The second male looked a little familiar, and later learned that the director was the director of "Eavesdropping Storm", and the second male was also the second male in "Eavesdropping Storm". The three-hour movie, the feeling of a long-form macro, does not feel long and procrastination, and is completely immersed in it. The background is very grand. It tells the story of a man who grew up from a suffering and struggling childhood to a gloomy middle age, and his life gradually began to have a glimmer of light. It also witnessed the ups and downs of a country in that special historical period, the rise and fall of honor and disgrace. His childhood was spent under the turbulent times and harsh political oppression at the time, free will was shackled, and the air was so dull that it was hard to breathe. Aunt would often take him to see art exhibitions, hold her hand, follow the explanations, pace lightly in the exhibition hall, the soft light in front of the paintings, and squat down to talk to him softly—she knew that he had a talent for painting. They sat together on a particularly beautiful bus, passing through the particularly beautiful countryside, until they arrived at the terminal in the evening. After getting off the bus, my aunt did not leave in a hurry, but walked to the place where the buses gathered, stood in front of a row of cars, prayed to the old drivers with both hands, and smiled - the driver nodded immediately, and said that. Help her, then turn on the headlights and honk the horn together... In the place where the light gathers, with a long whistle, my aunt stretched her arms, as if embracing everything, closed her eyes slightly, and immersed herself in it. The little boy not far away stared wide-eyed at what was happening. Her aunt's "alternative" thinking brought her bad luck in that special era - she was taken away as a mentally ill patient, and then transferred to a suburban hospital to be poisoned collectively and disappeared silently. When she was forcibly taken away, the aunt struggled desperately, and her family was helpless, watching her being dragged and dragged into the car. The little boy blocked his vision with the back of his hand until it was blurred, removed, slowly clear, and blocked again... He saw the rear window, and his aunt mouthed to him - don't look away. Large swaths of wheat fields are rolling in waves, and the wheat ears are whispering with each other. This sub-wind blowing the ripe wheat field blows over the green grass and green hillside, and the vibrant greenery rolls up and rushes up to the hot-blooded young man who is thinking about life on the big tree high on the hillside. It was a big tree standing proudly on the hillside, the only tree in the green grass that covered the mountains and plains. He jumped down from the tree, ran across the knee-length grass, through the waist-high wheat field, galloped home, and said ecstatically to his father in front of the hand-made stage at the door, "I understand, I understand everything, Everything is connected... But my father can never figure out why he just doesn't have the qualifications to be an ordinary teacher, but can only kneel on the steps to wipe the floor and say hello to the passing son... In the end use one late at night A rope frees itself. The son still blocked the scene in front of him with the back of his hand, moved it away, blurred it, and blocked it again. In this way, the memory will not be so deep. He fell in love with a beautiful girl in the academy, got pregnant, and had an abortion—the person who killed their child was the girl's father, and the hospital professor who had been sent to the gas chamber after her aunt's desperate pleas were fruitless. Soon, the situation was turbulent, and the environment had no room for art to survive. The young couple fled to West Germany to seek a way out. He continued to study painting and started painting creations in the avant-garde of the new trend of thought, following the trend or creating, he thought hard and found himself. He accepted the recommendation of his father-in-law, and worked part-time in the hospital to do the same floor cleaning work as his father did before. After finishing the work, he went to the studio to continue to conceive and create. His teacher, who never evaluated his works for his students, came to the studio to look at his paintings and told him the story of grease and felt blankets. Before leaving, he took off his hat and bowed to greet him, revealing a large area of red on the top of his head, which was left after the severe burn had healed. His eyes deepened. After a period of sluggish reflection and struggle, a newspaper photo caught his eye and he started photo painting. The photo of the murderer being arrested, the group photo of his aunt and his aunt when he was a child, and the one-dimensional photo of the old man. He interlaced these heads in a picture frame and reflected each other, so that the old man would face the moment he saw it. Like ashes, he almost fainted. The truth is looming, ready to come out. He didn't understand why people didn't like pictures of themselves, but liked to paint themselves? Because the photos are so real, people are more willing to accept the temporary pleasure brought by the illusion. Now, he draws pictures one by one, retouching them to blur, like what his eyes have seen before, fusion and fission, trying to fight against those cruel moments in memory. The more you see it, the more you want to block it. The more blurry it is, the harder it is to see clearly. Equally important or not. At the end of the first day of the exhibition, it was getting late. He walked home and passed the parking lot. He went down the steps, walked to a row of buses, had a few words with the master, and then stopped in front of the bus, and the lights came on instantly. , a long whistle, he stretched his arms... The smile overflowing from the corner of his mouth was sent to the little aunt who used to stand here, and the silent little boy not far away. There was no room for art to survive in the realm, so the young couple fled to West Germany to seek a way out. He continued to study painting and started painting creations in the avant-garde of the new trend of thought, following the trend or creating, he thought hard and found himself. He accepted the recommendation of his father-in-law, and worked part-time in the hospital to do the same floor cleaning work as his father did before. After finishing the work, he went to the