I watched "I Want to End It All"

Loyce 2022-04-23 07:03:19

After watching Charlie Kaufman's new film "I Want to End It All," I opened the window.

Sunshine outside. Every building is realistic. There are trees, cars, and alleys. I know, that's not their original shape, that's what light appears on people's retinas after refraction.

It is said that time is distributed linearly. Is there any curvature? I forgot. People's emotions are probably the same. It used to be Wilde and Shakespeare, and now it's Kaufman, who listed them on the screen in series for the audience to feel the taste.

Watching a movie on a computer, is it really watching a movie? This is a philosophical question. Can virtue be carved into stone in the form of words, so that virtue can reshape the golden body?

Stories are often fictional. The way of telling is like scales. They are arranged and combined to form a world that is both fantasy and real. Are the old man's absurdity and the young man's fantasy the same thing?

After watching the entire movie, not only did I not understand it, but I was even more confused.

},{"d\���

View more about I'm Thinking of Ending Things reviews

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.