Onegin raised his head lazily, staring at the world with disdain, with large blanks and large silences. Many times, nobles are too lazy to speak, too lazy to think, too lazy to act, and even too lazy to live.
The empty country house, although grand as a palace, is as gloomy and dilapidated as an ancient tomb. Most of the decorations that look ornate can't stand up to close scrutiny. Russian style, probably. This country has always been grand and humble, luxurious and dilapidated, noble and lowly coexisting, and there is a morbid harmony. Onegin sat still like a statue in the light of the extreme day that filtered through the window, his complexion as sickly and eerily pale and pale as the sun's rays that never fade away. He's just tired of everything, he doesn't even bother to die and end his boring life.
There is such a girl, although she is silent and quiet, but her fresh face is full of life force. She reads, observes, thinks, and she lives seriously. But of course she fell in love with Onegin, the almost lifeless Onegin.
Onegin was right at the time, rejecting the girl's fresh love and the happiness that seemed to be right in front of him. The fact is that he does not belong to happiness, such a person will never be happy. But six years later, when he came back from his travels and saw a beautiful lady who had already married a wife, he suddenly returned to his passion for life and his desire for love.
The result, of course, was that he got nothing. It might have been a good ending if he had fallen in the duel on that cold, misty morning instead of the poor friend.
Onegin walked alone on the streets of St. Petersburg with a staggering and decadent demeanor. Perhaps it would be better if he really died.
A simple story, simple plot. In snow-covered Russia, there are people who pursue true love despite the cold. In those empty houses, in those never-ending dance parties, those Eastern European beauties with their skin torn apart, those Eastern European gentlemen with perfect nose contours, those hot breaths, those fanned sweats, those who vanished in The sweet words and chuckles in the air, those who are lost in the light of the extreme day, shine brightly. . . . . .
There are also the serfs who are always in ragged clothes, the poor children who are always running silently, the vodka bottle that is always held in the hands of men, the prostitutes who always appear in the cold with light clothes and pale makeup, and always stay on the side of the street waiting for the corpse to be collected. The shabby coffin, the bright spring that can never wait, the summer vitality that can never be kept. . . . . .
Which Russia is the country I love? Which Russia is the country that sunflowers can represent? In the end, which Russia is the legendary legend with great momentum and suffering?
For Onegin, there is no pity or hatred or disdain; for the girl, there is no love or injustice. I know that everything is nothing but the splendid verses in the yellowed pages, and everything is just fragmentary memories in time and space. My Russia, I will always watch from the sidelines, but I have no love and no pain to describe.
Perhaps the British actors are the closest in terms of temperament, but they still don't have the dazzling atmosphere of extreme extravagance, extreme boredom, extreme pain, extreme depression. Ralph Farnes, who disliked him first, fortunately did not affect the feeling of watching the film; Liv Tyler, always a silent and beautiful character, maybe she has more energy to be discovered.
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