I don't know why, but I often recall this Vietnamese movie on rainy days.
Don't know why? In fact, I still understand why in my heart, but the emotion is still vague, as if all the attachments and recollections from the past have become a constant blur in the distance of time. Their appearance and breath, like a fully formed huge tropical fruit, are frozen in some kind of imagination about the seasons, and once the temperature and humidity gather together again, they will emerge as before, exuding that kind of unchanging smell.
The film tells the stories of a girl who picks lotus flowers, a poet disabled by leprosy, a tricycle driver who sleeps in the wind, a prostitute who picks up customers every night, a homeless peddler, and an American veteran who is looking for his daughter. The three clues are intertwined.
All kinds of bewilderment and longing are finally like the hot summer nights of tricycle drivers waiting for their sweethearts to appear, as beautiful as a teenager, just like a legend. In the distance, in the imaginary summer, the faint fragrance of white lotus is exuded. Vietnam only has a dry season and a rainy season, and the director added one season—the season of hope. But for tricycle drivers, life is often still bitter and hot. There are dry seasons and rainy seasons, but there is clearly no third season, the season of hope, when the road is full of kapok.
The sound of rain outside the window is as long as the rainy season in the film.
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