I have always believed that the family is a political machine by which the ruling class forces individuals to submit, a social building that kills individuality and encourages self-sacrifice, and uses non-existent love as a bait to send individuals into a cage.
Beignners is a story about family.
SP said this is his favorite movie. So on this Friday night that finally started to warm up, we hugged and watched the movie.
In Beginners, there is no simple moral judgment, no right and wrong, and no happy after forever ending. It just tells the story of a family full of warmth and calm, without overly exaggerating joy or deliberately expressing sadness. And each of us can find a familiar shadow in it.
I saw my family. My grandfather, my grandmother, my father, my mother. I think SP also saw him.
Everyone has done everything they can to maintain a broken and distorted system. Everyone made a sacrifice and vented without a trace. Everyone gave up that part of "misfit" for the white picket fences that looked beautiful and shiny in the political propaganda.
So I like the confused and sad eyes that my mother occasionally shows, and I like her taking her son to the museum at night, venting the distress brought to her by marriage with unusual behavior. I like that she finally said nothing, silently walked to the end of her life without doing anything.
I like my father telling about the history of his past that has become entangled with his past. Like his perfunctory kisses, like his talk about the psychiatrist’s sofa, like his memories of the sex in the toilet.
I also like my son. I like his always silent and tender company. I like him trying to hide his pain and choosing to try to understand. I like his observation and awkward comfort, and he also likes him to say that he is afraid of screwing up everything, so it is better not to let it happen from the beginning.
I remembered that on the first sunny day in Chicago this year, we were sitting on the lake bank, and SP talked about her mother and his expression at that time. I talked about mine--I didn't look at him, but at the distance, the fuzzy line between Lake Michigan and the sky. We are all people with scars-this may sound too hypocritical, but we are just one of the thousands of people who have been hurt by our families. We have only witnessed the wounds left by our parents after cutting off the part of the self that could not be integrated into the family and began to be confused.
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