studio to continue to conceive and create. His teacher, who never evaluated his works for his students, came to the studio to look at his paintings and told him the story of grease and felt blankets. Before leaving, he took off his hat and bowed to greet him, revealing a large area of red on the top of his head, which was left after the severe burn had healed. His eyes deepened. After a period of sluggish reflection and struggle, a newspaper photo caught his eye and he started photo painting. The photo of the murderer being arrested, the group photo of his aunt and his aunt when he was a child, and the one-dimensional photo of the old man. He interlaced these heads in a picture frame and reflected each other, so that the old man would face the moment he saw it. Like ashes, he almost fainted. The truth is looming, ready to come out. He didn't understand why people didn't like pictures of themselves, but liked to paint themselves? Because the photos are so real, people are more willing to accept the temporary pleasure brought by the illusion. Now, he draws pictures one by one, retouching them to blur, like what his eyes have seen before, fusion and fission, trying to fight against those cruel moments in memory. The more you see it, the more you want to block it. The more blurry it is, the harder it is to see clearly. Equally important or not. At the end of the first day of the exhibition, it was getting late. He walked home and passed the parking lot. He went down the steps, walked to a row of buses, had a few words with the master, and then stopped in front of the bus, and the lights came on instantly. , a long whistle, he stretched his arms... The smile overflowing from the corner of his mouth was sent to the little aunt who used to stand here, and the silent little boy not far away. There was no room for art to survive in the realm, so the young couple fled to West Germany to seek a way out. He continued to study painting and started painting creations in the avant-garde of the new trend of thought, following the trend or creating, he thought hard and found himself. He accepted the recommendation of his father-in-law, and worked part-time in the hospital to do the same floor cleaning work as his father did before. After finishing the work, he went to the studio to continue to conceive and create. His teacher, who never evaluated his works for his students, came to the studio to look at his paintings and told him the story of grease and felt blankets. Before leaving, he took off his hat and bowed to greet him, revealing a large area of red on the top of his head, which was left after the severe burn had healed. His eyes deepened. After a period of sluggish reflection and struggle, a newspaper photo caught his eye and he started photo painting. The photo of the murderer being arrested, the group photo of his aunt and his aunt when he was a child, and the one-dimensional photo of the old man. He interlaced these heads in a picture frame and reflected each other, so that the old man would face the moment he saw it. Like ashes, he almost fainted. The truth is looming, ready to come out. He didn't understand why people didn't like pictures of themselves, but liked to paint themselves? Because the photos are so real, people are more willing to accept the temporary pleasure brought by the illusion. Now, he draws pictures one by one, retouching them to blur, like what his eyes have seen before, fusion and fission, trying to fight against those cruel moments in memory. The more you see it, the more you want to block it. The more blurry it is, the harder it is to see clearly. Equally important or not. At the end of the first day of the exhibition, it was getting late. He walked home and passed the parking lot. He went down the steps, walked to a row of buses, had a few words with the master, and then stopped in front of the bus, and the lights came on instantly. , a long whistle, he stretched his arms... The smile overflowing from the corner of his mouth was sent to the little aunt who used to stand here, and the silent little boy not far away. The inch of the photo, he intertwined these head portraits in a frame, and reflected each other, making the old man's face turn ashen at the moment he saw it, and he almost fainted. The truth is looming, ready to come out. He didn't understand why people didn't like pictures of themselves, but liked to paint themselves? Because the photos are so real, people are more willing to accept the temporary pleasure brought by the illusion. Now, he draws pictures one by one, retouching them to blur, like what his eyes have seen before, fusion and fission, trying to fight against those cruel moments in memory. The more you see it, the more you want to block it. The more blurry it is, the harder it is to see clearly. Equally important or not. At the end of the first day of the exhibition, it was getting late. He walked home and passed the parking lot. He went down the steps, walked to a row of buses, had a few words with the master, and then stopped in front of the bus, and the lights came on instantly. , a long whistle, he stretched his arms... The smile overflowing from the corner of his mouth was sent to the little aunt who used to stand here, and the silent little boy not far away. The inch of the photo, he intertwined these head portraits in a frame, and reflected each other, making the old man's face turn ashen at the moment he saw it, and he almost fainted. The truth is looming, ready to come out. He didn't understand why people didn't like pictures of themselves, but liked to paint themselves? Because the photos are so real, people are more willing to accept the temporary pleasure brought by the illusion. Now, he draws pictures one by one, retouching them to blur, like what his eyes have seen before, fusion and fission, trying to fight against those cruel moments in memory. The more you see it, the more you want to block it. The more blurry it is, the harder it is to see clearly. Equally important or not. At the end of the first day of the exhibition, it was getting late. He walked home and passed the parking lot. He went down the steps, walked to a row of buses, had a few words with the master, and then stopped in front of the bus, and the lights came on instantly. , a long whistle, he stretched his arms... The smile overflowing from the corner of his mouth was sent to the little aunt who used to stand here, and the silent little boy not far away.
View more about Never Look Away reviews
