The first seven-and-a-half-hour movie in life.
Like a deep and fascinating image vortex, rotating slowly and without stopping, involuntarily inhaling me into the dream and illusion-like world it created.
A masterpiece that immerses the whole body and soul without reservation.
Clear and cold, timeless and boundless. Deconstruction and reconstruction, the image of breathing.
Through Beratar's prudent eyes, we stare at a highly abstract, spiritually externalized world.
Poets, wise men, and philosophers have condensed their thoughts on the society of the crowd, abandoning the narrative logic of inheritance and transformation, and the human apocalypse that goes straight to the essence of life.
The first half is a model of literary imaging. From text to presentation, it is natural and perfect in various senses. The little girl is the most mediocre in comparison.
The silent but deafening protest is a utopia that does not exist but is still disillusioned.
End to end loops back and forth, endless death knell. The cold is so cold that there is no way to escape.
Life is a desperate satanic tango.
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