I want to end this

Daniela 2022-04-21 09:02:51

It's a very nice work, although it's a bit confusing. After reading some explanations about the plot on the Internet, I don't really agree with it. In my opinion, the lines in the whole piece are basically nonsense. Even the long poem implies some clues and hints at the same time. the inner thoughts of the protagonist. I rarely write a lot of words, and the following content is a little spoiler. I see a lot of people say that the plot is loose, and there are also fantasy that girls and boys are old people. I don’t agree with them all. Of course, many movie reviews are still well written, but I I think that both girls and boys are the old man himself, maybe it is a split personality, there is a line that mentions schizophrenia, and secondly, girls wear glasses when looking at their mobile phones. And Jack can hear Lucy's heart, every time Lucy thinks about everything related to Jack, Jack will show an embarrassed expression. The music is played twice in the film, and the screen cuts to the old man hearing the opera and seeing someone dancing in the school, and then hearing the same music, implying that what the old man sees and hears will affect the inner world of girls and boys. The age of Jack's parents in the film is not fixed. In fact, it means that these are the parents in the memory of the elderly. Just like our dreams, there is no beginning and no end. Of course, there are still many interesting places worth pondering. My favorite is the lines, yes I said it myself, and I also said it to the audience. All in all, it's a very good work.

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Extended Reading

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.