繁華街で通行量調査をしているフリーターの春生(麻木貴仁)。行き交う女性を目で追い、機械的にカウントする彼が呟く。「千人目は俺の嫁、千人目は俺の嫁…」その時、春生の目の前を若い女が通り過ぎ、手元のカウンターが千を打つ…。5年後。ぼろアパートの壁一面に貼られた女の写真が春生に微笑んでいた。それは、かつて繁華街で見た女・川島真琴(古川いおり)の盗撮写真だった。春生は、あの日から粛々とストーキング行為を続け、今では彼女の行動記録ノートも10冊を超えていた。その夜も双眼鏡で真琴と夫・幹也(田中靖教)のセックスを覗きながら、春生は思う…。『彼女の本当の相手はこの俺だ。いつしか神様が間違いに気づき、運命を変えてくれるだろう…』しかしそんなある日、春生は幹也とOL・麻衣(福咲れん)の浮気現場を目撃してしまう。そして神頼みを諦めた春生は、自らの手で運命を変えるべき動き出すのだが…

繁華街で通行量調査をしているフリーターの春生(麻木貴仁)。行き交う女性を目で追い、機械的にカウントする彼が呟く。「千人目は俺の嫁、千人目は俺の嫁…」その時、春生の目の前を若い女が通り過ぎ、手元のカウンターが千を打つ…。5年後。ぼろアパートの壁一面に貼られた女の写真が春生に微笑んでいた。それは、かつて繁華街で見た女・川島真琴(古川いおり)の盗撮写真だった。春生は、あの日から粛々とストーキング行為を続け、今では彼女の行動記録ノートも10冊を超えていた。その夜も双眼鏡で真琴と夫・幹也(田中靖教)のセックスを覗きながら、春生は思う…。『彼女の本当の相手はこの俺だ。いつしか神様が間違いに気づき、運命を変えてくれるだろう…』しかしそんなある日、春生は幹也とOL・麻衣(福咲れん)の浮気現場を目撃してしまう。そして神頼みを諦めた春生は、自らの手で運命を変えるべき動き出すのだが…

梅丽莎（艾米·斯马特 Amy Smart 饰）和华裔玉林（Tim Chiou 饰）是一对来自美国的新婚夫妇，他们将蜜月地点选在玉林的家乡——中国广东某县。异域文化让土生土长的美国女孩梅丽莎好奇、惊喜，不过也许他们挑错了时机。是时正值农历七月，中国的鬼节临近。当地导游平（Dennis Chan 饰）驱车载着二人前往玉林的家。夜深人静，道路蜿蜒，人生地不熟的平失去方向，来到一片陌生的村庄。平下车问路，却始终不见回来。夫妻二人焦急万分，于是下车寻找。他们一无所获，反而被恐怖的叫声下的失魂落魄。 　　两人驱车逃跑，一路上惊险不断。梅丽莎曾和平谈论过饿死鬼的传说，而在鬼门大开的时分，似乎饿死鬼并非只是传说……

梅丽莎（艾米·斯马特 Amy Smart 饰）和华裔玉林（Tim Chiou 饰）是一对来自美国的新婚夫妇，他们将蜜月地点选在玉林的家乡——中国广东某县。异域文化让土生土长的美国女孩梅丽莎好奇、惊喜，不过也许他们挑错了时机。是时正值农历七月，中国的鬼节临近。当地导游平（Dennis Chan 饰）驱车载着二人前往玉林的家。夜深人静，道路蜿蜒，人生地不熟的平失去方向，来到一片陌生的村庄。平下车问路，却始终不见回来。夫妻二人焦急万分，于是下车寻找。他们一无所获，反而被恐怖的叫声下的失魂落魄。 　　两人驱车逃跑，一路上惊险不断。梅丽莎曾和平谈论过饿死鬼的传说，而在鬼门大开的时分，似乎饿死鬼并非只是传说……

Darezhan Omirbaev's penchant for spare, elliptical narrative, muted figures, and disembodied framing (most notably, of hands and feet) have often been (favorably) compared to the rigorous aesthetic of Robert Bresson. However, in imposing such a somber - and inescapably cerebral - analogy, there is also a propensity to overlook the wry, self-effacing humor and irony of situation that pervade his films: a lyricism that equally captures the human comedy in all its contradictions and nobility from the margins of Soviet society. This sense of the quotidian as a continuum of human experience, elegantly rendered in Omirbaev's recent film, The Road through Amir's recurring daydream of a mother milking a cow and her intrusive child (who, in turn, looks remarkably like Amir's own son) in rural Kazakhstan (an image that subsequently proves to be a catalytic historical memory from his childhood when man landed on the moon), can also be seen from the outset of Omirbaev's cinema through his incorporation of a decidedly Buñuelian sequence in the short film, July of a young boy who, while on the lookout for guards near the foothills of a kolkhoz commissary, curiously finds himself wandering into a recital hall where the performance of a young pianist is punctuated by the appearance of a horseman on the stage. Part pastoral observation on the pervasiveness of underdevelopment and the austerity of life in the rural villages of Soviet-era collective farms (and in particular, at the outlying frontiers of the Soviet Central Asia), and part autofiction on a pair of restless boys whose penchant for escapist (mis)adventures reveal a nascent, if displaced, creative sensibility, July establishes the aesthetic framework that would come to define Omirbaev's cinema: the overture of first love depicted through seemingly innocent - yet deliberate - passing touches (the bus encounter in Kaïrat, the movie house flirtation in July); the frustration of isolation inherent in a rural childhood manifested through acts of mischief (the opening sequence of Kaïrat, the courtyard fight of Kardiogramma), the subconscious act of self-reflection illustrated through literal self-reflection through the reflected image of a rear view mirror (Marat's drive home from the hospital in Killer, Amir's extended road trip to visit his ailing mother in The Road). Inevitably, what proves to be the most remarkable - and irresistible - aspect of Omirbaev's deceptively simple coming of age film is its ability to capture the interpenetration between reality and fiction interpenetrate with such seemingly effortless, uninhibited intimacy - a wide eyed innocence that hovers in the ephemeral - ever teetering between solemnity and absurdity, boredom and roguishness, anxiety and imagination.

