هنا، ألوذ في هدأة هذا الليل براحةٍ من قيظ النّهار. هنا، أحوك في الفكر خواطر، وأولّد على الشّفة بنات. هنا، ابتسامات حنين ترجّع صدى طفولةٍ نائية، وقصص حبّ طواها الزّمن. هنا، حلمٌ بغدٍ أجمل
Don't Move
Don't Move

I watched this movie yesterday. I was confused at first as to whether watch "Don't Move" or "The Interpreter"- not that Nicole Kidman’s new movie was that appealing to me, but it would be a shame not to watch it, given the relation between its title and my profession. Anyway, I’m glad I chose the former. Here is why, by the words of the co-author herself, “Margaret Mazzantini”:

“This is a film about pity and love: the illicit, tender love of two forlorn people afloat in a blue city, each floundering in the other's breath like fish in a net. She's a lamb lost in a downpour; he's the wolf searching for her. Not to eat her, but to fall at her feet.

It's the story of a man who asks women to forgive him in the rain.

There's a surgeon who wears a green scrub suit and rubber gloves so he can plunge into life without soiling his own living flesh. There's a bourgeois wife, beautiful and implacable. There's a modern daughter, who listens to music while riding around on a motor scooter with her helmet strap hanging loose…and there's rain, and urban birds**t, and the slippery muck that makes wheels skid. And there's our life - so stingy, so stagnant, suddenly compromised, uncovered.

For the rest, there's a pallid hospital corridor, and a pallid man against a wall.

The music of an old song returns, a song of younger days, when he loved and killed by mistake. When he wept at night and ran in the sun and looked for the empty hole of his true self.

And a little woman returns, with a name as big as a country: Italia.

A woman as beautiful as her ugliness, as her truth. A woman who smells like a sacrifice. And the world is drenched in love. A dog passes, a river passes, and a child who has found no home on earth passes, too.

It's still raining. The rich, wretched man kneels at the feet of the poor queen.
"You'll never forgive me, will you?"
"God won't forgive us."
"God doesn't exist!"
"Let's hope so, my love. Let's hope so."

They stay suspended like that, waiting for mercy. They leave Rome like two people on a Sunday excursion, heading for a southern town, skirting a mountain transfixed by a cross.

Then time passes, the summer passes, years of seasons pass. Leaves lie in heaps under the plane trees that line the streets. The rains return. Only love remains, together with the leaves and the scraps of paper lifted by the wind.

Love like a spore that migrates and grows fertile.

This is a film that leaves us famished with nostalgia for what we really need. It's a symbolic film that casts no spells, yet confers magical powers on things just by descending into that hollow place where our absences lurk -our innermost yearnings, our secret desires.”
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