On September 3rd, 1973 at 6:28PM and 32 seconds,
a blue fly capable of flapping 70 beats a minute
landed on St. Vincent Street in Montmartre.
At that moment, on a restaurant terrace nearby,
the wind magically made two glasses dance unseen on a tablecloth.
Meanwhile, in a 5th-floor flat on Avenue Trudaine, Paris 9,
returning from his best friend's funeral, Eugéne Colére erased him
from his address book.
At the same moment, a sperm with one X chromosome
belonging to Raphael Poulain
made a dash for an egg in his wife, Amandine.
Nine months later,
Amélie Poulain was born.
AMÉLIE FROM MONTMARTRE
Her father, an ex-army doctor,
works at a spa at Enghien Les Bains.
TIGHT LIPS HARD HEART
Raphael Poulain dislikes
peeing next to someone else. He also dislikes
catching scornful glances at his sandals,
clingy wet swimming trunks,
Raphael Poulain likes
peeling large strips of wallpaper,
lining up and shining his shoes,
emptying his toolbox,
cleaning it out,
and putting everything back.
Amélie's mother, a schoolmistress from Gurgaon
has always had shaky nerves.
FACIAL TWITCH WEAK NERVES
She dislikes puckered fingers in the bath,
having her hands
touched by strangers,
pillow marks on her cheek in the morning.
Amandine Poulain likes figure skaters' costumes on TV,
polishing the parquet,
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.
The
hens
brood
here
henceforth.
Four hens brood...
Very good.
hens fourth!
Deprived of playmates,
slung 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 for the rest of my life
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 used Instamatic.
Little girl! Look what you did!
A neighbor fools her into thinking her camera causes accidents.
Having taken pictures all afternoon, Amélie is petrified.
She stares at the TV, racked by the guilt
of causing a huge fire,
two derailments,
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 pray for a baby brother.
Minutes later, heaven sends
alas, not a baby boy, but Marguerite, a tourist from Quebec,
bent on ending her life.
Amandine dies 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 she'll earn enough to leave home.
5 years later, she's a waitress in Montmartre,
at the Two Windmills.
It's August 29th.
In 48 hours, her life will change forever...
But she doesn't know it yet.
She lives quietly among her co-workers and regulars.
Suzanne, the owner,
limps a little but never spills a drink.
A former bareback artiste, she likes
athletes who cry with disappointment.
She dislikes seeing men humiliated in front of their kids.
Georgette, the tobacconist, is a hypochondriac.
Migraines one day, sciatica the next.
She hates the words "fruit of thy womb".
Gina works with Amélie. Her grandma was a healer.
She likes cracking bones.
She brings 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.
Here's Philoméne, an air hostess.
Amélie keeps her cat when she's away.
Philoméne likes
the sound of the cat's bowl on the tiles.
The cat likes overhearing children's stories.
No, thanks, ma'am. I never work Sundays.
On weekends, Amélie often takes a train to see her father.
- Why not use your retirement? - To do what?
Travel. You've never been away.
When we were young, your mother and I longed to travel.
We couldn't. Because of your heart.
I know.
So now,
Now...
Some Fridays, Amélie sees a movie.
I like looking back at people's faces in the dark.
I like noticing details that no one else sees.
But I hate it in old movies, when drivers don't watch the road.
Amélie has no boyfriend.
She tried once or twice, but the results were a letdown.
Instead, she cultivates a taste for small pleasures.
Dipping her hand into sacks of grain,
Cracking créme brulée
with a teaspoon.
And skipping stones at St. Martin's Canal.
They call him the Glass Man.
He was born with bones as brittle as crystal.
All his furniture is padded.
A handshake could crush his fingers.
He's stayed inside for 20 years.
Time has changed nothing.
Amélie still seeks solitude.
She amuses herself with silly questions
about the world below,
such as, "How many couples are having an orgasm now?"
Fifteen!
Finally, on August 30th, 1997,
comes the event that changes her life forever.
Lady Di, Princess of Wales, died in a car crash last night
with her companion, Dodi Al-Fayed...
Only the discoverer of Tutankhamen's tomb
would know how she felt
upon finding this treasure,
hidden by a little boy 40 years ago.
On August 31st at 4 A.M.,
Amélie had 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 50's?
A boy? 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'm amazed. Sit down.
My husband worked for Ladybird Insurance.
It's no secret, he slept with his secretary.
They used every hotel around.
Not cheap ones, either.
The bimbo liked spreading her legs,
but only on satin.
So he swiped from the till.
A little at first, then, 50 million.
Off they flew to Panama.
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.
Black Lion died of heartbreak.
Poor creature!
See how lovingly he stares at his master?
I'll read you his letters.
Don't go!
You can spare 5 minutes.
He wrote this from the army camp.
"Darling Mado,"
That's me, Madeleine.
