I want to end this

Madyson 2022-03-23 09:02:34

Charlie Kaufman is a genius, a heretic. The viewing experience of this movie is very similar to watching "Mulholland Drive" for the first time (and then watched it 4 times), it turns out that the movie can be shot like this...

The superficial story of this film is very ordinary. The male protagonist Jack took his girlfriend back to the countryside to visit his parents on a snowy night. Later, he bought ice cream at an ice cream shop on the way back, and finally went to his alma mater middle school. The superficial story is not afraid of spoilers, but the deep story of the movie is completely different from being weird and thrilling (no spoilers here). I think it should be compared to "Life and Death". It's a pity that "Life and Death" is too commercialized. Compared with this film, it seems superficial and pediatric.

The whole film of "I Want to End It All" involves too many fields, poetry, novels, paintings, dances, movies (film criticism), psychology (Jung), sociology, physics... and the combination of all these shows The form that comes out is of course literature, Kaufman is mean and sharp, a big bookworm.

What moved me the most was the poem "Bone Dog" that appeared in the movie (the female protagonist's acting skills in the whole poem were simply amazing...) and the pas de deux at the end of the movie, which was breathtaking.

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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.