The half-person tall grass danced. The apple rolled down the hillside into the stream. The black dog barked at the silent crowd. There was a surge of blood in the heart-piercing sound. Anatolian poetry winds down along this murderous spring. Love and hatred, don’t they need time? Don’t you need to repent when you wait and miss? This is how the Anatolians inherited the qualities of the history buried in the wilderness—all the joy, anger, sorrow, love, hatred, and hatred have turned into silence and tolerance. The nature of history. Only history can give deepness and patience, as well as pain.
No one can grasp what happened in these past events in Asia Minor, and even the most basic process of the case that runs through it is not clear, but it can be guessed, it can be pieced together, and it can be felt. In the two and a half hours, people seldom speak; even if they say, they are not all truthful; even if they are the truth, they are not very patient. People covertly reveal some of their own history and life, nothing more than children and wives. Prosecutors, doctors, policemen, drivers, suspects, no matter what occupation or status you are, no one can escape this topic.
Life is heavy and depressing, and the only way to escape cruel questioning is to lie. The police deceived their wives and said that they had not forgotten to take medicine for their children; the drivers would deceive everyone to say that they had no family; the prosecutors would deceive the doctors and call their wives an adult; the doctors would also tell others that they had no wives. The suspect was also cheating, but it was the police who cheated, so he was beaten up violently. However, deception cannot solve the problem. Life is getting heavier and heavier, accumulating in my heart, and becoming sick for a long time, so I need to vent. The police vented with the suspect, the driver vented with bullets, the prosecutor vented with drinking, the doctor vented with the dead body, and the suspect vented with the dead. They were all venting, there was no difference, but the three words "suspect" touched the nerves of the law, so his fate seemed even more unfortunate for him.
But in this world, there are only suspects as criminals.
For example, the prosecutor, he once had a happy family. The wife is very beautiful, and the two of them are very affectionate. However, when the child was about to be born in five months, the prosecutor accidentally got drunk and slept with another woman. Although the wife had forgotten this incident on the surface and forgave the prosecutor, she never remembered it from that day on. In order to punish the prosecutor, the wife made up her mind to commit suicide after the child was born. The wife calmly told the prosecutor about the time of his death. He didn't care about it. He thought it was a gibberish when his wife was in the depression period of pregnancy. However, one day after five months, the wife took food from her father. Excessive heart disease drug digoxin caused a sudden heart attack and died. The prosecutor was very sad, but he couldn't figure out the real cause of his wife's death. Since the wife had asserted that her death date was not the slightest deviation five months ago, the prosecutor can only attribute her death to unknown causes.
The past is unbearable to look back, but the punishment never disappears. When the doctor appeared in front of the prosecutor and began to doubt the cause of the death of the "friend's wife" that the prosecutor said, old events flooded out. The prosecutor who is ashamed of the doctor can no longer bear the scalpel look, because the real murderer is the enforcer of this law, the judge of the criminal, the incarnation of justice in the world, and himself. He is still at large.
Life is no different. They are all unhappy. The only difference is that they are lucky and unlucky, bear and can’t bear, tears or stabbing a knife. People are no different from people. You can escape the law, but you can't escape the suffering of your heart and the torture of your soul. In the face of one's own family, everyone's heart is turbulent; the prosecutor is but one of them. After the doctor was divorced, he lived alone and was lonely and unbearable; the driver was married by the fingertips, and his life was not happy; the police child suffered from depression and needed medication; the suspect discovered that the enemy’s son was born for him. These stories sneak hidden, sometimes appearing in lies exposed by the camera, but most of the time they are hidden in silence, hidden in the eyes, hidden in the moment of picking up the teacup, hidden in the shadow of the lungs of the deceased being dissected.
So how many stories of men are hidden in a cigarette? What kind of a story can the police break the cigarette they have quit for many years for a criminal? What kind of Asa can make two people smoke silently in the wind, shivering? Let's go back to the beginning of the film, look at the man who gesticulates and make irresponsible remarks, and at the end of the film, the woman who does not want to admit her husband’s body but is silent and weeping, and then look at the long-lasting confrontation between the woman and the criminal. . Maybe this is really a poignant love story, really a love promise that has finally been fulfilled, maybe the criminal has nearly sacrificed his life for his beloved woman but was thrown into stone by his unknowing biological son?
What is a crime in the end.
People are willing to bury the most complicated and fragile things in their hearts, but sometimes they can’t stop talking, so words become hazy poetry; the camera is willing to hide the cruelest and bloodiest things behind the door, but Can't stop the melancholy that climbs up the face, so the movie becomes a sad picture. Only the pieces of sound are always clear and never stopped. The sound of insects in the sparse trees, the motors of the cars, the angry roars of the crowd, the low-flying screams of the birds, the laughter of the students outside the window, and the hissing of the skin intestines...all these sounds poured into the ears, without hiding , Even disgustingly real. If there is a mouth that can never be opened, and words that can never be said, then all the hidden truths are mostly rushed into the heart along these harsh sounds.
...
Asia Minor, also known as Anatolia, spread out in front of you like a maze. However, we neither need to see through nor figure it out, because it is history that gave them the intricate psychology and relationship. History entrusts them with customs, grants them culture, and puts every inch of land into their blood. The gully on the faces and the expressions between the eyebrows of those who are still alive and painful are not unlike the stone sculptures under the lightning? Haven't the thunder and violent storms of today been flowing on this plateau for more than ten centuries? The past and emotions that have been inherited for thousands of years will be inherited. The past life becomes the past, the past merges into the memory, the memory returns to life, and the cycle is endless.
The prosecutor meaningfully handed over the entire dissection process to the doctor. When the assistant began to dissect the deceased and determine the cause of death, the internal organs churned and blood was splashed. A few drops of black blood burst onto the face, and the doctor hurriedly wiped it off, leaving the dissection table, and inadvertently saw the deceased's wife and son in the window who were going downhill. Downhill is a school, and the children are throwing balls. One accidentally, the ball was thrown on the slope, and the son ran over immediately and tried his best to kick the ball down the slope. However, this is not his game after all. The mother drifted away, and the child struggled to catch up-this was his childhood. Sooner or later, the love and hatred of the adults chased by the child will become the love and hatred of the child who has lost the two fathers, and the cycle is endless.
Even that cruel fact has been buried forever in the doctor's autopsy report.
The work is finally completed, no one knows whether there is overtime pay. The doctor returned to his room in silence and sighed a few times. Flipping through the photo of myself energetic and enveloped in love, taking a look at the tired, tired and shaggy face in the mirror, looking at the dead branches and fallen leaves drifting in the wind and the black cat with nowhere to hide...years. This person who dances with death and rides with the devil may once again clearly feel aging, chronic death, and the difficulty of survival. But this is a living life. Although I am sleepy, I am still alive, still in pain, watching, warm and cold. Knowing life and death, as a doctor, an angel who can shake hands with death, there should be some comfort in my heart.
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