Frankly speaking, Japan has always had the most contrived culture in the world. That is a tense culture of false and seriousness. It's almost absurd, even curious. For example, I don’t think it’s normal for a benefactor and a geisha to bow down to each other before making love. It's simply creepy, this kind of unreasonable sense of ritual. So in fact this is a race that lives in total delusion. Geisha is part of this delusion. Pulled away from the women. Exist in an illusory form. With excessive white face and vermilion lips, it brought hallucinations, became hallucinations, and eventually died of hallucinations. When she wears white socks that are not stained with dust, steps on extraordinary clogs, puts on twelve layers of elegant kimono, and turns her hair into a magnificent fan, she is no longer the woman who can be identified by her body. She becomes a symbol. She is referring to an identity and a role. She buried herself under clothes, powder, rules, and proportions. Therefore, even if she is in love, it is unfortunate. Because she didn't know who was loved. Therefore, even if she falls in love with others, it is unfortunate. Because she didn't know which one she was in love with. She must be sad. That is as inevitable as eating and sleeping, and death. She must be sad. What's more worthy of sadness is that she doesn't even know which one of herself is sad, and which one is worthy of sadness. In the film, that night, Sayuri won everyone's attention with a crazy snow dance. Half a quiet snow light reflected her face. Like a demon. Such as charm. Like a bright ghost. Suddenly become confused. In the realm of love, no one really wants to become a Buddha right away. The next day, Sayuri moved to the capital. Become the most worthy of all illusions. Oh, so gorgeous, so gorgeous. However, I prefer to see the loneliness of a geisha as a woman after her fame. I love that scene the most, Chu Tao brings sorrowful flames of war like Ashura. After that, she wore a black-and-white kimono with splashes of ink and walked down the gray and winding streets. The eyes are still strong and stubborn. She disappeared empty-handed into the misty street corner. Elegant, unpredictable and hasty. This is the story I like. A woman who loved, hoped, owned, and later lost. Together with that arrogant and unparalleled identity. There should be beauty and silence at the same time, in life. Like light, like wind. 2006-1-5
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