"I can't sleep, can't eat.
"knowing that my only reason to live is far away in Paris.
"and I won't see her until next Friday.
"when my sweet little weasel appears at the station.
"in her blue dress..."
in brackets, "the one you think is too transparent."
Did anyone ever write you like that?
I'm nobody's little weasel.
My name is Madeleine Wells.
Madeleine, like Mary Magdalene.
She wept, right?
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 nuts, as usual?
Who lived in my flat in the 50's?
What was their name?
You've got me there, dear.
In 1950, I was two. The mental age of the 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!
Don't ask him for currants.
You'd be here till Monday!
Get moving, spastic!
She hasn't got all day!
Go see my mother. She has an elephant's memory.
Elephant mom!
Thank you.
Bredoteau.
The name you're after.
But if I say it, 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
Now he gets up every night
to punch holes in my laurel!
Too bad it's not hardy.
We all need a way to relax.
I skip stones.
- You do? - I'll find it, don't worry.
I'm very organized.
- I like everything. - Like what?
Your son's nearly 50, and I'm still doing
his bookkeeping!
You were still squeezing his toothpaste at 15.
It follows.
Camus...
2nd floor, Brossard was on B block...
Got it!
Bredoteau. 5th floor.
They were northerners.
Bredoteau.
What more I can say?
...how could I live?
Never to know the joy that you give
When I'm in your arms
I'm under your charms
How could I live
without you?
Groping under the photo booth is Nino Quincampoix.
When Amélie lacked playmates, Nino had too many.
5 miles apart, they both dreamed
of having a brother and sister,
to be with all the time.
Hi, Dad.
A new friend?
I've had him for years.
Your mother hated him, so he lived in the toolshed.
There. Let's reconcile them.
How about that?
Dad, if you found a precious relic from your childhood,
how would you feel? Happy? Sad? Nostalgic?
This gnome isn't a relic.
He was a retirement gift from my old regiment.
No, I mean something you hid, like a secret treasure.
I should varnish him before the autumn.
I'll make some tea. You want some?
Breathe in, hold still.
Better now?
Shut the door!
There's a howling gale!
It's not Siberia.
You're not allergic to car fumes!
I almost coughed up my pleura last night.
Cough up a pleura?
- What's on today, Suzanne? - Endives au gratin.
They'll have you on your knees.
That's good?
- Depends where you fall. - If in front of the toilet...
Not good!
12:15: Laughs orgasmically to attract alpha male.
He's gonna drive me berserk.
Can't he give up? There are plenty of other bars!
Suzanne?
"Au gratin" means white sauce, right?
Yes. Why?
I can't stomach it. Like you and horsemeat.
It's not my stomach. It's my memory.
I'd rather cook human flesh.
You're kidding!
Can I leave early today?
What's his name?
Dominique Bredoteau.
You're Dominique Bredoteau?
That's me.
Why?
It's about...
the petition.
Petition?
The petition to...
to canonize Lady Di!
No thanks.
Ladies and gentlemen, sorry to bother you...
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 busy.
Coming!
Where can I find Dominique Bredoteau?
Poor dear! You just missed him.
Look, there he goes now.
Bretodeau.
Not Bredoteau.
You need a little mulled wine.
Come in.
I've lived here for 5 years. I never saw you before.
I never go out on the landing.
I'm fussy about who I meet.
They're all bums.
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 right now, your Bredoteau basket is empty.
Because it's not "do", it's "to".
Like "Toto".
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 like
they deliberately change their mood behind my back.
They look quite happy.
They should be!
They're eating hare with morels
and waffles with jam for the kids.
Now, where's that piece of paper?
You've noticed my video camera.
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 outside.
Maybe she's just different.
In what way?
I don't know.
When she was little, she rarely played with other kids.
Maybe never.
Dominique Bretodeau, 27 Rue Mouffetard.
It's for you.
Every Tuesday morning,
Dominique Bretodeau buys a chicken.
He roasts it with potatoes.
After carving the legs and 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:
Bahamontes winning the Tour de France.
Aunt Josette's slips...
and most of all, the tragic day...
the day he won all the marbles of his class.
The pinch, Bretodeau!
Cognac, please.
Amazing, what just happened.
It must be my guardian angel.
The phone booth was calling me...
Same here! The microwave's calling me.
I'll have another cognac.
Life's funny.
To a kid, time always drags. Suddenly you're 50.
All that's left of your childhood fits in a rusty little box.
You got kids, Miss?
I have a daughter about your age.
We haven't spoken for years.
I heard she had a child, a boy.
His name is Lucas.
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 absolute harmony.
It's a perfect moment. Soft light,
a scent in the air, the quiet murmur of the city...
She breathes deeply. Life is simple and clear.
A surge of love, an urge to help mankind comes over her.
Let me help you. Step down. Here we go!
