A sad song of despair and loneliness

Jerrell 2022-04-22 07:01:41

Even though I have thousands of ideals in my heart, what I cannot break through in the end is the character flaws brought to me by the original family. This is a young man with ideals and knowledge. He wants to be a physicist and a musical dramatist, but in reality he can only be a school cleaner and spend his life alone and doing nothing. This is a life of loneliness and depression, a life of suffocation full of shouting but unable to shout. Even the final death is completely covered by thick white snow.

After watching it, I just wanted to go out and get some air.

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Extended Reading
  • Nellie 2022-03-26 09:01:09

    How to eliminate the "Kurishov effect" that appeared at the beginning of the film? For Kaufman, the answer is that as a virtual brain-image, the non-existence of the other is discovered in the encounter of the other, thereby invalidating the front/reverse fight of the subject-object dichotomy, just like the rotation seen by the heroine in the basement The washing machine, the main body moves towards the "object", but it is finally incorporated into another main body in a tree-like manner. In "I Want to End It All", only the suffocating interior view of the car is a real physical space, as brain or as a coffin. It's still, or unaware of its movement except for the snowflakes drifting backwards in the foreground, like the backdrop of a classic Hollywood car perspective. The space outside the car is a black hole of memory that is repeatedly inhaled and controlled by the virtual. With the invasion of the "subject", the potential is materialized in the way of being given direction, and finally accumulates the intensity, until the final locked door - unable to return physical brain. In this way, "I" with some American-style suspense shells can be first understood as Godard's self-talk, but finally presented as a musical version of "Wild Strawberry."

  • Kennedi 2022-03-26 09:01:09

    Another deeply depressing work by Charlie Kaufman, full of fear and helplessness about aging and being without companionship. The endless driving in the blizzard and snow, the empty and empty campus corridors in the long cold night, are desolate and lonely, and there is no one to rely on. When the fatal loneliness invaded, the pas de deux scene in the fantasy of the old cleaner pulled me out of the atmosphere of the previous film, as well as the speech + opera that followed. Although this separation between the front and rear is interesting, it still detracts from it to some extent. Overall look. Jesse Buckley did a great job. Dream-like narrative + multi-type blending + multi-video embedding. The rambling chatter about the philosophy of life in the car is reminiscent of [Half-Dream Life]; Talk + Act [Affected Woman]; The Bizarre Farm and The Boyfriend's Parents Played by Thewlis & Colette are very [hereditary]; awkward dining table In the conversation, parents of different ages appear alternately, the time and space are confused like [Warm and Inner Light]; the connection between illusory characters and real situations is like [Mulholland Road]; Jesse Plemons resembles Hoffman, and then Coupled with the theme of aging and despair, it travels back to [New York Metaphors] in minutes; it is homogenous to [Life and Death] before the end. (8.8/10)

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.