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Cary 2022-04-23 07:04:32
The love of Hiroshima, the death of war
Saw it many years ago. Master's work. It can be called the most representative film work of the French Left Bank.
Always remember these two lines of dialogue when we broke up: Hiroshima, this is your name; your name is Neville, the French Neville.
In a foreign land, a French actress and a Japanese...
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Tracey 2022-04-20 09:02:32
Hiroshima, I'm Nevel
The lingering naked body was covered with a layer of atomic dust, and the sunlight poured in, like shining on the furry dark gray sea, and the sweat was a dazzling golden light on the top of the waves. The bodies of lovers who have lost their youth, overlap with those corroded by atomic radiation,...
Stella Dassas
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Else 2022-03-15 09:01:10
Time is difficult to go back, space is fragile, and after moving Zuogan to Hiroshima, the forbidden love between city and city occurs. The way to let go of an old love is not to embrace a new one, but to tell the memory. The biggest feeling after reading it - well, Duras's text is very suitable for narration...
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Bonita 2022-03-20 09:02:53
Alain Resnais made his feature film debut. The film marks the shift from classicism to modernism in Western films. Written by Margaret Duras, who also belongs to the Left Bank, Renai cross-cuts the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb documentary and erotic passages, and uses flashbacks to interact with The jumping editing combines personal suffering with the catastrophe of war, discusses memory and regret, inner reality and outer reality, and achieves a balance between film and literature. (8.5/10)
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Elle: Four times at the museum in Hiroshima. I saw people walking around. People walking, thoughtful, past the photographs and reconstructions, for lack of anything else. Photographs, photographs and reconstructions, for lack of anything else. Explanations, for lack of anything else. Four times at the museum in Hiroshima. I looked at the people. I myself looked, thoughtfully, at the iron. Iron, burned and twisted. Iron made vulnerable as flesh. I saw the bouquet of bottle tops. Who could imagine such a thing? Human skin, floating, surviving, still in the bloom of agony. And stones. Burned stones, shattered stones. Anonymous locks of hair, that Hiroshima's women, when they awoke, discovered had fallen out.
