In fact, if it weren't for Robert Pattinson, I definitely wouldn't watch this movie at all, usually I feel disgusted and incomprehensible about these kinds of movies. In addition, there are more reasons:
1. English with a Spanish accent is too difficult to understand. I haven't found Chinese subtitles so far, who knows where there is trouble tell me.
2. In addition to Spanish and French, there are many simple French interspersed in it. Fortunately, I have learned it.
3. The Spanish Civil War, Franco's dictatorship, seems to have been said in history, but there is really no impression. Political elements permeate the film.
4. Dali and Lorca, I have never heard of it before, let alone Luis Bunel.
To sum up, Little Ashes is destined to be a niche movie. Just imagine that most people watch movies for fun, and this movie is for fun.
So I almost decided not to watch it. When I decided to watch it, I persisted for about ten minutes, and then almost decided to give up. Fortunately not, otherwise I would have missed what a great experience!
My favorite episode is Dali bringing Lorca to his hometown, two people in a broken house, one painting, one poetry, this is the legendary goodness of the piano ? Such a beautiful picture. The other is Dali and Lorca. At the reunion many years later, at first glance Dali was a strong success. He showed off his life to Lorca and invited him to join. But when Lorca finally rejected him, Dali still sounded arrogant, but was actually a pleading.
Of course, there are also many other sensational places. If two people swim in the water, a full moon will add sparkling waves. Dali heard the news of Lorca's death on the radio, painted a drawing board black, painted black again, and then Gala told him that the guests had arrived, Dali used black hands to ditch the tears next to his eyes, and of course his face became darker, and finally He squeezed out a smile and said in a different tone: J'arrive. But I think these overly sensational clips are somewhat deduced.
This film is beautiful, the picture is too beautiful, even the alley where Dali and Lorca escaped after finishing the Viva la revolution is particularly beautiful. Basically, it can be regarded as a promotional video of the Spanish scenery.
Luis Bunel is cute too, I don't know how many people would think that, in this film he is portrayed as a provocateur in the relationship between Dali and Lorca, almost a villain, but I think he is a very real person, that The actor is so good, I even think he's cooler than Dali.
Speaking of actors, the one who plays Lorca is a special actor, because he looks like the poet himself, and Robert Pattinson looks nothing like Salvador Dali. It can be seen that he is doing his best to act, but still Not like. Some people say that Dali he played is too handsome, but I don't think so, because the real Dali is also very handsome. When he was young, he was probably more handsome than Robert Pattinson. Edward Cullen doesn't need to act, just be cool, how cool can come, according to the description in the novel, that is the most perfect existence in the world. So I think Robert Pattinson wants to prove that he has acting skills with Little Ashes. In fact, watching him act is really bad. But if it weren't for him, such a niche film would be even more incredibly niche. I think this is the best movie he has ever acted in.
The soundtrack by Little Ashes, oh my god, is just so good, it's overwhelming, it's Spanish. I don't believe anyone wouldn't be impressed by it. Even people who hate this movie will fall in love with its soundtrack, which is good to hear.
If I can sum it up in a few simple words, this movie is petty, beautiful, exquisite, and a little bit unintelligible. In short, I will forget that I hate gay movies, and I will feel that everything this movie is trying to express is reasonable.
After watching this movie, I unconsciously went to learn more about Dali and Lorca. After understanding, I found that their real life is actually very different from the description in the movie.
1. Lorca is like a small child, he is patriotic and progressive, but it is doubtful whether he loves enough to dedicate himself to it.
2. Lorca is a lover, and in addition to Dali, there are many lace histories. He certainly wrote the passionate Ode to Salvador Dali, but his passion seemed to lack tenacity.
3. Dali is probably a public mystery in the literary and art circles of the last century. He is a collection of too many symbols, and in short, maybe not so cute. Just look at his public comments on Lorca. Too mean.
He was homosexual, as everyone knows, and madly in love with me. He tried to screw me twice .... I was extremely annoyed, because I wasn't homosexual, and I wasn't interested in giving in. Besides, it hurts. So nothing came of it. But I felt awfully flattered vis-à-vis the prestige. Deep down I felt that he was a great poet and that I owe him a tiny bit of the Divine Dalí's asshole.'
There are really not many movies in this world that are worth watching and watching again. It is still such a movie that I don’t know much about. I want to say that this is the best literary film I have ever seen. Not perfect, but really moving.
Federico Garcia Lorca - Ode to Salvador Dali
A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.
The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.
Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.
An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.
Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.
A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.
*
Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.
Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.
A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.
*
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.
Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.
The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.
The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight refuge of the present instant.
When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.
You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.
You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.
The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.
You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.
The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.
*
But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.
Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!
*
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.
I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.
I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.
But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.
Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship , painted bright as a game board.
May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.
Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.
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