I really wanted to listen to folk songs last night, so I finished reading the Zuixiang folk songs. There are two types of movies that accuse the mourning of life, the mourning without the music, and the one just marked. After watching it, it will feel wonderful, and even write such a short review on impulse: this kind of music is better than anything else. Better than the sixties, better than the cat's milk, better than the couch in the apartment, better than the snow on the highway, better than the anti-abortion laws, better than the beats, better than Bob Dylan's smoking voice, better than Mulligan's black hair, better than George Washington and Brooklyn Bridges. Live better. Favorite line in this mourning and wonderful film is the debate about the two New York bridges: "Is he an idiot? No one would choose the George Washington Bridge. Jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge is tradition." Yes Ah, how could anyone be stupid enough to leave the Brooklyn Bridge and run to George Washington instead of jumping - in the sixties! An era that saw a bunch of bewildered platonic talkers jump off fire escapes, windowsills, and Brooklyn Bridge by moonlight! The Ginsburgs smoke and drink and drive on the rainy night highway, and they still miss their yellow-dyed sheets when they go to jail. And this idiot named Mike chose an abnormal bridge and left his guitar and his cat-carrying partner on the snowy night highway, and the latter was forced to defend his last site choice across the class. People may deny the guitar, but no one will deny the guitar in the moonlight or on a summer afternoon. This music is so good and life is better, so people give up life for folk songs, and in the end they find that only life is the best. Only milk, sofas and lost and found cats are the best. When he realized this, someone curled up in the driver's seat in the snowy night, trembling for the cat that had just been hit, and someone had already stood on the reinforced concrete bridge overlooking all living beings. This music is so good, it's like nicotine and heroin, it's like a woman's body, it's like you're wearing a condom, and she tells you she's pregnant and yells at you, and in the end you find out she's not the only one. Your music is such a good bitch. But good bitches are beautiful, and anything that is beautiful is worth loving—at least at first glance. You love bitches and you love chastity. You love ballads, and you love life too. Want to have both? Then let the bitch be good and make a living with folk songs. But can you really experience pleasure beyond moral superiority from a well-behaved bitch? Can you really experience the beauty beyond life from the folk songs you use to make a living? Forget Chandler or whoever he wrote said, the Brooklyn Bridge is so beautiful that it makes people want to jump off it right away. For some reason, I wish that mic who went solo too early really had the wings of a song, boring under him facing the George Washington Bridge The scenery of regrets can take him halfway across New York to Brooklyn in time, and then jump back from here to see if the choices he makes at the end of his life are better or worse, or at least, let him finally at the end of his life. Sticking to a tradition—hopefully a thrill that folk guitars and gaslight bars can't create. But at the same time, I also hope that LeVine, who is forced to go solo, will never stick to tradition. Hopefully the thrill of the acoustic guitar and gaslight bars will keep him forever away from those bridges, George Washington or Brooklyn. Hopefully those wings will take him over them, over Chicago and New York, over the nights and snows of the sixties—but never fall.
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