In the face of death, family love and so on are all lies

Carter 2022-04-22 07:01:41

The director's latest work has become more and more mature in style.

The structure has already formed the characteristic routine of Charlie Kaufman. The beginning feels normal, but it is just a slightly long-winded drama. The middle part starts to get weird, the unnatural bridges are constantly staged, and the latter part is released directly. The dialogues of the profound philosophical discussion are intertwined and directly push to the climax. At the end, there are often concluding remarks on this ultimate topic, death, of course, in the form of an opera this time.

The entire film is actually a flow of consciousness and memories of a dying, elderly, middle school campus cleaner who grew up on a farm as a child and often saw the death of animals, some lambs frozen in place all winter after death, Until it burned to death the following spring, when a pig was lifted, its lower body was covered in maggots. He has some artistic talent, and his paintings moved him, but he could not get the approval of his father; although his mother loved him, he was almost illiterate, which made him feel very embarrassed who liked to read, but he endured it most of the time. When he brought his girlfriend home, the reaction of his family always made him feel embarrassed, and most of his girlfriends just wanted to leave as soon as possible. He read a poem about going home, and he could never forget it. He could even recite the whole poem at any time, and then burst into tears. He was fascinated by ice cream commercials as a child, so he fell in love with the icy and sweet taste, just like the woman he liked...

All the above content is based on many detailed inferences. For example, the poem appeared in a book in his room when he was a child; another example was his girlfriend's painting, which stayed in the basement and signed Jake; the clothes in the washing machine in the basement were the work clothes of the cleaners; the two stopped and kissed At that time, her boyfriend suddenly felt that he was peeped by the cleaner and the kiss was interrupted. Maybe he had never really kissed in his life, so he was very eager to feel it up close.

At first, the audience thought it was his girlfriend, because we could hear her inner monologue, but later we found out that it was a director's trick. These inner monologues were also woven in the mind of the cleaner, because every girl is the same , while approaching him, he was thinking about how to reject him.

The girlfriend said that people think that they are trying to move forward, but they are actually wrong. They are still and time is the wind swept in front of them. So the cleaner has actually been mopping the floor at the school, but consciousness and memory are constantly sweeping through the brain like the wind. If all this is a lie, what is not?

On the night he was about to die, he wanted to walk naked, but was worried that everyone would think he was like a pig full of maggots; he wondered if he could win a Nobel Prize and spend his life with him He left under the watchful eyes of those who intersected, just like the bridges in those Hollywood inspirational movies, but in the end he knew that all these family loves were just lies.

If you see the end of the film, the next morning, the car in the snow, there is a sound of the engine starting, he is not dead, but alive, what else is left except pain and lies?

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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.