The casting is very good, basically the three main characters themselves and their performances basically meet the image in my mind, Kiko is a true performance, Matsuyama did not let me down, and even Kikuchi, who was criticized by everyone, did not let me down. The characters feel basically in place.
If there is no original book, this can be regarded as a movie that basically meets the standard of watchability. But, damn it, the original is too good. Chen Yingxiong obviously did not understand the essence of this book, but it is a bit like keeping a running account. It seems that he just sorted out the story. The control and tone of the whole film did not reach the ideal Norwegian forest. The essence of the book was not expressed, and the details were not expressed. Processing is also not enough. The Norwegian forest in the village is much more than that.
It is understandable, after all, it is not easy to show a book and the atmosphere it creates in the form of images, not to mention the stream-of-consciousness novels whose inner feelings are shaped more than stories. I don't know how Iwai Shunji will shoot this, but his delicateness seems to be able to better interpret Murakami's early style and the pain of youth in this book.
I was in college when I read this book. At that time, reading this book seemed to transform into Watanabe, feeling the wind he felt, the warm light or snow outside the window, the kitten in the corner, the sunset outside the balcony, the rustling of fallen leaves, and of course Naoko Midoriko and even Reiko and other people's love or feelings, his pain, his nothingness, his everything...
In the classroom in the afternoon, the top floor of the student apartment in the evening, under the lamp in the room at night... I put it over and over again. I read the book dozens or hundreds of times, and I was completely immersed in it. I kept switching between Watanabe and the scene I was in. Every time I pulled out of those scenes after experiencing those scenes, I would always shed tears—then Years, I am eighteen years old.
After that, I was unable and impossible to wander between the eighteen and nineteen, and now I have already rushed to the third.
Looking back at the age of 18, those days have long been blurred, but those feelings are still vivid in my mind and empathy.
It's not that we always want to remember tragedy but downplay warmth and beauty, but on the contrary, some grief never let go, trying to become a brand. Perhaps optimistically, that's fine, pain always inspires us to think more deeply about something.
I remember, Proust said: People always waste in happy days and gain something in miserable days.
I hope so.
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