The cramped corridors, steep steps, and the walls of the corridors are covered with torn advertisements and posters. Multicolored lightbox signboards and flashing neon. At eight or nine o'clock in the evening, the row of snack bars full of people was steaming hot, the fans whirling, and the dazzling pale fluorescent lamps. At closing time, the sound of rolling shutters falling one after another in the empty streets. There is also a skinny uncle wearing a white undershirt and swinging a fan, a fat and acerbic aunt, a rogue ruffian with tattoos on his arms, and a red-light district woman with black fishnet socks and low-quality high-heeled shoes. Like a kaleidoscope of warm colored fragments. There is a world of fireworks, the ambiguous warmth of men and women who eat and drink.
Rewatched Fallen Angels yesterday. My favorite is that part. Takeshi Kaneshiro pried open other people's closed stores in the middle of the night to do business. Diligently doing a Thai massage for a piece of pork. Forcibly invited the long-haired man to eat ice cream, made him a huge flame ice cream, and took the long-haired man's family for a drive.
Stupidly long white ice cream trucks drive through the streets of Hong Kong late at night. There were few pedestrians and passing vehicles, and there were faint lights like fireflies in the rooms of the roadside buildings.
Intoxicated by the breeze, Takeshi Kaneshiro looked childishly satisfied and happy.
I instantly remembered countless Hong Kong movies that I had seen during my five years of elementary school.
Every winter and summer in elementary school, I live with my grandmother's parents for a while. Watching a TV station that broadcasts Hong Kong movies 24 hours a day, for a primary school student, many movies are not understood at all, and they gradually forget.
Memory works amazingly. Sometimes it exists in a non-existent form. A lot of repetition early on leaves a deep imprint on the brain. Even with the passage of time, these experiences seem to have never existed. But they never disappeared, they just became subconscious. Or sublimated into inspiration, or internalized into a complex.
The humid, sultry, depressing, chaotic, and trying to live feeling of the noisy streets is highly consistent with the style of Hong Kong films in the 1990s, which depicted a lot of little people struggling to survive. Makes me feel very familiar.
So there is a sense of security.
I think so.
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