"It's because I haven't seen the smile of love, so I punish myself for the mockery of it."
--[Adele Hugo's story]
Unfortunately, I know very little about the films of the French New Wave period. Both Truffaut and Godard have only seen their masterpieces separately. Therefore, it is impossible to evaluate Truffaut's [The Story of Adele Hugo] in light of the times. But Truffaut's place in my heart was not shaken by my lack of knowledge. The unique feelings in his films are still comparable to those of modern excellent films.
As the "Four Hundred Blows", the pioneering work of the new wave of French films, Truffaut paid more attention to the characters themselves, and what the characters think and think is the essence of the film. At this point, [Adele Hugo's story] is also connected with it. His protagonist seems to live outside the conditions of society, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't get any recognition. The inner feelings rushed out like the tide, but they had to flow into the silent ocean. No matter how deep the color is, it will be exhausted under the infinite dilution of the ocean, until it can no longer find the way it used to be, including the gorgeous and unusual opening.
When you love someone, if that person doesn't love you the same, then it's not love. Adele Hugo writes to her father in a dark attic. Her monotonous pen presses delicately against nineteenth-century paper, and the handwriting grows tangled vines that evolve into a play she writes and directs. You can only love this way, there is no other way to love, even if there is no response, there is no other way. What a cold apocalypse it would be if one day you could take control of your obsession with another person.
However, just like Quasimodo loves Esmeralda, even self-righteous tenderness can only be short-lived. Adele, who originally hoped that her romance with a British officer could lead her to escape from the shackles of her family, had to face the man who was chatting with her and was full of love words, but she took this love as something that could be placed at will with great interest. Booty. Not even the spoils of war, they are cheap and disposable, so vulgar that they can't wait for the next night.
She pursued him through mountains and rivers, from one country to another, from one battlefield to another. The lovers around him are as endless as the scars in Adele's heart. She tried her best to get him to change his mind, but only got more ruthless taunts. Until she ran out of money and honor and fell ill in an African slum. He was still toasting with the blond beauty, his bright eyes and teeth, and the gorgeous petals scattered all over the floor. In the end, Adele no longer remembered him, nor the delicate facial features, the tall and straight figure of the British officer, nor the fanatical love like the plague. She was sent back to England to die alone in a nursing home. Like fireworks, it disappears at the brightest moment. But she was not the one who went to watch with a smile on her face, she was the fireworks themselves.
The loneliness in Truffaut's films is the most beautiful loneliness I've ever seen. It is different from Woody Allen's desolation with mockery, but a short-lived flower that blooms at night but no one is watching, taking care of itself and withering away. His enthusiasm was finally submerged in the conventional emotional lines, but he had the courage to go to the end of this tragedy.
Whether it was Antoine in [Four Hundred Blows] or Adele Hugo, they looked the same at the seaside. If you do not understand the imperfections of life, then you do not fully understand life. But no matter how realistic the world is, I still love his idealistic protagonists. Use the softest feelings to play a warrior.
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