It seems that there is still a trace of the picture. Beirut's sea is so calm. The flares are as bright as stars, and the sea is cool and comfortable. We swam ashore with guns, through buildings and streets. I see those faces. I can't remember!
There seemed to be no wailing, and no blood. I kept shooting, and what seemed to be just corn leaves was knocked out. Nothing. Tanks just roll over deserted streets, and abandoned cars break rebar under their tracks. A battle has come, and we have a fierce gun battle with the enemy. The posters of the regime leaders are full of bullet holes. I waltz in a hail of bullets.
We are on high. We know something is happening. The Falangists are walking around town, doing what they have to do. There is a voice. do not know. Let go of the flares. So everything is in sight. The faces of those wives, the cry, the blood. I was under the flare, as if expressionless. do not know. I dare not remember.
It seems to be such a peaceful and beautiful topic, but it is dangerous and sinister underneath. The camera movement of the film itself and the accompanying music constantly collide. Shootout and waltz, carnage and Chopin. and jazz. and rock. These music labels that create calm and beautiful make the picture even more sinister. High contrast, with human faces highlighted by dark patches. Israeli soldiers, Falangists, Lebanese refugees, regime leaders, army leaders. The high-contrast eyes pulled away from the brilliance, but there was some kind of direct content. Crazy, numb. There is no justice and no Heat. How could I possibly use any positive words on the war. Flares and whistling bullets are like fireworks, brightening the evil in the dark corners. . .
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