It's a scene I remember vividly, though I can't tell if it's a real memory or an outright hallucination.
As I write this little essay, I'm watching this movie for the third time, in its entirety, from start to finish. I promised myself that I would write this review with my heart, but I couldn't think of a good name or where to start. An experimental film always has to pay some price to the audience or the judges of the film school. "The Undertaker" took away the golden man, and it played the card of warmth. What kind of cards did "Waltz with Bashir" play? The call for peace, the retrospect of history, or the torture of the people of the world? I can't tell.
I turned off the lights and watched the movie for the first time in a dark room alone. In addition to the memory network that the director carefully woven and unraveled layer by layer, there is also the trance brought by the combination of virtual and real pictures, which has been lingering in my heart for a long time. What I can't forget is the repeated sentence:
this is a scene I remember clearly, although I can no longer say whether it is a real memory or an outright hallucination.
Duras wrote shortly at the beginning of "The Lover": My past history does not exist. And almost all of the pages that follow are devoted to her childhood and teenage years. Sometimes we are walking on a familiar road, encountering a deja vu, hearing some conversations that are still fresh in our memory, and we can't help but wonder if the same thing happened somewhere in the universe, at a certain node in time. things, exactly the same thing. Isn't that what our memory is like? Those little toys that he can’t put down, the senior boy with short hair who always loves to bully others, the girl with ponytails who has a crush for the first time, the poodle who sleeps every day in the neighbor’s house, the many wreaths that suddenly appear at home… that’s all Has it ever happened? Or is it just an imaginary I share with others? Is it my forged memories to protect my old wounds, like the naked woman on the sea that night, like the 26 vicious dogs barking downstairs, or that hilarious "Good Morning Lebanon"?
Ten years ago, when I was eight years old, I fell in love with a girl next to me. Her hair is carefully combed, and it is different from other people's braids and ponytails. I am obsessed with her smiling dimples and always search for her figure after class. Staring at her from a distance.
Ten years later, when I was eighteen, I still clearly remember the spelling of her name, her laughing voice, her distinctive hairstyle. But I can't confirm whether she exists or not. I mustered up the courage to talk to her about the place where my thrilling one-sided date with her took place, that little school, where did I really spend my five years?
26 dogs. a tank. a month. Flares bloomed in the air.
Three naked young men emerged from the golden water, slowly dressed and armed with rifles. There was a panicked and frightened crowd, crying and shouting incessantly. A suffocating stench rose from the wet road.
It's a scene I remember vividly, though I can't tell if it's a real memory or an outright hallucination.
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