On September 3, 1973...
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 Grugeon...
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. - No!
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.
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.
Five 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 coworkers 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.
You know, you're a very beautiful woman, Ellie.
- Why, Stan! - A very, very beautiful woman.
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 twenty 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 30, 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 4:00 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 fifth floor.
We don't see much of you.
Would you know of a boy who lived in my flat in the Fifties?
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 20, 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 Fifties?
What was their name?
You've got me there, dear.
In 1950, I was two... the mental age of a 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.
Pardon?
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 metro 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 fifty, and I'm still doing...
his bookkeeping!
You were still squeezing his toothpaste at fifteen.
- It follows. - Camus...
second floor, Broussard was on B block...
Got it!
Bredoteau, fifth 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.
Five 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 tool shed.
There. Let's reconcile them.
There. 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!
Good-bye.
Madame Suzanne?
"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.
Madame Suzanne, can I leave early today?
What's his name?
Dominique Bredoteau.
Hello.
You're 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 busy.
Here. Coming!
Where can I find Dominique Bredoteau?
Poor dear! You just missed him.
Look, there he goes now.
Bretod-eau.
Not Bredot-eau.
You need a little mulled wine.
Come in.
I've lived here for five 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...
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.
The pinch, Bretodeau!
Bretodeau, does he know what it is?
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 fifty.
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 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 metro.
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 star bursts 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 windmills 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! 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?
Well, he always sits here, right?
At number 8?
Sit down.
Sit down, Georgette.
What can you see?
My cigarette counter.
Nothing's missing?
Well, no.
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 1960s.
So sad. A young, pretty princess for once.
It's OK 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 5, Austerlitz."
Always the same blank face. Always neutral.
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.
Oh, yeah?
"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!
FOOT CREAM
TOOTHPASTE
"Without you, today's emotions...
"would be the scurf of yesterday's."
"Without you, today's emotion's...
"would be the scurf of yesterday's."