The sea tide, the gull call, the guitar, the recorder, and the soundtrack of Kenji Kondo smoulders a sad atmosphere in this opening chapter.
On an ordinary evening, the old man eats and drinks alone in front of the TV, like many lonely evenings. Wake up early in the morning and the water rises over the hut again. The old man is used to it, adding bricks and bricks to build up his blocks. He has repeated this work dozens of times. The building blocks are already built so high, but the person who built them with him is no longer there.
Carrying belongings, sinking to the bottom of the water with a pipe for several years. The old man always went well, but the old man was reluctant to buy a diving suit and went back to the old room to find it, but inadvertently opened the door of memory.
The moment he picked up the pipe, the past opened like an electric shock.
That moment was like melting ice and snow, like a flower bud blooming, like a young chick breaking its shell. The iron doors were opened one by one, the old houses were visited one by one, and boxes of sleeping memories were rediscovered.
As he sank deeper and deeper into the icy seabed, what greeted him in flashbacks was more and more vivid and warm memories, which kept him diving and couldn't stop.
The wife who picked up the pipe for him, the wife who was dying of illness in bed, and the family photo of the children and grandchildren, from the first meeting of the son-in-law to the wedding to the knee-high daughter's excursion to the birth of the daughter. .
Standing on the bottom of the sea, he thought of his childhood sweetheart wife, and built their home with him brick by brick. At the dinner table, they clink glasses and smile at each other, once upon a time.
I don't know how many people like me were worried that he would be immersed in memories and willing to bury them in the bottom of the sea. However, the memory also supported him to surface.
At dinner, he took out the red wine as usual, but placed two wine glasses. Under the warm light, he toasted with the people in his memory.
The guitar plays again, and the movie stops abruptly.
There is less sadness in the music, and more lightness. The old man's life continued, peaceful and stable.
After watching the short film, my biggest impression is, what a positive, optimistic, and loving old man who is lonely and widowed!
In fact, if you have seen the diary of るTraveler's or る Traveler's Diary, which is also the partner of Kato Hisoka and Kondo Kenji, this film, which is also scripted by Hirata Ken, cannot be considered a whimsical idea anyway. But compared to the imaginative imagination of Alice in Wonderland in a traveler's diary, the building block hut is obviously better in humanistic care and positive meaning. This is like the slum millionaire, although the story is thin and far-fetched, but he still attracts attention by depicting the filthy and horrific situation of the lowest class in Mumbai, thereby showing various social problems and religious conflicts in India today. The shocking and tragic ending was heart-wrenching, resulting in a big victory. And imagine, if the two films did not explain to the audience the next ending with warm hope, whether they could finally hold the golden man back. In other words, positive messages are always what mainstream voices want to convey, or instill in the masses.
Recalling the building block house, I like this Chinese translation very much, which conveys the information that the original Japanese name つみきのいえ (Building Block House) and the French translation name La maison en petits cubes (Building Block House) do not express. Memories, building blocks, and houses, these three words are still warm-toned semantics in my definition, but after they are combined, they create a slightly sad mood.
A city gradually submerged by the sea is like a life gradually annihilated by time. Bunch of memories are carefully packed into boxes, layer upon layer, and as the years go by, they will no longer be touched. Until one day comes, like an opportunity for a pipe, the memory blows out.
Whoever holds the hand will grow old with whom.
The so-called "seeing things and thinking about people" means that when the people around you leave one after another and survive alone, I don't know if it is lucky or unfortunate. Touching those objects with memories attached, my heart must be a mixture of warmth and sadness. And I ask myself I don't have such a strong mind.
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