel.

I doubt it. I hate artichokes.

You shouldn't.

Watch this.

Take it.

That's better.

Lucien, you're a wizard!

All courtesy of Mr. Collignon.

Mr. Collignon? Lucien...

Sorry, Mr. Dufayel. It just slipped out.

Practice, Lucien!

Practice!

Repeat after me.

Collignon, down the john.

- Col... Collignon, down the john.
- That's it.

Your turn now. Go on. Collignon...

Collignon, big moron!

See? You can do it when you want to!

Collignon, dead and gone!

Very good!

Collignon...

- Collignon, big moron, down the john!
- That's it!

OK! That's enough for today.

Enough! Enough!

Lucien, stop!

Very good.

Mr. Dufayel, I found this under your mat.

Still no win!

Me neither.

May I?

There's a little...

You're gorgeous

when you blush.

Like a wild flower.

It's my dyspepsia.

Morning, all.

Beautiful day.

Pack of Gitanes, please.

Bravo! Vive la France! You scalded me.

Bravo! Ten out of ten! Bull's-eye!

It was Amélie. She...

Do you know what happened
when they went up Mont Blanc?

The silicon in her face froze up.

Her face was a festering mass!

Mulled wine and ginger biscuits.

Thank you.

I was too hard the other day
on the girl with the glass.

Tell me about that boy she saw.
Did they meet again?

No.

They're into different things.

Luck is like the Tour de France.

You wait, and it flashes past you.

You have to catch it while you can.

Can I help you?

Excuse me.
I found this album in the street and I...

Nino will be so pleased!
He was so sad the other day.

I almost prayed to St Anthony.

Is... Nino there?

No. On Wednesdays he works at the funfair.

How long has he had this collection?

Since I got him the job here, last year.

Before, he collected footprints.
He worked nights.

In the daytime
he took pictures of footprints in wet cement.

He's a funny guy.

When we met, he was a Santa Claus.

Other things like...

Whenever he heard a funny laugh, he'd tape it.

Really?

Must be hard for his girlfriend.

He never keeps them long.

Times are hard for dreamers.

Eva! Where are those coffees?

I'd better go. Thanks for the album.

It's OK. I've got time to take it to the funfair.

Suit yourself. The ghost train.
Ask for Nino Quincampoix, like the street.

I'm looking for Nino. Is he here?

He doesn't get off till seven.

- Is there no way to see him before?
- Sure.

20 francs.

See you next Wednesday.

5pm tomorrow, Montmartre carousel
near the phone box. Bring a 5 franc piece.

Want to know about her?

- You know her? You saw her?
- You bet.

She put us in her shirt pocket.

Next to her breast.

Is she pretty?

Not bad.

- Beautiful.
- No, pretty.

- Beautiful.
- Pretty.

- What does she want from you?
- She's broke.

She wants a reward for the album.

Or she collects photos, too.

She wants to trade us
for a one-eyed man with glasses!

No, you dope!

She's in love.

- I don't even know her.
- Yes, you do.

Since when?

You've always known her.

In your dreams.

Hello?

Yes. You! Man with the plastic bag! It's for you.

- Me?
- Yes.

Thank you.

Hello?

Follow the blue arrows, Mr. Quincampoix.

When the finger's pointing to the sky,
only a fool looks at the finger.

Hello?

I know the stranger in the pictures.

He's a ghost. He's invisible, Mr. Quincampoix.

He only appears when the film is developed.

When a girl has her photo taken,

he goes "Oooh!" in her ear,
while he gently caresses her neck.

That's how he got caught, Mr. Quincampoix.

Who are you?

Page 51.

[DO YOU

WANT

TO MEET ME?]

Listen to this. "A boy of six,

while his parents sleep, drives off

in a pedal car.

Found on a motorway
near Münster in Germany,

he told the police he wanted to see the stars."

Isn't life beautiful, eh?

Love. The only bug she hadn't caught!

- Nobody's immune.
- At least it gives me a break.

Love's a great beautician.

What's she like? Tall? Small? Blonde? Dark?

Let's say... average height.

Not a dwarf or a giraffe. Normal.

Pretty, for her type.

As for blonde or dark...

...it's hard to say, but she wasn't a redhead.

- Unless...
- Forget it.

I do remember she casually asked
if you had a girlfriend.

And?

I said you weren't interested, right?

You didn't!

What do you care? You don't even know her.

- Exactly. It's the mystery.
- You won't find mystery here.

A pound of nectarines, please.

