That year, Sergio was 38 years old. He wandered the streets and took a standard photo at a photo booth on the side of the street. He was mediocre, abject, completely lacking in his former style, and his dull eyes didn't know where to look.
Outside the painting, there is a voice: 38 years old, old, just feel stupid, stiff, like broken fruit, like waste. Maybe it's a tropical relationship, everything doesn't last... The
man sits on the ground, with drawers and photo albums scattered around him, he is looking through old photos -
there is a voice in his heart: I'm old, 15 years old I was a genius when I was 25 and I had my own shop and then, Lola, my wife, like a decorative plant...
he misses his parents, except for the "at this time" and the old photos of his parents, there's one more detail, It was his mother who always had chewing gum and old-fashioned shaving blades in the envelopes, even though he usually only used an electric razor. He took out the letter from the mailbox and shone it at the sunlight outside the building. He knew what it was without opening it. He smiled...
He sat on the ground and looked at the old photos. This scene is so familiar, all nostalgic people have such actions, picking up one but not willing to put it down, gathering one by one in their hands. The movement is slow, and there is some hesitation, afraid of disturbing something, and afraid of immersing more deeply.
Then, when he found a clearer memory and let go, he saw that the time was falling, he saw that the days were still growing, and he saw the shadow of the old year standing for a long time, looking like forever.
There is a paragraph at the beginning of the second chapter of "Speak, Memory": When I look back and remember myself, I always listen to mild fantasies, some of which are auditory, others are visual... Just before falling asleep, I often Perception of a one-way conversation going on in some subordinate part of my mind, completely independent of the actual inclination of thought. It was a neutral, aloof, anonymous voice...
he heard the voices of relatives and friends smiling at him in the black and white photos.
This is a man who began to recall and summarize at the age of 38.
This scene is so heartwarming.
At night, the dance party in the park has long since ended, recalling that pure Havana ballad, the dancing crowd spun in a hurry, unable to see each other's expressions.
There's almost no Brazilian music in this film, it's all very old jazz with muffled drums.
Sergio was walking down the street, the street lights were dim, and there were armies and tanks on both sides. He looked left and right, what was he looking for?
The island was a trap--he saw the trap consuming the city, the country, and the people trapped in it.
He said: "We are tiny, we are poor, our dignity is precious.
On the island, people are waiting for the inevitable ending. Is it a mistake for him to stay here? What if you leave with your parents and wife?
Although he looked left and right, he had no regrets.
He went home and walked to the telescope on the balcony. Instead of looking at the lights under his feet, he turned to the night sky to see the clouds blowing over the moon.
The next day, another dawn, it was an empty mirror—the flute sound was low, desolate, and occasionally a few clear slides. The sound of the drums was hoarse and dull, like a warning in confusion.
In the foreground is the man's telescope on the balcony, which is empty and unobstructed. It seems to see clearly what has happened, and what will happen, is the vision of the prophet.
The lens rippled along the telescope, with the meaning of patrolling and stroking, and the armored vehicles lined up in the street were advancing.
Occasionally, there is a gust of wind blowing from the boat.
A good movie should be watched well.
I watched the movie twice in a row, and even after two days, I couldn't say it simply and directly: I was moved. I think this is too sloppy.
Like in this movie, can't say: drama. "Under-Developed Memories", despite its age, is still real to the touch.
When watching a movie, I often forget that this is a work from 1968, a full half a century later. The director's narration style, the selection of photography angles, and the editing techniques are all excellent works. Compared with many movies in recent years, Especially superb.
Even the poster of the movie captures the writer's moment with great precision: he is holding the telescope, but there is still a little distance from the camera, the expression on his face seems to be infinitely eager, as if he has fallen asleep... It is him outside the painting, or outside the window The social change that he is eager to integrate into, but there is always a wait-and-see distance that makes him unable to jump in.
At the beginning of the film, he used binoculars to look at the streets of half the city and the people on the streets. At the end of the film, he looked at the night sky and the incomplete moon.
