ah what is this

Virgil 2022-03-23 09:02:34

1 At the beginning of the scene, the camera surrounds the furniture, and I slowly go downstairs. I like the narration of the female protagonist. Some of the topics covered in the driving section were interesting too, but that didn't stop him from getting long and boring.

2 Guess this is the spirit of the male protagonist. The female protagonist has a strong feminist ideology while containing part of the spirit of the male protagonist. She describes three versions of the scene where she meets the male protagonist. I prefer the last version to be her real thoughts, but it is not ruled out that she is angry talk. On the whole, the heroine should be the spiritual projection of the hero (the names of several phone calls are really interesting), which combines self + ex-girlfriend. So is the heroine's mood also a reflection of the hero's mood? Endured to the limit of irritability, and finally separated.

3 metaphors, echoing, I don't understand movies and operas. To borrow from the heroine, I hate metaphors.

Is the theater at the end of 4 a personal reconciliation? The director was led out by the pig, and everyone had gray hair. After listening to his acceptance speech, they watched him perform and applauded the first few women who stood up first.

5 Favorite scene after parents show up. "I" became time passing through them, but it was "I" who was actually trapped. A few shots here are particularly interesting. The parents, the dog, and even the heroine herself all look weird.

6 discusses the relationship between the sexes, parents and children, and self-awareness.

7 Psychedelic

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.