河畔的朔子

        昨天中午看了一半，午休时做了个梦，梦里我在看这部电影而且看完了，结束那一幕是朔子的蓝绿色背影渐渐走远。不知道电影里是什么样子的结束啊。挺喜欢这种淡淡的，好像什么重要的事情都没讲的电影。
        果然，结尾就是朔子穿着来时的蓝绿色衣服走远。
        来的时候带着考试失利的愁绪，走的时候带着别人不堪的情感；自己的不顺利，反倒没有那么坏啊。这样，就说明朔子长大了一些吧。
        喜欢这种像日常纪录片一样的电影。因为这些人物这些故事都可以反映在周边人的身上。如果我早几年看这部电影，那么不用费尽心思去想，我也能隐约明白，人是很放肆的动物哦。
        不过作为一部电影来说，我喜欢更为强烈的情感表达。我觉得海希江阿姨没有表现出来对兔吉叔或者老师的爱或不爱，但开头借邻居的嘴说了句“水帆总是找兔吉先生帮忙”，能想象出水帆和兔吉的关系一定有异样。海希江阿姨如果不表现的这么冷淡的话，对朔子的震撼会更大，顺便对辰子也带来惊吓，这时候孝史可以表现出“嘛，果然这么回事”的感觉，邻居们再说几句刺耳的话，老师和阿姨开展一些激烈的争吵，那么电影一定很精彩。也就不会显得这么沉闷吧。
        总之这类平淡电影是有意义的，也是耐看的，但是我喜欢更为强烈的平淡。

一开头似风铃的配曲代入安逸的小镇风景，温暖柔和的夏风吹乱青春少女的发丝，如果你此时此刻也是在充满阳光的午后，时间庸长而无聊，那么细细品味这部电影是最适合不过的了。
青春少女的心纯洁而美丽，是成人世界的旁观者。电影的节奏不快，但是几个不经意的片段却灼显出现代人的欲望和错乱，导演用少男少女纯洁的感情去反衬成人世界不道德的感情。
男孩在跟塑子约会的时候接到女同学的电话，乱了心，塑子这个时候选择让位是内心美的真实体现，喜欢他，默默的陪伴。
人生岁月很长，贪图一时的享乐却导致生活中充满谎言和烦恼，慢慢走，像塑子一样追寻内心的感受，不为欲望所迷惑，让心灵以最原始最轻盈的姿态穿行在世间，才能享受更多的美，而这跟王阳明的我心光明又何其相似。

一个最正常不过的夏天，普普通通的少女朔子高考失利来到海边的一个小地方放风，一切都是那么自然恬静美好，朔子虽然高考失利，对人生前景也略迷茫，但看着心情还不错，这应该是个舒适宜人的海边假期。慢慢得，依然日式舒心的环境，同样的一群人，但每个人的生活和人生仿佛都跟看上去的不一样，朔子懵懵懂懂，迷茫变成了疑惑，为什么大家都过得奇奇怪怪的，但都表现得很正常呢，仿佛这一切都是自然的。漂亮文艺范的阿姨跟n个怪蜀黍关系暧昧，一本正经的大学教授家有妻儿还跟阿姨不三不四外加调戏学生，商务酒店外表下的情侣酒店，为了框别人不惜牺牲色相的大学生，听着卡通歌都能笑的初中生却在援交。各种各样的冲突却宁静平和的流淌着，时间也就这样过去了，该过得日子还得过，朔子怪异又自然的假期结束了，她得回去复读了~~~~我默默得希望朔子的将来不会也跟这些冲突中的主角一样，希望她能过得真心恬静美好。

                                         SUMMER IN A SMALL TOWN RUSHES
The ghosts of Rohmer and Naruse haunt Au revoir l’été,Fukada Koji’s tale of a young girl coming of age in a seaside town.
                                                                                                             By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
i Au revoir l’été is released in UK cinemas
on 24 April and is reviewed on page 69
By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
i Au revoir l’été is released in UK cinemas
on 24 April and is reviewed on page 69
By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
懒，我就不重新排版了。。。。。