And in the end, it's an empty mirror, the times go straight ahead, and you can't stop anything.
The actor in the play has extraordinary charm, and his gestures are just like his identity. These details can be corrected one after another. He has a history and is a bourgeois writer in the movie and in the deep transformation.
There are many his backs in the film, and looking at the city from his back, his gaze, his eyes have a kind of brilliance given to him by the characters, or the brilliance he has given to the characters, there is no difference between you and me, it is two forces. intertwined forces.
Only in this firm gaze with its own texture can the memory of an era be spread out.
Low-exploitation memory - I don't know what to call this text, it seems that whatever statement is attached to it is superfluous. After thinking about it for a long time, I wanted to borrow the title of Nabokov's autobiography "Speak, Memory", with its simplicity as the lead, such as a murmured call, such as a earnestly induced spell:
Speak, memory...
Before writing, there was no Give yourself a set number of words, and there is no outline. It doesn't matter if it is 3000 words or 6000 words. Writing this, I follow the narrative line of the film almost exactly, and I'm reluctant to get around the film's natural and well-designed structure. It's just that the news materials from that year are gathered together in one place, and the right is the background.
To be honest, I can only say half of the movie.
I can also admit that these notes are not the director's efforts to tell, but a partial reveal and display. His theme should be behind the story. Of course, this is not only a love story, even I doubt whether there has ever been a relatively stable love between them.
However, I don't care if this is a theme or a hidden line, it is the evolution of a person I am concerned about over a period of time, and some changes in his heart.
In this half of the movie, I felt the power that the director gave the movie, even though there were many helpless and confused characters in it.
Such a film, such a director, what he instilled in the film is not just a silent passion, but a time and space that he built with film that will remain in your heart for a long time after watching the film. Among them, for a long time, he refused to come out -
these four words are silent gratitude, endless depth, and hope to gain more strength from the concise and powerful film language.
I say, in any sense or angle, this movie is a classic that has traveled through time and space.
I also remembered Guy Maddin's "The Saddest Music in the World" (2006) and "My Winnipeg" (2008) in the past two years. And Terence Davies' "Of Time And The City" (2008) seems to have a distinct relationship of inheritance, extension, or progression.
The changes of the same family, city and country are all told from a purely personal perspective - memories, flashbacks, interspersed with a large number of documentary footage - the narrative has steep waves and hidden feelings. , the unsoothed memory finally reverted to a quiet whisper.
In addition to the memory of low-level development, there is a large area of primitive accumulation, like a wave of wheat under a clear sky, one crop after another, harvested in the front and still growing behind.
Time does not necessarily have a decisive justice in our imagination. Time has its own thickness, and memories are also divided into cold and warm.
Deep-locked memories and long-lasting memories together create a coherent space and time, both from the past and about the future - there, there are memories of life.
That must be in the fourth dimension that exists in this world: A Place in the World...
Whisper, the inner voice.
The confession and concealment of memories are all in the mottled images.
Very light black and white, mixed into clean gray, soft light pouring from all sides, not dazzling. At that time, time was peaceful and graceful, and so was memory.
Think of a scene in the movie, or somewhere in the world: the city was full of gusts of wind, he came, and behind him were the stormy waves, the closer he got, the stronger the wind was blowing, turning the waves into a misty cloud Losing his weight, he could only flutter behind him.
Black-and-white images, with occasional tiny or large snowflake particles flipping through the clouds, plain white tones, and skylight.
Come on, memory—it was like a sigh.
[Memories of Underdevelopment]
Memorias del subdesarrollo
Also known as: Memories of Underdevelopment
Inconsolable Memories
Historias del subdesarrollo
Director: Thomas Gutierrez Alea
Starring: Thomas Gutierrez Alea Tomas Gutierrez Alea
Edmundo Desnoes
Sergio CorrieriLanguage
: Spanish _ 1974 National Film Critics Association Award for Best Foreign Language Film
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