相依为命母女的灵魂救赎

相依为命母女的灵魂救赎

斯科特 Rantzen (Brady Simenson) 是一个恐怖的电影爱废材学校里最受欢迎学生的嘲笑。当与非常受欢迎，非常漂亮的埃丽卡木匠 (斯蒂芬妮 · 雷 · 玫瑰) …

充满哲学和诗意 　　“Ritual”（“仪式”） 　　“出生”，“中间”， “重生”。 　　荒川修作和他的诗人妻子的共同作品“倒转的命运”( “Reversible Destiny”) 　　柔和各种元素，宗教的，艺术的，哲学的，科技的和电影 　　诡异和深沉的旋律 　　演员深邃和悲伤的眼神，颤动的肌肉 　　每秒500 Frames拍摄速度的关系，大多数场景在光照充足的白天拍摄以外，在灯光照明上也做了不少准备 　　电影本身不具备讲述玄学和高深道理的特性（因为电影史上很多诸如此类的尝试基本上都是失败的），但是影象的表现力和它提供的想像空间是能够视觉化不可理喻的东西。 　　NEMO实验电影节

充满哲学和诗意 　　“Ritual”（“仪式”） 　　“出生”，“中间”， “重生”。 　　荒川修作和他的诗人妻子的共同作品“倒转的命运”( “Reversible Destiny”) 　　柔和各种元素，宗教的，艺术的，哲学的，科技的和电影 　　诡异和深沉的旋律 　　演员深邃和悲伤的眼神，颤动的肌肉 　　每秒500 Frames拍摄速度的关系，大多数场景在光照充足的白天拍摄以外，在灯光照明上也做了不少准备 　　电影本身不具备讲述玄学和高深道理的特性（因为电影史上很多诸如此类的尝试基本上都是失败的），但是影象的表现力和它提供的想像空间是能够视觉化不可理喻的东西。 　　NEMO实验电影节

安初夏本是安家嫡长女，出生当日，因母亲难产而死，被父亲安俊生视为扫把星，直接丢弃乡野，却反手将情人和同日出生的私生女领进安家。安初夏在外与狗抢食，流浪十年这才被安家人找到，安初夏渴望得到亲情，不计前嫌，为了安俊生殚精竭力，帮他建立商业帝国，却落得被安俊生和情妇折磨致死的下场。 重生回到被认领回安家这天，安初夏不愿重蹈覆辙，要让安俊生一家血债血偿，而第一步就是取得安老爷子的认可，给自己换一个父亲。

假少爷林墨被养父母逼破放弃清北，受伤后送外卖窥破养父母的破产还债骗局，于是断亲出走。没想到自己竟是豪门家庭流落在外的儿子，顶级财团的亲父母和霸总姐姐亲自接自己回家，林墨选择进入另一所大学并担任新生代表发言，在开学典礼上当众逆袭，打脸真少爷林耀祖与养父母。

单亲妈妈沈念是上市公司高管，工作忙碌，为了照顾女儿豆豆，重金聘请高级保姆杨素云。杨素云表面恭敬，营造出尽心尽力照顾豆豆的假象，赢得沈念的信任。实际上杨素云背地里经常虐待豆豆，并且通过不正当手段篡改监控画面，趁沈念不在偷偷盗用财产，还将丈夫带进家中。后来沈念通过联系医生察觉到情况不对，又安装了新监控，没想到被杨素云发现，杨素云一家狗急跳墙，盗走沈念财产并绑架沈念的女儿，最终沈念报警，杨素云一家被绳之以法。

