Looking back at Kislovsky, the most direct feeling is that the film can express the indescribable heart. Usually it is difficult for you to describe in words, let alone analyze and clarify. Before you see the picture, you don't even know that there are such and such corners, such and such thoughts in your heart. I remembered that most of the time when I got off work, I would stand by the subway door, staring out the window at the speeding scene. The sky was passing at a visible speed, and there was always a feeling of remorse, like worrying about missing something. I remember the bare trees in late winter—poplars, maples, and dark dwarf pines, and the gray sky a little further away. I remember the warm red sunset in late autumn, the melancholy inside when it became deeper and colder. If it’s not too sleepy in the morning, and I’m not so crowded that my face is blurred, I’ll take the time to stare at the bright road under the city rail and the small, clear-cut pedestrians scattered in the morning light when I pass Datun East. It glowed so fresh and dreamy at the same time, all for the sake of going to work. It's not that there's anything wrong with going to work, but that there are so many unequal, mismatched, inexplicable moments and things in everyday life that I find it beyond absurd. Like Kislowski asked: Why do you have to get up in the morning? I can't answer it, and I don't even realize the existence of this question. This kind of inability to answer and not realize it affects people's life as a whole.
In "Twin Flowers", I was amazed that they appeared incomprehensibly but in a subtle way. I've always had an inexplicable affinity for Kislowski, with the influence of "Heavy Flesh" among them. In the past, I would pay attention to and collect clues while watching movies, in order to "understand" and confirm Liu Xiaofeng's comments. At that time, I was so desperate to find the answer, to fix the turbulent life, to clear all the mysteries of existence. Gradually I gave up on this endeavor. I don't understand, from start to finish. Who knows what that dead Pole wants to say? Obviously he didn't intend to follow the usual storytelling routine. Even if he talks about his films, it doesn't help. Milosz says that poets are not the best interpreters of their own work, nor are directors. I just wondered how he knew Veronica so well - as if he was the other Veronica himself. He floated around her like air, feeling her feelings; conveying her feelings like a breath she didn't even notice herself. His calm gaze, with the utmost detail, fell back and forth on the skin of her face, on the silhouette of her eyelashes, on the undulations of her body, without the obvious taste of eroticism (lust lacks patience and concentration). He is the Other and thus "sees" her (we rarely see ourselves with external eyes); at the same time he is within her. How does a man do this?
When I watch a movie, I watch more than Veronica. If you just want to understand the plot, there are too many things in this movie that cannot be explained logically. I feel that for Kislowski, the movie is just the thing that can express the unspeakable. His prose is very clear, and he uses words to express other things. Watching Veronica in Krakow, watching Veronica in Paris, I gradually saw myself. The nameless feelings that have been stuck in my heart for a long time cannot be accurately expressed in terms of "melancholy", "worry", "loneliness", "chaos" or any other word. When I put my head on the windowpane of the subway again, I once again felt the disappearance of today, and what had happened not only was not digested, but also sank to an invisible place. This kind of precipitation is going on all the time. Make my heart a full ruin.
My life has little resemblance to Veronica's, so it's not the specific plot that strikes me, but the combination of pictures, lighting, music, and characters' expressions. Like a sensual river suddenly clear, I "see" it is also flowing in my body. It speaks of loneliness, but does not use the words "loneliness" that are too true and too false. It pours, borrows synesthesia. Prayer also brings about similar feelings. Lu Yun said that prayer is breathing. I have prayed a lot of prayers with true words but never got anywhere, but there is another kind of prayer that I feel like I just sighed deeply, but at that moment I suddenly realized that God was listening. "The Holy Spirit Himself prays for us with groans that cannot be uttered." The groaning of the Holy Spirit is such a language full of synaesthesia. , and you can't restate it in 10,000 words. Whenever I go into prayer like that, I can feel that I am truly alive. Just like in "Twin Flowers", Veronica smiles, frowns, walks, lies down, there is so much loneliness, so much sadness, so much throbbing, so much disappointment... I seem to hear her silently Live, live, live...
In Kislovsky's eyes, life is always individual, a name corresponds to a face; it is not and cannot be taken out of context; it is full of sorrow, There is joy; it cannot be conceptualized and dogmatic, nor scrutinized with moral eyes. In a way, I believe that God has no moral eye - oh, he doesn't. He is Being itself, He is Himself, and in Him there is no darkness and no "forbidden". His language is a comprehensive, holistic language that I often don't understand. I thought the truth was just "principle", but who knew that the truth was actually a person whose name was Jesus. What a synaesthetic thing this is.
When I stand on the subway after get off work and think back to this day, I often see it as all kinds of things that need to be analyzed. What is right and what is wrong; what should be and what is forbidden; how to be more... how not to.... But it is a river. Unless I can use another language that is fuller and more holistic, I can't express it, and I can't even recognize it.
When Paris Veronica clutched the picture of Veronica Krakow and burst into tears, I don't know why. All I know is that she cried at this moment and caused my heart to shake at the same time. The unknowing man reached out and touched her face and body, kissed her, entered her, and as she cried, she rose and fell, moaning... When the last cry burst out, I felt she exhaled a murky breath for me. gas.
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