Darezhan Omirbaev's penchant for spare, elliptical narrative, muted figures, and disembodied framing (most notably, of hands and feet) have often been (favorably) compared to the rigorous aesthetic of Robert Bresson. However, in imposing such a somber - and inescapably cerebral - analogy, there is also a propensity to overlook the wry, self-effacing humor and irony of situation that pervade his films: a lyricism that equally captures the human comedy in all its contradictions and nobility from the margins of Soviet society. This sense of the quotidian as a continuum of human experience, elegantly rendered in Omirbaev's recent film, The Road through Amir's recurring daydream of a mother milking a cow and her intrusive child (who, in turn, looks remarkably like Amir's own son) in rural Kazakhstan (an image that subsequently proves to be a catalytic historical memory from his childhood when man landed on the moon), can also be seen from the outset of Omirbaev's cinema through his incorporation of a decidedly Buñuelian sequence in the short film, July of a young boy who, while on the lookout for guards near the foothills of a kolkhoz commissary, curiously finds himself wandering into a recital hall where the performance of a young pianist is punctuated by the appearance of a horseman on the stage. Part pastoral observation on the pervasiveness of underdevelopment and the austerity of life in the rural villages of Soviet-era collective farms (and in particular, at the outlying frontiers of the Soviet Central Asia), and part autofiction on a pair of restless boys whose penchant for escapist (mis)adventures reveal a nascent, if displaced, creative sensibility, July establishes the aesthetic framework that would come to define Omirbaev's cinema: the overture of first love depicted through seemingly innocent - yet deliberate - passing touches (the bus encounter in Kaïrat, the movie house flirtation in July); the frustration of isolation inherent in a rural childhood manifested through acts of mischief (the opening sequence of Kaïrat, the courtyard fight of Kardiogramma), the subconscious act of self-reflection illustrated through literal self-reflection through the reflected image of a rear view mirror (Marat's drive home from the hospital in Killer, Amir's extended road trip to visit his ailing mother in The Road). Inevitably, what proves to be the most remarkable - and irresistible - aspect of Omirbaev's deceptively simple coming of age film is its ability to capture the interpenetration between reality and fiction interpenetrate with such seemingly effortless, uninhibited intimacy - a wide eyed innocence that hovers in the ephemeral - ever teetering between solemnity and absurdity, boredom and roguishness, anxiety and imagination.

在北京“漂”着的青年摄影师泉子夫妇与人合住一套两居室，可合租者搬来了半个月，泉子还没有见过她。 　　 　　妻子不满于泉子为了所谓的理想把生活搞得很窘迫，以爱上别人为由从家里搬走了。这时候，正赶上泉子的弟弟小东来北京投奔他。 　　 　　泉子到西藏拍一个广告片，邂逅女演员青青。在美丽的圣湖那木错，青青对泉子产生好感。 　　 　　回到北京，泉子发现青青竟然跟自己住在一套房子里。 　　 　　一边是青青的情感表白，一边是对妻子的怀念。泉子限入困苦和迷惘。偏偏在这时候，泉子的弟弟跟踪发现了嫂子的踪迹，用啤酒瓶砸破了嫂子上司/情人的头。 　　 　　弟弟从拘留所出来，伤感地离开了北京。 　　 　　青青失望于泉子在感情上的游移，也搬走了。泉子又回到了单身的状态。一切已经物是人非，生活似乎完全变化了，又似乎什么都没有改变。

在北京“漂”着的青年摄影师泉子夫妇与人合住一套两居室，可合租者搬来了半个月，泉子还没有见过她。 　　 　　妻子不满于泉子为了所谓的理想把生活搞得很窘迫，以爱上别人为由从家里搬走了。这时候，正赶上泉子的弟弟小东来北京投奔他。 　　 　　泉子到西藏拍一个广告片，邂逅女演员青青。在美丽的圣湖那木错，青青对泉子产生好感。 　　 　　回到北京，泉子发现青青竟然跟自己住在一套房子里。 　　 　　一边是青青的情感表白，一边是对妻子的怀念。泉子限入困苦和迷惘。偏偏在这时候，泉子的弟弟跟踪发现了嫂子的踪迹，用啤酒瓶砸破了嫂子上司/情人的头。 　　 　　弟弟从拘留所出来，伤感地离开了北京。 　　 　　青青失望于泉子在感情上的游移，也搬走了。泉子又回到了单身的状态。一切已经物是人非，生活似乎完全变化了，又似乎什么都没有改变。