The long shots like line drawing, the plain character dialogue, and the ubiquitous French black humor, quietly telling the helplessness of life, make people feel extremely melancholy after reading it. Man is a greedy animal, longing for a peaceful life, and at the same time yearning for freedom of drifting, but can never have both. Every bit of romantic fantasies bowed their heads without exception in front of the cruel reality.
There are several memorable characters in the film, such as the proprietress of the bakery:
"I want a bread." "Anything else?" "No, thank you."
"I want a baguette. "Anything else?" "No, thank you."
"..." "Anything else?" "No, thank you."
Of course, there is also the killer who only says a word every day. It's all at ten o'clock, thinking before, and resting afterwards. When the sentence "Our lives are passing by like time" pops out of that expressionless face, is there any pain besides being laughed at?
Sometimes I suddenly think of something, a certain phone number, the stars of a certain day, a certain sentence, a certain flavor. . . But unlike Proust when I tasted cookies, I couldn't bear to look back. I am most afraid of opening the valve of memory and looking to the future. I don't believe in fatalism, but life is really helpless sometimes.
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