Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

Quick.

We can't hold them back much longer.

Hurry.

- Come on! - Get up!

Quick!

Faster!

Open the doors. Come on, quickly!

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 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 reason that his 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 fishstand,

and all had been stillbirths, or semi-stillbirths,

You all right?

And the whole mess was shoveled with the fishguts 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, 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 was 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 13, Mme Gaillard no longer had room for Jean-Baptiste

and therefore decided to sell him.

Come on.

Ten francs.

From his first breath of the odor enveloping this man....

Seven, and not one sou more.

.... Grenouille knew that his life in Grimal's tannery

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

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 good smells from bad,

at least not yet.

He was very greedy.

The goal was to possess everything the world had to offer in odors.

His only condition being, that they were new ones.

Thousands upon thousands of odors formed an invisible gruel

which he dissected into its most remote parts and pieces.

Grenouille!

Come on!

Get your ass over here!

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

- Yeah. 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 Pelissier, 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.

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 made it clear to him

why he'd come to his own life so tenaciously, so savagely.

The purpose of his miserable existence had a higher destiny.

He would learn how to preserve scent

so that never again would he lose such sublime beauty.

There were about a dozen perfumers in Paris in those days.

One of them, the once-celebrated Italian perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini,

had set up shop in the center of the bridge called 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.

- Chénier! There you are! - Monsieur Baldini.

Put on your wig.

Put on your wig!

You going out?

I wish to retire to my study for a few hours

and do not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.

Will you be creating a new perfume, Monsieur Baldini?

Correct. For Count Verhamont.

He has asked for something like... I think he said it was called

Amor and Psyche from that swindler in the Rue Saint André des Arts.

Pelissier?

Pelissier, 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 Pelissier

- slops into his perfumes. - Naturally not, monsieur.

And I am thinking of creating something for Count Verhamont

that will cause a veritable sensation.

I'm sure it will, Monsieur Baldini.

Take charge of the shop, Chénier, and don't let anyone come near me.

Inspiration requires peace and tranquility.

Is there anything else you need?

Inspiration, perhaps.

Ah, my Giuseppe.

You are still the great perfumer Baldini.

Wonderful.