Music that flows like spring water in Sousse, and the tone hasn't changed since then. The water carries sediment, rolling and tumbling, making the water appear both clear and turbid. Just like Virginia's dress, which is walking step by step into its depths, it is coffee-colored, her hair is disheveled, with earthy brown spots in her golden yellow, and her eyes are a very beautiful light blue, pale and almost transparent, as if It's telling us that what she's doing is some kind of out-of-control, unbridled madness. But how clear is her mind, you see, I can't even write this letter. God knows, every moment in this world there are people who are saying things ten times more absurd than they were before Virginia Woolf committed suicide, without knowing it, and living a life of peace of mind.
And so, in this implied, or rather presupposed, madness, Virginia Woolf sank to the bottom of the tumbling sand.
The film's three women, three twisted time and space, three strands of yarn twisted together, and the novel's function as a magical magic wand need not be repeated. To be honest, I haven't read Mrs. Dalloway, because Virginia's jumping and continuous thinking, like this tangled soft water, cannot be easily touched. As a distant admirer of hers, I can only appreciate the ingenious coincidence with which the writers deal with these three tricky planes. Good fiction, like religion, accepts all forms of worship tolerantly without authoritative opinions. Perhaps, this is also a way into the interior of Virginia's novel. Although coincidence this thing often makes the movie plot seem silly.
The poet in the film feels right, he has a male Virginia in him, and he has spent ten years writing a novel that might take ten years for an outsider to read. 'I just want to describe everything that has happened in the past,' he said. This was indeed Virginia speaking, a feature of Woolf's novels that literary critics would attribute many years later to stream of consciousness. But in fact Virginia's stream of consciousness has a female premise. In A Room of One's Own, she pondered why women write novels and how their novels should appear. She concluded that saga, romance, gothic novels and even Jane Austen's marriage, money and morality were first occupied by men, and dabbling in these fields as a woman could never be washed away by any means. Removing the imitation, confrontation, or rebellious brand, Virginia hopes that her novels will start from a real blank paper, rather than a snow wave paper with watermarks of shallow or dark men, so that her novels truly belong to woman.
She wrapped herself up and fled from Richmond's house and went for a walk. At home she was a chaotic, near-breakup woman, with a history of mental illness, sexual discord with her husband, fear of female servants, and an unusual attachment to her sister—let's not care whether this history has been sorted. As Virginia walks with her arms crossed, she is determined to write about a woman's day, a woman's life will be condensed into this short and long day, but here comes the problem: the package does not include her most- - That is, death?
In master movies, the absurdity is like a delicious cheese, poured hot and hot on the dish, melted quickly, and soaked to the bottom of the plate, sometimes you eat it at the end, you will find seafood that you thought you couldn't eat, and sometimes you don't. Got nothing.
The absurdity of "The Moment" is the inexplicable sadness of the three women, the hoarse Virginia, the gentle and vulnerable Lola, and the seemingly strong Clarissa who is actually vulnerable at a certain point in time. And the paradox that fills it - the novelist is mentally ill, but she seems to have peeped into Pandora's box, and has a talent that no one can match. Lonely, she almost secretly went to the London that once broke her down. She even said to her sister: No one does not like being invited, even if it is a patient. The Bible has long said that it is not good to be alone. Loneliness is a disease, Sony Ericsson's desire is as primitive as a baby sucking milk, the difference is that it runs through life.
In this film, my favorite is Lola's soft face, Meryl Streep's red eyes waving her hands at a loss, and the young Richard breaking free from the neighbor's restraint while running and shouting for his mother. And three absurd and righteous kisses to women.
The most easily overlooked peepers are children, but after many years, this image may have changed for the parties involved, and the outlines are blurred, but in the peepers' childhood memories, it has become more and more vivid, and even become a nightmare.
Perhaps the poet Richard finished this long nightmare in ten years, and then jumped in search of relief.
Of Vanessa Bell's three children, Quentin (the fat boy in the movie) later took on the mission of recounting his aunt's life truthfully, author of "Wolff"; Julian (the tall, slightly prettier) The one) had been to China and became the protagonist of Rainbow Shadow's controversial novel, but I don't know how the girl Angelica was.
On the question of life and death, Virginia in the film argues that only when a person dies can those around him or her, whether trapped by their own death or by the fear of losing others, can recover from that person's death. Be alive, because the death of others gives the witnesses hope of life.
So the novelist stopped Lola, killed the poet, and jumped into the torrent himself.
Maybe her theory can't stand scrutiny in front of her husband. He will say, what logic do you have, and he will use her responsibility to all those who love her and wish her well to convince her, and she will be just and righteous. But at Richmond in 1923, she beat him by saying "I want to live my life." And in Suset in 1941, she didn't even give him the right to negotiate.
This is the difference between a novelist and a common man. Only a novelist who can go out alone after breaking free of all the justifiable reasons will be truly immortal. Even if they pay with their lives.
The themes that these novelists are always looking for are still freedom and love.
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