I always feel that love in gangster movies seems to have a special cruel beauty. Running on the despicable streets, he is not blessed with the romantic love of ordinary people. Like a pool of rotten and blackened stagnant water, although the spring breeze occasionally sprinkled rose petals into the pool, bringing a vivid red to the pool of stagnant water, it was swallowed by the darkness of the pool water, and eventually rotted into a dark one. He has struggled, struggled, and been happy for a short time, but then fate ruthlessly tore off all the pretense. First, he was betrayed by the director who was once regarded as a good friend, and made the murder secret he revealed into a movie in exchange for a rapid rise and success. In the end, he died at the hands of his most trusted brother. I still remember the look in Bingdou's eyes when he died, puzzled, angry, desolate, and even a little bit of grievance. And the little gangster who inserted the knife into his body again and again, with tears and pain in his eyes, still used the sharp knife to slash. The brother who appeared last, who used to be the most respected and the most fraternal, has long lost friendship in his eyes, and can only feel desire and ambition, and seems to be laughing at what Bing Doo once said to them: We are a family. It was just his naive thought, very sad, but terrifyingly realistic.
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