Under the sky of Berlin,
Wisdom wanders the city without friction,
read human, lonely and ordinary,
Read the streets, the flow of life and death,
Read memories, haunt studios, screens and car windows.
Then by the wall die by the sidelines,
For the first time, desire trod in the sand, tasted blood, coffee and tobacco.
People who are proficient in all languages understand the colors of languages for the first time.
A pair of hands finally grasped the tense rope that suspends life.
One body rotates with the other,
Like a child waking up on a strange couch,
Looking forward to today again, the story is not over.
There are always some images that people are willing to see with intuition rather than logic. "Under the Berlin Sky" probably belongs to this kind of film. Because of this, even if you watch it several times, you can still feel the new beauty when you rewatch it, but at the same time it is difficult to put your feelings into words - they diffuse too widely and disappear too quickly. So what is written here cannot be called a film review.
It is worth pondering that at the end of "Under the Berlin Sky", director Wim Wenders specially put three lines of text:
Dedicated to all the former angels,
but especially to
Yasujiro, François and Andrej. (Ozu Yasujiro, François Truffaut, Andrei Tarkovsky)
And the "former angel" who appeared in the film happened to be a movie actor in the human world. From this point of view, "Berlin Under the Sky" itself is like a film review of the works of its predecessors: it thanked those filmmakers who used the lens to write poetry, so that the image can finally be revived after being taken away from the daily life for too long. Enter the world and history, and find a poetry in it that allows us to see the world as we did when we were born.
Poem in the film: Song of Childhood By Peter Handke
When the child was a child It walked with its arms swinging, wanted the brook to be a river, the river to be a torrent, and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child, it didn't know that it was a child, everything was soulful, and all souls were one.
When the child was a child, it had no opinion about anything, had no habits, it often sat cross-legged, took off running, had a cowlick in its hair, and made no faces when photographed.
When the child was a child, It was the time for these questions: Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Is life under the sun not just a dream? Is what I see and hear and smell not just an illusion of a world before the world? Given the facts of evil and people. does evil really exist? How can it be that I, who I am, didn't 't exist before I came to be, and that, someday, I, who I am, will no longer be who I am?
When the child was a child, It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding, and on steamed cauliflower, and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.
When the child was a child, it awoke once in a strange bed, and now does so again and again. Many people, then, seemed beautiful, and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
It had visualized a clear image of Paradise, and now can at most guess, could not conceive of nothingness, and shudders today at the thought.
When the child was a child, It played with enthusiasm, and, now, has just as much excitement as then, but only when it concerns its work.
When the child was a child, It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread, And so it is even now.
When the child was a child, Berries filled its hand as only berries do, and do even now, Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw, and do even now, it had, on every mountaintop, the longing for a higher mountain yet, and in every city, the longing for an even greater city, and that is still so, It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees with an elation it still has today, has a shyness in front of strangers, and has that even now. It awaited the first snow, And waits that way even now.
When the child was a child, It threw a stick like a lance against a tree, And it quivers there still today.
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