After watching it for the second time, I realized that there is actually nothing false in this movie. It can even be said that what I have seen is false. The only image of a mother, a child who sometimes grows up and shrinks, is illusory and unreal. Uncertain fathers are all fictitious. I can say that he is a life from multiple perspectives, or that he is a continuation of the living conditions of several generations of poets. But consciousness and emotion are real, and they cling to those phantom, intermittent episodes that spread freely and resonate with me. So, I see a lot of:
It is the son's constant imagination about the image of the father. The mother said that the man who will turn in front of the bushes is the father, so there is a heroic father image of the man on the battlefield carrying a grenade that has been unplugged to protect others.
It is the enlightenment of a person's thoughts on nation and war, so there is an illusory old woman at the dining table, leading you to open the book on the shelf, leading you to read the text about the evolution of Russian society. You seem to understand, the old lady is gone, but you can still see the traces of water vapor at the bottom of the teacup left on the dining table slowly dissipating, telling you that everything you see exists.
It's a joke about a distant war, a hot air balloon that keeps melting as sticky as chewing gum; it's an upside-down chariot of a cocky officer standing on top of a group of soldiers pushing in the mud; Boys who don't know why their mother is crying; it's the mushroom cloud in the black and white impression.
There are also the so-called democ and liber input of truth value from the sidelines, so there are Soviet soldiers on the Sino-Su border, hand in hand to form a border line, and holding a red bao book as if holding a bible that can save the world. The Chinese people, they formed a crowd like a trend of thought, trying to cross the border and bring true knowledge to the Soviet Union, but those soldiers just resisted with expressionless faces, and didn't care about those who were praised loudly. So the camera shot back, and through them, I saw hairy statues like terracotta warriors and horses.
The thoughts that fly from the observation of the beauty and nature of water and fire, the room made of reinforced concrete dissolved in the running water, the thatched hut that is on fire from a distance, and the vast sky seen from the very small perspective of the window. The invisible throbbing flames in the snow, the bright flames in the hands of the girl whose mouth was broken on the battlefield, symbolizing her first love.
It was the earrings that my mother sold and the chickens she was forced to kill in order to live. At that time, the fire in the kerosene lamp fell into a restless on and off, and finally, went out, maybe the fire from childhood went out, Alyosha In the room of natural dark reality, waiting for the mother.
The mother talks to her son on the tortuous and long corridor. The rooms and corridors in the camera are like the road to the heart of a mature son, hidden and deep, but it is impossible to find where the speaker is.
...
Everything in the mirror is beautiful, rhythmic, and contains life and death.
The little bird that came back to life in the hands of the dying poet's son flew over the hills and farmland, and with its flight, time flowed backwards to the time when the poet was a baby, and he became the mother's child again. It is also the old schoolbag that was thrown into the sky on a sunny day, from the past to the present;
There were new shoots beside the corroded and dull iron block in the water. It is also the rust on the blue truck on the last night of the earth, damp and cold, but with a little taste of life;
The doctor in the white nurse's uniform, the poet who eventually became a young child by his mother's side, yearns and is imprisoned under the mother's power, and at the same time has the constant fantasy and beautification of the search for his father and his consciousness. It is also the head nurse who flew over the lunatic asylum, symbolizing absolute control and absolute order, and the young man who became a man under the guidance of patriarchal power and curled up and died like a baby in a mother's womb under the oppression of maternal power.
......
I say that the narrator is a poet only because I think of the poet who lived elsewhere and died in the water.
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