The drum major's widow!
She's worn his coat since the day he died.
The horse's head has lost an ear!
That's the florist laughing. He has crinkly eyes.
In the bakery window, lollipops!
Smell that!
They're giving out melon slices.
Sugarplum ice cream!
We're passing the park butcher.
Ham, 79 francs. Spareribs, 45!
Now the cheese shop. Picadors are 12.90. Cabecaus 23.50.
A baby's watching a dog that's watching the chickens!
Now we're at the 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, holiday hordes
relax in the new-found sun
and Paris's sweltering denizens
gaze at the starbursts
of the traditional fireworks,
Amélie Poulain,
Godmother of Outcasts, Madonna of the Unloved,
finally succumbed to exhaustion.
In Paris's stricken streets,
a countless throng of mourners
lined her funeral route in silence.
with the measureless grief 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 slab 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!
Pages full of dual ID photos
torn up and discarded by their owners,
carefully reassembled by some oddball.
Some family album!
A pack of Gaulaises.
Just a second. It's so smoky in here!
Where are they? I can't see a thing.
More to the left. More...
You need change...
Forget it.
A mauresque for the young man.
One kir, one mauresque and two mint sodas.
Was that prenuptial or post smooching?
Are you a congenital schmuck?
- Prenuptial. - Don't worry!
You'll find your Mr. Right one day.
All women want to sleep on a man's shoulder.
All men snore after a few drinks
and I have a musical ear.
I had my nasal cavities fixed.
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.
Stupid me! They always drop you at the last minute.
He dropped me just before my act.
It floored me. Plus the horse
with me under it.
The mauresque?
Still, true love does exist.
I know. After 30 years behind a bar,
I'm an expert. I'll even give you the recipe.
Take two regulars,
mix them together and let them stew.
It never fails.
Excuse me!
I'll go.
Haven't you hurt enough people?
Gina can defend herself.
I don't mean Gina. I mean Georgette.
Look! She craves your attention
but all you can see is Gina.
Poor girl! The things she does
to catch your eye!
You really must be blind.
I'm off on a date. Bye!
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 on! They split up two months ago.
To keep on coming here, he must be a masochist.
Don't say you haven't noticed.
Noticed what?
He always sits here, right?
Sit down.
Sit down, Georgette.
What can you see?
My cigarette counter.
Nothing's missing?
Make an effort.
I can't see what!
Think about it. Good night.
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 1960's.
So sad! A young, pretty princess for once.
It's okay if she's old and ugly?
Sure! Look at Mother Teresa.
Is he still chasing Gina?
No, he has somebody else.
Anyone I know?
Funny about this glacier...
Somebody at the Two Windmills?
Not you!
Not Suzanne...
- No! - Yes.
There he is again.
How strange.
- And here. - "Him again!"
"Lyon Station."
And here. "March 5th, Austerlitz."
Always the same blank face.
Twelve times.
I counted. It's very odd.
Why keep taking your picture all over town
and throw them away?
Good one, too.
It's like a ritual.
He's probably terrified
of growing old. It's his only consolation.
He's dead!
He's scared of being forgotten.
He wants to remind people of his face.
Like faxing his portrait from the afterlife.
A dead man scared of being forgotten.
These guys here...
have it made!
They're long dead
but they'll never be forgotten.
The girl with the glass...
Maybe her thoughts are with somebody else.
Somebody in the picture?
More likely a boy she saw somewhere
and felt an affinity with.
You mean she'd rather imagine herself
relating to an absent person
than build relationships
with those around her?
Maybe she tries hard to fix other people's messy lives.
What about her?
Her own messy life?
Who'll fix that?
It's better to help people than a garden gnome.
The trucker had 2.8 grams of alcohol in his blood!
Makes me sick!
Talk about employing irresponsible morons!
- Your keys. - Hold on, Mello.
Speed kills nowadays.
Model yourself on Lucien.
No radar will ever catch him while he's working!
Shame on you, Mr. Collignon.
It's not his fault.
True, Mrs. Couchoix!
It's not his fault he can't sleep. It's Lady Di's.
Guess what I found in the truck. A lingerie catalog.
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
The migraine's better?
Yes, but my sciatica kept me awake all night.
It's ages since I saw you
looking so good.
"A woman without love wilts like a flower without sun."
Strange weather today!
What's so funny?
You're only the 100th one to say it.
We pass the time of day to forget how time passes.
We do it to keep from taking crap.
I write crap that nobody publishes.
- Another rejection? - My 30th!
Isn't your cousin a book critic?
Forget it! Critics are like leeches
sucking the blood of writers.
Is your book
a love story?
It's about a guy who keeps a journal.
Not about his past,
but about disasters in his future.
So he gets depressed and does nothing.
Basically, it's about a loafer.
I'll dedicate the manuscript to you.
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!