(Miramax)Īmélie’s adult existence isn’t much more exciting. Audrey Tatou and Mathieu Kassovitz take a whimsical ride. Moreover, her moral compass demands acts of cruelty be repaid with mischief. Still, even at a young age, Amélie has a strong sense of right and wrong. When her mother dies as a result of someone else’s suicide off of the top of Notre Dame, Amélie and her father (Rufus, no last name) become even more withdrawn. Alas, all its quirky imagination never quite manages to quell her thirst for true companionship and affection. Isolated as a child by her chilly parents, young Amélie Poulain (played by Flora Guiet as a child and Audrey Tatou as an adult) builds a rich fantasy life. It’s that siren song of fitting, of belonging, that still appeals. Not with any sense of permanence, but with the feeling that life is a revolving door of the people and experiences that make up who we are in our most essential selves. And yet, despite their best efforts, they find connection and humanity with one another. More than a modern fairy tale in an Instagram version of Paris, the film remains a tribute to the lonely outcasts, the hopeless romantics, and a celebration of small pleasures.įrom the fragile artist to the hypochondriac cigarette seller, the people who occupy Amélie are all living a self-imposed exile of a sort. But jokesters, cynics, and doubters aside, there’s a reason why 20 years on, Amélie is still considered a masterpiece. Certainly not without risking being audience to a long, dreary recitation of the original McElroy goof by your guy friends who think a movie discussion is some kind of open mic night. Twenty years after its sensational release, Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Amélie has become synonymous with words like “twee” and “whimsy.” Thanks to a popular bit on My Brother, My Brother, and Me, you can’t even mention the film in certain company.
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