The Belgian filmmaker spent a period of time, unspecified, a week or two, in an apartment in Tel Aviv that was lent to her. She lived there alone, in virtually complete isolation, indirectly filming and narrating the experience, sustained only by "provisions" found in the kitchen, especially rice and carrots, having had stomach trouble from an Israeli salad; didn't go to cafes or supermarkets, and rarely even went out, except for a couple of forays to the sea; the apartment was a block or so from the beach. 　　La-bàs is a series of long stationary shots out the windows, often showing figures of old people on balconies on the roof or buildings opposite. A woman, immobile, is tended to by her husband. One man sits for long periods motionless. Ackerman in voice-over says she thinks he's watching his plants grow. "But I don't think plants grow any faster in Israel," she says. 　　Is this any better than the proverbial watching paint dry? Two aspects, visual and auditory, save this thin, dry, austere documentary from being a sterile art piece and make it both thought-provoking and haunting, for those who have the patience to sit through it; many will not. 　　To begin with, screens filter the light of the windows in a beautiful way: the shots are often handsome, not unworthy of something by Hou Hsiau-hsien or Tsai Ming-liang, if without their human figures moving about. 　　Further, Ackerman's voice overs, spoken off-camera during the shots, though skimpy, provide fleetingly penetrating, brutally frank self-revelations and contexts that range from the personal to the universal. Her father was once going to emigrate to Israal just after WWII and was waiting in Marseille to go, but he was warned that the Palestine environment was too harsh. The family settled in Belgium instead. She speaks of an aunt who committed suicide. Is she herself depressed? She speaks of passivity and laziness. She may be agoraphobic. She clearly is going through an agoraphobic period. She may also be afraid of bombs. A parent calls and expresses concern about her going out to dangerous places; she promises she won't. She speaks of prisons, external and self-imposed: this is one of the latter kind. 　　People call and invite her out. She says she can't because she's working. This devotion to the enterprise makes something positive and substantial, even noble, about this otherwise evanescent, uncertain project. This is an act of painfully heightened self-consciousness, a self-examination, a journal both Zen-like and intensive. She also speaks of reading; making extensive notes; having "complex" thoughts. A certain ambivalence toward her Jewishness is also involved. Finally, with minimal means, Ackerman has forged something unique. 　　A telling image: a Chasidic family leaving the beach. The man, in his quaint outfit, symbolizes the oddity of the Israeli enterprise. Ackerman doesn't comment on the oppression of Palestinians or Israeli dependence on the US. Her seclusion in the middle of Israel's largest city may be comment enough. This is something she apparently can't be a part of. But in her alienation, she couldn't be more Jewish.

The Belgian filmmaker spent a period of time, unspecified, a week or two, in an apartment in Tel Aviv that was lent to her. She lived there alone, in virtually complete isolation, indirectly filming and narrating the experience, sustained only by "provisions" found in the kitchen, especially rice and carrots, having had stomach trouble from an Israeli salad; didn't go to cafes or supermarkets, and rarely even went out, except for a couple of forays to the sea; the apartment was a block or so from the beach. 　　La-bàs is a series of long stationary shots out the windows, often showing figures of old people on balconies on the roof or buildings opposite. A woman, immobile, is tended to by her husband. One man sits for long periods motionless. Ackerman in voice-over says she thinks he's watching his plants grow. "But I don't think plants grow any faster in Israel," she says. 　　Is this any better than the proverbial watching paint dry? Two aspects, visual and auditory, save this thin, dry, austere documentary from being a sterile art piece and make it both thought-provoking and haunting, for those who have the patience to sit through it; many will not. 　　To begin with, screens filter the light of the windows in a beautiful way: the shots are often handsome, not unworthy of something by Hou Hsiau-hsien or Tsai Ming-liang, if without their human figures moving about. 　　Further, Ackerman's voice overs, spoken off-camera during the shots, though skimpy, provide fleetingly penetrating, brutally frank self-revelations and contexts that range from the personal to the universal. Her father was once going to emigrate to Israal just after WWII and was waiting in Marseille to go, but he was warned that the Palestine environment was too harsh. The family settled in Belgium instead. She speaks of an aunt who committed suicide. Is she herself depressed? She speaks of passivity and laziness. She may be agoraphobic. She clearly is going through an agoraphobic period. She may also be afraid of bombs. A parent calls and expresses concern about her going out to dangerous places; she promises she won't. She speaks of prisons, external and self-imposed: this is one of the latter kind. 　　People call and invite her out. She says she can't because she's working. This devotion to the enterprise makes something positive and substantial, even noble, about this otherwise evanescent, uncertain project. This is an act of painfully heightened self-consciousness, a self-examination, a journal both Zen-like and intensive. She also speaks of reading; making extensive notes; having "complex" thoughts. A certain ambivalence toward her Jewishness is also involved. Finally, with minimal means, Ackerman has forged something unique. 　　A telling image: a Chasidic family leaving the beach. The man, in his quaint outfit, symbolizes the oddity of the Israeli enterprise. Ackerman doesn't comment on the oppression of Palestinians or Israeli dependence on the US. Her seclusion in the middle of Israel's largest city may be comment enough. This is something she apparently can't be a part of. But in her alienation, she couldn't be more Jewish.