Adapting Patrick Suskind’s novel about a dirt-poor Parisian with spectacular olfactory senses was always going to be a thorny task. The story caused a publishing sensation in the 1980’s and after a few false starts, Twykwer embraced the challenge. John Hurt opens with an elegant commentary that substitutes for smell, recounting the fortunes of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.

A gaunt Wishaw is endearing as the creepy, naïve man determined to distil the essence of humanity. Discovered by a leading perfumer, Grenouille’s talents are put to work and it is here he learns of ancient legend. It opens possibility for if he can recreate a mythical scent, accidental harm can be undone, assuming the outraged people of France can first endure even greater wickedness. There’s an intelligence to Tykwer’s production that compels and almost manages to convince. For a while we understand Grenouille’s obsession with fleeting beauty – underlined in counterpoint by on-screen ugliness. Yet the director embraces an unfortunate modernity that undermines everything he strives for – Rickman’s forensic approach and an unconvincing, contemporary performance from Hoffman foremost among them. Tykwer delivers a visually exciting film that recalls Amelie and to some extent Ridicule: the former for its skittish introduction, the latter for its examination of human nature through period tragedy.

Yet Perfume never attains such heights. It reduces to black irony tacked onto a killer-thriller, a mash of styles that build toward a preposterous finale in which hundreds are seduced by Grenouille’s supernatural talent. Had Tykwer filmed in Aromora, or used John Waters’ scratch-n-sniff cards, Perfume might have stood a chance. A reluctant Suskind always felt his best-seller was unfilmable, and for the most part he was right.

// COLIN FRASER