The romantic old man received a letter: "I'm writing to tell you that you and I have a son—yes, I've been hiding it from you. He's an adult now and wants to find you. If there is a young man soon The boy finds you and tells you that he is your biological son, please don’t be too surprised. The reason why I haven’t told you for so many years is that I don’t think it is necessary. Please don’t come to me.”
Most of my life has passed, so many encounters, long and short, wrong and right, and some not. This morning his girlfriend - ex-girlfriend - just got angry and moved away soon after the letter was delivered to the door. He thought that "everything is not a thousand sails", only then did he realize that there was something other than a thousand sails.
Pink envelope with no sender information. Typewriter ink without the sender's handwriting. The blurred postmark hides the sender's address. He re-examined his life: most of his life has passed, so many encounters, long and short, wrong and right, and some not. Now, someone told him that he had a young son.
The young son was looking for him. Maybe in a few days.
There is no indigestion or indigestion for such a thing. Most of the life has passed, and in this state, every breath and every breath is digested, and when it is digested in a lifetime, it will die. But he did feel a certain kind of excitement overwhelmed; "The reason why I haven't told you for so many years is that I don't think it's necessary. Please don't look for who I am." - He completely understood such considerations, and at the same time could not restrain to sad.
who is she? Excited about it, his feisty detective fan friend pestered him to share more details. He thinks that most of his life has passed, so many encounters, long and short, wrong and right, and some not-how can he find out which she is in which segment? The detective nerd is serious: Given the conditions, there's still a range to be deduced—this was twenty years or so ago; she must have had a typewriter with pink ink. And, she probably prefers pink.
He thought about it and gave the list to his detective fan friend. Not to mention the persistence of being a friend, frankly speaking, he really wanted to know. Although he didn't know either, what if he really knew—he didn't want to. He didn't know what he would think.
The detective fan friend handed him a folder with the latest personal information of the five women, a road map of home addresses, proof of rental car, and airline tickets. Their existence was re-examined in such a strange and direct way, so unmistakable. The address of one of the women was a cemetery.
He didn't know how to meet them again, most of his life had passed. What kind of conversation does he have to start with them to finally get to the answer about his son? "Don't think too much about it. Just dress neatly and cleanly, say you're passing by, and stop by. Let's talk about the current situation and see if there are many pink elements in the house decoration. Are there any pictures of children in the living room, children? What does it look like? Is there a pink typewriter somewhere? Naturally ask the family, and pay attention to the expressions on their faces when they talk about their children.” The detective fan friend continued to give advice, “By the way, don’t forget to bring a bunch of flowers, They'll like it."
He took the folder, packed his bags, and set off.
This Jarmusch's work more than ten years ago tells such a story, "The Story of the Lover's Search for the Child of the Former Lover of the Merry Old Man."
Jarmusch's very personal life sketch won the Cannes Jury Prize that year. I can't help but feel that the world back then was much younger than it is now. Now, competition films in the non-Chinese world still tell private stories, and the themes and conflicts inevitably become more and more outward. Various doctrines, phenomena, ideologies, and world-class ice axes are slashing at the hearts of the audience, for fear We are too hard, too hard, too numb. This is very important and very good, but I have to admit, I miss movies like "Broken Flower" too much. There are some sour jokes and tooth-biting troubles about the loneliness of superior middle-aged white men. In this chaotic world with "more important issues", it really doesn't matter. However, who is not limited by some insignificant loneliness, unable to control life and destiny.
There is something tacitly poetic about this innocuous fragmentation.
And I miss this poetry of the movie.
View more about Broken Flowers reviews
