香水 Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006)【完整台词】
香水 Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006) 全部台词 (当前第1页,一共 5 页)
Quick! We can't
hold him back much longer.
Hurry!
Come on!
Quick!
Faster!
Up on the balcony!
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
towards 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.
PERFUME
The Story of a Murderer
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 delivered them all here
under her fish stand.
And all had been stillbirths,
or semi-stillbirths.
Are you alright?
And by evening, the whole mess
had been shoveled 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... it's a baby.
What's going on here?
- It's a newborn.
- Where's his mother?
She was just here.
She tried to kill it, her own child.
She tried to kill a 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!
Is he dead?
- That's not staying in my bed.
- Let's throw it out then.
- What if it screams?
- It's just a kiddie.
Harder! Push!
What are you doing?
For Madame 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 their kind.
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 give 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
experience he's 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 thirteen, 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 odor enveloping this man...
Seven, it's not worth so much.
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 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 choosing.
He did not differentiate between
what is 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 odors.
His only condition being...
that they were new ones.
Thousands upon thousands of odors
formed an invisible gruel...
which he dissected into its
smallest and most remote parts of pieces.
Grenouille!
Come on!
Your ass over here.
- What is it called?
- "Amor and Psyche", madame.
My little creation.
- May I try it?
- If you allow me, mademoiselle.
Sheer heaven...
Monsieur Pélissier, you are
truly an artiste.
What do you want?
Want to buy some?
Two for a sou.
That's for you
running off like that.
I'll kill you!
That night, he could not sleep.
The intoxicating power of the girls' scent
suddenly made it clear to him...
why he had 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 one celebrated
Italian perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini,
had set up shop
in the center 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 will 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's asked for something like...
I think he said it was called...
"Amor and Psyche"?
That swindler in the
rue Saint-André-des-Arts.
- Pélissier.
- Pélissier! That's him.
"Amor and Psyche".
- Do you know it?
- Oh, yes.
You can smell it everywhere
these days, monsieur.
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 cord
contains lime oil.
Really? And the heart cord?
Orange blossom, I believe.
And civet in the base cord,
but I cannot say for sure.
Well, I couldn't care less what that
bungler Pélissier slops into his perfumes.
hold him back much longer.
Hurry!
Come on!
Quick!
Faster!
Up on the balcony!
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
towards 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.
PERFUME
The Story of a Murderer
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 delivered them all here
under her fish stand.
And all had been stillbirths,
or semi-stillbirths.
Are you alright?
And by evening, the whole mess
had been shoveled 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... it's a baby.
What's going on here?
- It's a newborn.
- Where's his mother?
She was just here.
She tried to kill it, her own child.
She tried to kill a 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!
Is he dead?
- That's not staying in my bed.
- Let's throw it out then.
- What if it screams?
- It's just a kiddie.
Harder! Push!
What are you doing?
For Madame 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 their kind.
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 give 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
experience he's 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 thirteen, 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 odor enveloping this man...
Seven, it's not worth so much.
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 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 choosing.
He did not differentiate between
what is 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 odors.
His only condition being...
that they were new ones.
Thousands upon thousands of odors
formed an invisible gruel...
which he dissected into its
smallest and most remote parts of pieces.
Grenouille!
Come on!
Your ass over here.
- What is it called?
- "Amor and Psyche", madame.
My little creation.
- May I try it?
- If you allow me, mademoiselle.
Sheer heaven...
Monsieur Pélissier, you are
truly an artiste.
What do you want?
Want to buy some?
Two for a sou.
That's for you
running off like that.
I'll kill you!
That night, he could not sleep.
The intoxicating power of the girls' scent
suddenly made it clear to him...
why he had 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 one celebrated
Italian perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini,
had set up shop
in the center 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 will 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's asked for something like...
I think he said it was called...
"Amor and Psyche"?
That swindler in the
rue Saint-André-des-Arts.
- Pélissier.
- Pélissier! That's him.
"Amor and Psyche".
- Do you know it?
- Oh, yes.
You can smell it everywhere
these days, monsieur.
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 cord
contains lime oil.
Really? And the heart cord?
Orange blossom, I believe.
And civet in the base cord,
but I cannot say for sure.
Well, I couldn't care less what that
bungler Pélissier slops into his perfumes.
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