The return of Ou You coincides with the release of "The Pianist at Sea".
This movie, which I watched countless times in the dark night when I was young, and was heartbroken countless times, seemed to have some new meaning when it was put on the big screen.
In 1900, the abandoned baby from Europe, with his noble negativity, stubbornly guarded the old soul of the European continent, and finally died for it.
How can a person be correctly passed by the world?
And until today, I seem to have really understood the part of Douqin.
The inventor of jazz, the mighty Mr. Morton with diamonds on his front teeth, as a black man, he also had his battles to fight.
The flourishing civilization of the New World desperately needs a pawn, and his complexion does not allow him to retreat.
This fight between old and new civilizations, how brutal, but how graceful.
Even more unfortunate is that this Mr. Morton had picked the wrong opponent for the duel from the start - 1900 was a man completely aloof from winning or losing.
Speaking of detachment, I love Tim Roth's big, ever-sleepy, psychedelic eyes.
Also innocent and ignorant like a child, and indifferent like an old man.
Because of this, his view is not only the first glimpse of the light, but also the penetration of the big waves.
When he heard the music he had just played on the gramophone, there was more fear than surprise on his pale face.
"My music can never exist without me!" He snatched the recorded record. This move can be regarded as the last resistance before the era of mechanical replication comes crashing down.
There is no doubt that the music of the 1900s was written for every face, every atmosphere, every unique life—to the widow who murdered her husband, to the contrite prostitute; to the clothes of first class. The shadow on the temples is also written to the smoky atmosphere in the third-class cabin; to the furious sea of rage, and also to the quiet ocean.
And when that tune plays, the fresh strawberry-like face of the Italian girl, and the tenderness in his heart when he sees this face, is bound to strike again the rough souls of all modernists.
All that is human can never be submissive to the machine, and he cannot compromise to the new world.
After so many years of reviewing it over and over again, I only see the ill-fated fate of 1900 as an individual. His genius, his hardships, what he gained, what he lost, and what he insisted on, all moved me.
But his preference is jade broken, and his actions are not actions. When I understand it, he is already middle-aged.
How did Xin Qiji write about his unfulfilled ambitions and hard-to-find bosom friends? ——I watched Wu Gou and photographed the railings, but no one would agree.
The 1900s were over, and he knew it.
He has been watching the old days for nearly half a century, the world is turbulent, and he is still, now, it is time.
Sitting in the rusted cabin of the Victoria, with tons of dynamite under his ass, he stretched out his hand, struck the piano in the void, and played a void tune dedicated to an illusory past.
The mourning can be so solemn that the fireworks block the sun and the sea and sky shake.
The mourning can also be so rudimentary that only one person buries him.
The significance of 1900 is precisely that he inevitably disappears, never existed, and cannot be reproduced after that. Just like the old Europe in the mind of director Giuseppe Tonatore.
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