记者振昌（张国强饰）受命前去调查一所闹鬼的宾馆，不料在宾馆里竟邂逅女鬼楚云（张慧仪饰），但楚云对其并无恶意，振昌惊魂甫定之下楚云对他说出自己身世，原来楚云四十年前被爱郎所害，无辜惨死，但一直不明爱郎如此做法用意何在，她想请振昌帮忙，以了解真相，充满正义感的振昌欣然应允，于是展开调查，不料振昌经过调查后发现原来自己前身竟然就是楚云之爱郎……

记者振昌（张国强饰）受命前去调查一所闹鬼的宾馆，不料在宾馆里竟邂逅女鬼楚云（张慧仪饰），但楚云对其并无恶意，振昌惊魂甫定之下楚云对他说出自己身世，原来楚云四十年前被爱郎所害，无辜惨死，但一直不明爱郎如此做法用意何在，她想请振昌帮忙，以了解真相，充满正义感的振昌欣然应允，于是展开调查，不料振昌经过调查后发现原来自己前身竟然就是楚云之爱郎……

小云在高中时期认识一已婚画家,终因画家妻小力挣,而告不欢而散,小云父母仳离多年,自觉身心痛苦而离家出走,在外生活放荡,染上恶习,只得以跳楼自杀了结此生。秀春为家计做过许多卑微的工作,某日邂逅一潇洒青年,内心油然归宿之念,不料该男子是一骗子,将她所有储蓄骗走,秀春遭此打击,在酒醉之余误食安眠药,变成植物人。社会中的欢场女子,千奇百怪,命运各殊,此以描述各样风尘女郎的境遇,作为警世之用。

《相见欢》根据金奖作家非天夜翔所著小说改编，由中汇影视出品。

《相见欢》根据金奖作家非天夜翔所著小说改编，由中汇影视出品。

小云在高中时期认识一已婚画家,终因画家妻小力挣,而告不欢而散,小云父母仳离多年,自觉身心痛苦而离家出走,在外生活放荡,染上恶习,只得以跳楼自杀了结此生。秀春为家计做过许多卑微的工作,某日邂逅一潇洒青年,内心油然归宿之念,不料该男子是一骗子,将她所有储蓄骗走,秀春遭此打击,在酒醉之余误食安眠药,变成植物人。社会中的欢场女子,千奇百怪,命运各殊,此以描述各样风尘女郎的境遇,作为警世之用。

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.