Jarmusch's BROKEN FLOWERS, like all his films, have the ability to blunt time.
The soundtrack may be as simple as nothing, silence, the occasional black screen, the stagnation of time.
Or like an electric drill, from weak to strong, from strong to nothing, ethereal to nothingness, until the lips taste bitter.
The charm of independence lies in the details of their blooming, the dialogue is simple, and the plot is simple, but in it, you can witness the process of a flower from blooming to withering, and a few swirls of pink from bright to gray.
When a rain arrives as scheduled, all the sourness mixed with the loneliness that cannot be communicated emerges.
Then I suddenly discovered that the original loneliness was just myself.
Going around a big circle, escaping from the past, but also bound by the status quo; happy for a while, and lonely for half a lifetime, or back to the original point.
Those passers-by in his life, even if they were broken, were fortunately not destroyed by him.
And he was so easily destroyed by the ambiguity of those peach-colored connections, and he didn't even know who he was.
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