Rewatching this film is surprised that the director made a film about World War II so peacefully and delicately, not noisy or bloody, no matter how the French people's romantic love for culture and art has never been interrupted. It's just that it's hard to tell the life inside and outside the show. Maybe being lost in those times is a way to find yourself? Losing itself is not troublesome and painful, it is the sobriety that knows that one is lost, and the reality that cannot be changed or even whether it should be changed. At the end, the heroine raised the hands of two men for the curtain call. Is the director's loss? Or is it the ambiguous moderation of old age?
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