Softly dreaming in the trees.
A story is a journey, with both its beginning and end unfolding before the screen. Yet each story calls for a different way of being read—through the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands, and feet. And at the end, like a white curtain of light, it’s as if a dream was gently dreamt atop a tree. Moonlight, sifted into fragments by the leaves, spills softly onto the body—only then do we realize that the self at the starting point has quietly changed… An unnamed kind of fullness.
5 films
Vive L'Amour
1918 (Only available in Taiwan.)
Storytellers
Peter Handke: In the Woods, Might Be Late
Peppermint Candy
Popular
Those irreversible slices of life
Recently, in a novel I've come to love, I found myself grasping the weight of life's slices. In the story, there is a wicked sorcerer who freezes people in the instant just before tragedy strikes—suspending everything, sealing it into a crystal ball, and building an entire museum from these frozen moments. And isn't film, in its own way, just as cruel? As viewers, we are little more than instruments for collecting tissue slices—slipping into a character's world for a single fleeting moment, wandering through it in passing, only to return, in the blink of an eye, to the reality that is our own.