Just finished reading my own private Idaho. I finally finished watching this movie that I had made many determinations to watch. It was completely different from what I imagined. So much so that the film ended, and it was even a little bit confusing.
Until I closed my eyes in bed and was about to fall asleep, I was hit by a sudden feeling and suddenly started crying. For Mike and for River.
I'm sorry, I should have known you a long time ago, but I was dragged on by my laziness for so long.
I admit that I am superficial. I only knew how to read my face when I was a child. In my illiterate brain, which is quite barren and deficient, I poured some decent nourishment into every corner of my mind, and ate some of Shakespeare's works, such as Henry V.
When Prince Howl finally came out of the quagmire surrounded by gangsters, wearing a brocade robe and holding a scepter, Tom, who played him, announced his decision with Falstaff with his blue pupils, I felt very refreshed and thought this was a prince The promised home. He exchanged his rogue for glory and the great achievements of that dynasty. This is a well-deserved story. But the story moved to the modern stage, which really made my heart hurt. (Now the famous sentence suddenly pops up in my mind, what's so great about men? You all have thrones to inherit?)
I saw Mike squatting at the door, humbly lying and begging the client for ten more dollars, using the discord with his father to sell his misery, but the reality is that his father is his brother, and his mother is with him. In the eager pursuit again and again, he will always disappear one step ahead of him.
Mike sat by the fire and hooked his head, not daring to turn his head to look at Scott who was so close, even though he loved him so much, even though he had never had any real decent love. I think maybe Mike himself doesn't know what love is, maybe to love someone is to want to hug, kiss, just intuitionally close; love is that I am willing to like you, treat you with a sincere heart, and you don't have to pay me Money, don't even have to respond to me equally. He stumbled over the first and last confession in his life, burying his head between his knees like an ostrich. He didn't ask for return or response, but he couldn't predict the other party's reaction.
Mike is perpetually lethargic, unable to help himself. He was always twitching uncontrollably, maybe the juvenile bouncing was just to cover up these little gestures. He also burst into laughter, and was reluctant to hide his anger and tears. But he was always on his own. Halfway through taking off his clothes, he fell asleep, and when he woke up, he was wearing an unfamiliar coat, lying on the grass that didn't distinguish between east, west, north and south. The only difference between him and the corpse is that he's still breathing, and the corpse doesn't. Scott put his coat on him and hugged him all the way back to Portland, protecting him from strangers, wrapping Mike around the neck and the crook of his knees. Like lying in front of my mother's green house, running soft fingers through her hair. Lover's arm, mother's finger, earthly warmth. For a child who visits a mental hospital since he was a child, before he is ready to face the harsh reality of society, he does not even have the company of his parents to buffer him, and of course he does not have a dog to grow up with him. Not to mention a maid who is always on hand.
He looked at the road between his fingers, wishing that he would not be ridiculed by it again, and that one day the road would come to an end.
A red figure crawls on the grass in Idaho. With his back to the clouds and the wind, he is infinitely close to the earth, the source of life. His whole life was shrouded in dark clouds. Prince Howl has ascended the throne, abandoning the worldly, flattering but also sincere Falstaff. Mike didn't have to see it to see this ending. There was indeed no response begging for love, and it wasn't even as dazzling as a fake flower. Fake flowers can bloom undefeated, but emotions have already withered. At that time, he would no longer have the company of what he considered a "best friend", but he also smiled happily.
Mike lay on the side of the street, silent in a coma and convulsions, and Scott sat in the sedan with his beautiful wife from the Italian countryside whom Mike met on his family hunt. Scott's face was calm, the calm that should be cursed. When he took the pile of banknotes for the robbery prank from him, when he was lying behind him and was being driven across the deserted roads by a motorcycle, they should have a little bit of understanding in those moments. But in the end, it was still a time when the wheel was easily crushed with flying dust.
He らのジャンルが violated it. こ れ が た ぶ ん the only reason だと 思う. The so-called ジャンル is like when you take out a book to be returned from your backpack, and the person opposite you does this at the same time; you watch each other's books being sent to the return box by the conveyor belt, and they will definitely be there. The administrator's hands were neatly coded in the car and sent to the belonging bookshelf. At the moment when the covers touch, will the two books communicate with each other? After reading the feeling or just the so-called few words on the girdle. It may take two or three days, maybe only half an hour, and the time left for them may be extended indefinitely, but no one can tell. The wheels turned, the humanities on the third floor and the Impressionist picture book on the fifth floor. Communication, no, even at the moment of contact, they knew each other's category, and also understood that this time may be the only one in this life. Even in the same library, an encounter or parting is endowed with a fate-like chance.
The mayor's son and male prostitute, ジャンルが is totally against it. But what I once applauded in Henry V, for which I swept away the bad past and ushered in a great and glorious page in my life, did not happen tonight. Even when Scott said the exact same lines, my heart suddenly filled with disgust for him. The head that was deeply hooked by the fire and the blond hair that flew forever, they still failed to wait for even a little love, and the touch and comfort of hair that a finger can bring. Maybe, I don't know.
Mike passed out on the nasty stretch of road again. No one was holding him this time, and someone was looking after him and putting a coat on him. He was picked up, and the road went to the world, and I didn't know where it was going.
This is not a movie, it's a film.
Thank you Keanu and River for the performance, sorry I'm late.
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