These ones here are the prettiest.

Trust him. He's an artist!

He's been going home every night
with tons of unsold stock.

What for? Is he stewing a pig?

No, sir! He's studying art!

He sells leeks all day long
and paints turnips all night!

The boy's a useless vegetable.

A good prompter

in each cellar window
whispering cutting retorts

would mean shy people had the last laugh.

At least you'll never be a vegetable.

Even artichokes

have hearts.

You'll never be a vegetable.
Even artichokes have hearts!

Memory seven.

Darling Mado,
I miss you more and more each day.

I'm an exile in a world of dreary khaki.

I can't sleep, can't eat...

This camp was the biggest mistake of my life,

depriving me of my beloved
for five long weeks.

I think of you endlessly. Your Adrien.

I turned down my last month's wages
instead of giving notice.

I dream of better times ahead.

An orange-colored day. Remember, my love?

Your ever-loving Adrien.

Good news, darling Mado.

Soon I'll be able to afford a car

and drive home every night.

Till then, meet me on Friday and we'll go out.

[MOTHER]

Psychiatric Helpline.

Hello? Hello?

[WHERE & WHEN?]

One hour later at 11 Boulevard St Martin,

Amélie walks into a party goods
and costume shop.

At the same time,
a man leaves his home at 108 Rue Lecourbe.

26 minutes later, Amélie is at the photo booth
at the Gare de l'Est.

Simultaneously,
the man in red shoes parks outside.

The time is exactly 11:40.

At this precise moment,

only Amélie has the key
to the riddle of the mystery man.

How's it going, Mrs. Wells?

It's always better when it's not raining.

- This is for you.
- Me?

Dear Mrs. Wells,
We recently recovered a mailbag

that was lost in a plane crash

on October 12th 1969 on Mont Blanc.

We are forwarding the enclosed letter
to your address.

Please accept our apologies
for the uncustomary delay.

Jacques Grosjean, Customer Services.

Darling Mado, I'm in exile.
I can't sleep, can't eat.

I think of you endlessly.

I know I've made
the biggest mistake of my life.

I turned down that woman's money.

If all goes well,
I'll soon be able to afford a house.

I dream of better times ahead

when you'll forgive me and join me here

one orange-colored day.
Your ever-loving Adrien.

Mr. Dufayel, another package for you.

Mr. Dufayel, do you know
what happened to the concierge?

She got a letter.

From her husband. 40 years late.

That's a lot, isn't it, Mr. Dufayel?

I'm not big on still life, Mr. Dufayel.

Then work on your thin layer.

Fat over thin. Always!

- Mr. Dufayel...
- Yes!

The papers said
that there'll soon be a new star.

- So you're into stars now?
- I saw it on TV at my mum's, that's why.

I don't know if it's true.

In America

they're going to take all the rich people's ashes,

put them in a satellite

and shoot it into space.

The satellite's going to shine forever.

And Lady Di...

Will they do the same for her?

Lady Di, Lady Di!

Give it a rest!

I can't concentrate.

Lady Di!

Lady Di!

Renoir.

Morning, sir.

Cambodia.

I don't understand.

Brilliant! You couldn't have done better.

- Did it work?
- It's getting there.

Ask me again any time. The harm's done.

- What do you mean?
- Everybody calls me Snow White!

[The Two Windmills café from 4pm.]

- Eva?
- Yes?

Could you stand in for me at four?

Again?

Close the door!

What's up with him?

Is he sulking?

- He thinks I smile too much.
- He'd rather you frowned?

With other men, yes.

Nino is late. Amélie can only think
of two possible explanations.

Firstly, that he didn't find the photo.

Secondly, before he could assemble it,

a gang of bank robbers took him hostage.

The cops gave chase.

They got away,

but he caused a crash.

When he came to,

he'd lost his memory,

An ex-con picked him up,

mistook him for a fugitive,
and shipped him to Istanbul.

He met some Afghan raiders,

who took him to steal
some Russian warheads.

But their truck hit a mine
at the border with Tajikistan.

He survived, took to the hills,
and became a Mujaheddin.

Amélie refuses to get upset for a guy

who'll eat borscht all his life
in a hat like a tea cosy.

- What can I get you?
- A coffee, please.

A coffee.

Here's your coffee.

Thank you.

[Today's menu]

He's understood.

He's going to put his teaspoon down,

dip his finger in the sugar,

turn around slowly,

and speak to me.

Excuse me.

Is this you?

Yes, it's you.

