Jake is the amplification of everyone's paradox

Alessandra 2022-03-22 09:02:16

Everyone is a mixture of contradictions, but Jake is more like the contradiction itself. He is dull but eager to hook up with girls. He is good at drawing but hides his paintings in the basement. He imagines himself to be a handsome and confident man. But he was addicted to sweets, and at the same time, he was disgusted by the ice cream that he liked so much. This subtle sweetness made him drift away from reality and reminded him how such a sense of happiness was false. While resenting the indelible impact of his flawed family of origin on him, he fantasizes that adults should be responsible for their own character. He can imagine everything beautiful, but he can't touch this beauty, even if it is a beautiful corner. He tried to kill his fantasy self, but not to embrace reality, but to desire to possess the beauty in fantasy. In the end, the paradox stripped away everything, and followed the guidance of the disgusting pig in his mind into the applause of the crowd, but that could only It's an imagination. I tend to think that this is not reconciliation but self-destruction. After all, in the end, only he himself led other "people" to applaud him. The movie itself is too stream-of-consciousness, more like a cut and pieced text, which makes people confused even with the blessing of performances and lines.

View more about I'm Thinking of Ending Things reviews

Extended Reading

I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.