On 10 September 2001, filmgoers gathered for the North American premiere of Amélie, Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s tale of a meddlesome waitress in a picturesque Paris. Inside the Elgin Theatre at the Toronto Film Festival, they watched – entranced – as young Amélie mingled with the locals on the streets of Montmartre. She cracked crème brûlée and skipped stones on the canal. She made everything magically, perfectly right. The film ended happily, the guests filed out, and a few hours later, a pair of hijacked planes reduced the World Trade Center to rubble. These events, it should be noted, were entirely unconnected.
Now Amélie is back, resurrected for its 25th anniversary, dressed to the nines and prancing out of the past. It’s as ageless as a vampire, indestructible as a zombie. Its constant charm offensive is tantamount to harassment. Most viewers love Amélie and I completely get why they do, because it looks gorgeous, acts sweet, and doesn’t flag for a second. But Jeunet’s lavish confection ought to come with a health warning, like the cigarettes behind the counter at the Two Windmills café. They’re aromatic and tasty. They’re also toxic; they’ll kill you. In the immediate wake of 9/11, New Yorkers baulked at inhaling the foul dust that was swirling around Lower Manhattan. So they ran to the movies and saw Amélie instead.