I'll take that.

Another coffee?

- No, thanks. I'm fine.
- OK.

So it's this man here,
the one with his hand up?

Yes.

Is she in love with him?

Yes.

I think it's time she took a real risk.

She might just do that.
She's devising a stratagem.

She's fond of stratagems.

Yes.

In fact, she's cowardly.

That's why I can't capture her look.

Dufayel's attempts to meddle are intolerable!

If Amélie chooses to live in a dream

and remain an introverted young woman,

she has an absolute right to mess up her life!

What are you doing, Mr. Dufayel?

Tell me, Lucien.

For deliveries,
do you keep keys to all the apartments?

One of your booths is out of order.

It seems to be jammed.

Gare de l'Est ticket hall.

- Buy a video, get one free.
- No, thanks.

Sam?

Samantha?

Samantha?

Can you stand in for me at...

Photo booth, Gare de l'Est ticket hall,
Tuesday 5pm.

[Can you stand in for me this afternoon?]

Almost done.

The mystery man wasn't a ghost
or a man scared of ageing,

but simply the repairman,

a normal guy doing his job.

Sorry.

He keeps spying on me!
It's making me sick.

4:05: Blatant female conspiracy.

Gosh, you're tense, Georgette!

Good luck. You'll need it.

Excuse me. Did you put this in my pocket?

- Yes, but I'm not the one...
- I know. Where is she?

She's at her father's.

It's awkward. I'd like to speak to you, but...
I finish work at six.

- Can you come back?
- OK.

See you later.

4:08: Docking scheduled.

The blond guy in a camel coat.
He's very absent-minded, too.

How come?

He came back three times the same afternoon.

1:12:

Camel coat.

2:50:

Camel coat.

- 4:17: Camel coat.
- Stop it!

My rash has come back! Look, Suzanne!

My rash is back. He's driving me nuts.

Lay off!

If she had a clear conscience,
she wouldn't be in such a state.

I've had it. I'm going home.

Psychos are the last straw!

Georgette! Georg...

Stop smothering them!
Women need to breathe.

You let them breathe,
they want a change of air.

Fresh air's healthy.

Shut it, failure!

Failed writer, failed life...

I love the word "fail".

Failure is human destiny.

It's gasbag time!

Failure teaches us that life is but a draft,

a long rehearsal for a show that will never play.

I bet he stole that.

I do have some original ideas,

but people always steal them.
A bit like your women.

Meaning?

Meaning you'd better get used to it.

Speak for yourself, you...

What?

- What's going on?
- Nothing much. Georgette went out.

Joseph got mad.

"Went out?"

Just like Gina. You know who's she's with?
The guy with the plastic bag.

I saw their little game.

The note in the coat pocket,

4:08.

Back he comes, and hey presto!
Out they go.

- I'm worried for Amélie because I like you.
- What do you mean?

By and large, the men I like
are mentally unsound.

- I'd like to know more about you.
- Ask me questions.

One swallow doesn't make...?

A swallow?

A summer.

And clothes...?

The man.

- A good cat deserves...?
- A rat.

- Patience...?
- Is a virtue.

- Rolling stone...?
- Gathers no moss.

- It's a sin...?
- To steal a pin.

Absence makes...?

The heart grow fonder.

- Not bad.
- You collect them?

In my family, we say a man
who knows his proverbs can't be all bad.

Pretty girl from the 5th floor, listen to this!

- Do you believe in miracles?
- Not today.

You're in for a surprise.

What if I told you that a team of climbers

on Mont Blanc had found

hard proof that my husband loved me?

Lucien, I need some yeast.

For Miss Amélie?
She's baking her famous plum cake?

Collignon! Go and get the yeast.

Amélie?

Amélie?

Amélie?

[I'll be back]

Go into the bedroom, Miss Poulain.

So, little Amélie,

your bones aren't made of glass.

You can take life's knocks.

If you let this chance go by,

eventually your heart will become

as dry and brittle as my skeleton.

So...

Go and get him, for pete's sake!

[Without you, today's emotions
would be the scurf of yesterday's]

International airport.

September 28th 1997. It is exactly 11am.

At the funfair, near the ghost train,

the marshmallow twister is twisting.

Meanwhile, on a bench in Villette Square,

Félix Lerbier learns there are more links
in his brain than atoms in the universe.

Meanwhile,

at the Sacré Cœur,
the nuns are practicing their backhand.

The temperature is 24°C,

humidity 70%,

atmospheric pressure 999 millibars.