Wednesday, January 17 2007
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The Scent of Failure
by Kyra Smith
Kyra Smith's review of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer
In the style of Arthur: The Short
People have been saying for years that Patrick Suskind's 1985 besteller is unfilmeable and Tom Tykwer proves it conclusively.
The Slightly Longer
Book and film follow the life of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (Ben Whishaw), born in the slums of eighteenth century Paris with a phenomenal sense of smell and no personal odour. Having survived the brutalities of an orphanage and being indentured to a tannery, Grenouille manages to gain an apprenticeship to Baldini (Dustin Hoffman), a master perfumier, and, through his nasal genius, revive the flagging business. This gives him an opportunity to hone his art and pursue his personal obsession, the preservation of human scent, specifically the scent of a flame-haired plum seller he semi-accidentally murders down a back alley. Eventually he travels to Grasse to learn the mystic secrets of enfleurage and kills another bunch of beautiful women to create the perfect scent. It all feels rather tame, really, for a man described in the book, and through John Hurt's superbly sardonic narration, as "one of the most gifted and abominable personages of our age."
The main problems of the film spring from the challenges and complexities of the book. For the most part it succeeds surprisingly well in evoking the olfactory world of eighteenth century Paris: it's a clever trick, if you can pull it off, representing the experiences of one sense through the medium from another. The film offers a wealth of visual detail: the early scenes in fishmarket had me quailing in my seat with 21st century delicacy. Unfortunately, though adept at creating horror and revulsion, when it comes to representing the beautiful and erotic the film falls back on visual clich like the endless, lingering shots of the lightly freckled skin of a young woman's neck. When Baldini, on inhaling one of Grenouille's perfume, was immediately transported to a whirling flower garden in which a beautiful woman in a swirling dress kissed him on the cheek and told him she loved him I felt as though I had been transported into a Chanel Number 5 advert.
Similarly, many of the book's dramatic moments lose force and focus when presented on screen. The scene in which Grenouille convinces Baldini to accept him as an apprentice by mixing up perfumes for him is compelling only because of Ben Whishaw's intense performance. But ultimately, it's still a guy shaking a bottle of colourless liquids. The murders, also, seem a little lacklustre although I suppose there comes a point when naked female corpses lose their potency. Seen one, seen em all. And, perhaps it's just me, but Perfume demonstrated that dramatic absurdities are somehow easier to accept in a book, than in a film. In the book, when a character dreams of his daughter being murdered and attempts to protect her by taking her in a wild chase across country to a remote inn it seems perfectly legitimate within the terms of the text. In the film it seems just plain stupid. The in(famous) orgy scene is equally unconvincing. In your imagination 10,000 people falling upon each other in love and lust is a suitable climax to the book: when you actually have to see a crowd of extras reluctantly struggling out of their regulation eighteenth century peasant clothes to fondle each other with unconvincing fervour, it's uncomfortable and ridiculous in all the wrong ways.
There are some strong performances to be found in the film but the less said about Dustin Hoffman's Italian accent the better. Ben Whishaw broods with dark and wonderful menace, despite really being far too attractive for the role. Alan Rickman tries his best with a thoroughly appalling part, his brushed velvet voice bestowing poetry and dignity to lines that quite simply didn't deserve it. And Rachel Hurd-Wood (last seen in a nightgown in Peter Pan) is slightly more acceptably fanciable this time round as the flame-haired and ultimately doomed Laure. John Hurt's narration is excellent, although the use of an omniscient narrator telling us exactly what the taciturn Grenouille thinks and feels (if anything) strikes me as a cop-out. But, in spite of the valour of the cast, the film remains an awkward translation of the book, hampered by its own medium.
People have been saying for years that Patrick Suskind's 1985 besteller is unfilmeable and Tom Tykwer proves it conclusively.
The Slightly Longer
Book and film follow the life of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (Ben Whishaw), born in the slums of eighteenth century Paris with a phenomenal sense of smell and no personal odour. Having survived the brutalities of an orphanage and being indentured to a tannery, Grenouille manages to gain an apprenticeship to Baldini (Dustin Hoffman), a master perfumier, and, through his nasal genius, revive the flagging business. This gives him an opportunity to hone his art and pursue his personal obsession, the preservation of human scent, specifically the scent of a flame-haired plum seller he semi-accidentally murders down a back alley. Eventually he travels to Grasse to learn the mystic secrets of enfleurage and kills another bunch of beautiful women to create the perfect scent. It all feels rather tame, really, for a man described in the book, and through John Hurt's superbly sardonic narration, as "one of the most gifted and abominable personages of our age."
The main problems of the film spring from the challenges and complexities of the book. For the most part it succeeds surprisingly well in evoking the olfactory world of eighteenth century Paris: it's a clever trick, if you can pull it off, representing the experiences of one sense through the medium from another. The film offers a wealth of visual detail: the early scenes in fishmarket had me quailing in my seat with 21st century delicacy. Unfortunately, though adept at creating horror and revulsion, when it comes to representing the beautiful and erotic the film falls back on visual clich like the endless, lingering shots of the lightly freckled skin of a young woman's neck. When Baldini, on inhaling one of Grenouille's perfume, was immediately transported to a whirling flower garden in which a beautiful woman in a swirling dress kissed him on the cheek and told him she loved him I felt as though I had been transported into a Chanel Number 5 advert.
Similarly, many of the book's dramatic moments lose force and focus when presented on screen. The scene in which Grenouille convinces Baldini to accept him as an apprentice by mixing up perfumes for him is compelling only because of Ben Whishaw's intense performance. But ultimately, it's still a guy shaking a bottle of colourless liquids. The murders, also, seem a little lacklustre although I suppose there comes a point when naked female corpses lose their potency. Seen one, seen em all. And, perhaps it's just me, but Perfume demonstrated that dramatic absurdities are somehow easier to accept in a book, than in a film. In the book, when a character dreams of his daughter being murdered and attempts to protect her by taking her in a wild chase across country to a remote inn it seems perfectly legitimate within the terms of the text. In the film it seems just plain stupid. The in(famous) orgy scene is equally unconvincing. In your imagination 10,000 people falling upon each other in love and lust is a suitable climax to the book: when you actually have to see a crowd of extras reluctantly struggling out of their regulation eighteenth century peasant clothes to fondle each other with unconvincing fervour, it's uncomfortable and ridiculous in all the wrong ways.
There are some strong performances to be found in the film but the less said about Dustin Hoffman's Italian accent the better. Ben Whishaw broods with dark and wonderful menace, despite really being far too attractive for the role. Alan Rickman tries his best with a thoroughly appalling part, his brushed velvet voice bestowing poetry and dignity to lines that quite simply didn't deserve it. And Rachel Hurd-Wood (last seen in a nightgown in Peter Pan) is slightly more acceptably fanciable this time round as the flame-haired and ultimately doomed Laure. John Hurt's narration is excellent, although the use of an omniscient narrator telling us exactly what the taciturn Grenouille thinks and feels (if anything) strikes me as a cop-out. But, in spite of the valour of the cast, the film remains an awkward translation of the book, hampered by its own medium.
