A PLAY: Me and myself

Conner 2022-04-20 09:02:07

Maybe the heroine in this little intracranial theater is just a glimpse from Jack at the bedside of the apartment, and he glances at a girl kissing Snowflake with the tip of her tongue. The male and female protagonists in the theater wore wallpapers and curtains on their bodies. Probably only childhood is warm, and there is nothing else in life worth lingering on. The trolley of memories can only drive to the childhood farm. Chocolate pie is the source of the love of sweets. The love of musicals, poetry, music, and painting we all find clues in our childhood bedrooms and basements. The basement is generally the place that children are most afraid of. In the bottomless washing machine, countless cleaning clothes are found. His father has Alzheimer's and his mother has chorea, which is more of a fear of old age than reality, and Jack is old like his parents in memory. The girls at the ice cream shop are from malicious and well-meaning classmates. The heroine wants to go back to work = end it all, but she happens to represent what Jake is missing. At the moment of dying, the more you see, the more may be incomplete. When you see glowing love, crowds and Nobel Prizes, it may just be that the world owes you too much.

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Extended Reading
  • Letitia 2022-03-25 09:01:14

    Kaufman's new book "I Want to End It All" finally focuses on the word "want". It reminds you that the completed state of "ending" has never left the artistic kingdom constructed by the hero and heroine's imagination, and then came to the real world. The reason why the heroine has been forbearing and shrinking is obviously because of her own psychology of worrying about gains and losses in love and lack of assertiveness in the value judgment of this relationship. The same is true for the male protagonist. After being judged by his parents' value scale, he also realizes that he has never escaped from his parents' control. When the artist makes artistic concessions, the ego becomes indecisive, and there is a high risk of walking into unpredictable horror circles. In fact, this absurd atmosphere has been spreading and spreading. The film has been emphasizing the tension in the relationship between the sexes and the inescapability of the present time and space. If Nolan's Creed renounces temporality because of the functionality of art, then Kaufman uses the futility of art to finally recall the ephemeral but eternal dance of the relationship between the sexes. Assuming this is Kaufman's last work, his predictions of the future are cold, dark and known.

  • Cristina 2022-03-27 09:01:13

    "But it's not a 2 hour 35 minute movie that's too dizzying to just moan. Those details are meant to establish the morbid nature of each character around the protagonist, thus showing its isolation, but those moments of detail are very Powerless, hypocritical. I don't know if the characters don't know what they're doing or the director doesn't know what he's doing?" Charlie Kaufman taunted Cassavetes at your level...

I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.