河畔的朔子

        昨天中午看了一半，午休时做了个梦，梦里我在看这部电影而且看完了，结束那一幕是朔子的蓝绿色背影渐渐走远。不知道电影里是什么样子的结束啊。挺喜欢这种淡淡的，好像什么重要的事情都没讲的电影。
        果然，结尾就是朔子穿着来时的蓝绿色衣服走远。
        来的时候带着考试失利的愁绪，走的时候带着别人不堪的情感；自己的不顺利，反倒没有那么坏啊。这样，就说明朔子长大了一些吧。
        喜欢这种像日常纪录片一样的电影。因为这些人物这些故事都可以反映在周边人的身上。如果我早几年看这部电影，那么不用费尽心思去想，我也能隐约明白，人是很放肆的动物哦。
        不过作为一部电影来说，我喜欢更为强烈的情感表达。我觉得海希江阿姨没有表现出来对兔吉叔或者老师的爱或不爱，但开头借邻居的嘴说了句“水帆总是找兔吉先生帮忙”，能想象出水帆和兔吉的关系一定有异样。海希江阿姨如果不表现的这么冷淡的话，对朔子的震撼会更大，顺便对辰子也带来惊吓，这时候孝史可以表现出“嘛，果然这么回事”的感觉，邻居们再说几句刺耳的话，老师和阿姨开展一些激烈的争吵，那么电影一定很精彩。也就不会显得这么沉闷吧。
        总之这类平淡电影是有意义的，也是耐看的，但是我喜欢更为强烈的平淡。

                                         SUMMER IN A SMALL TOWN RUSHES
The ghosts of Rohmer and Naruse haunt Au revoir l’été,Fukada Koji’s tale of a young girl coming of age in a seaside town.
                                                                                                             By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
i Au revoir l’été is released in UK cinemas
on 24 April and is reviewed on page 69
By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
i Au revoir l’été is released in UK cinemas
on 24 April and is reviewed on page 69
By Trevor Johnston
The export release title might conjure up a
Rohmeresque world of holiday-time ennui, but
the light, bright, summery images in Fukada
Koji’s third feature, Au revoir l’été, merely serve
to lure the viewer into a film with much to
say about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
small seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
spinster aunt, gradually reveals a window on
the country’s hidden class tensions, hypocritical
attitudes to sexual equality, and the failings
of democracy after the Fukushima nuclear
disaster. The approach is discursive rather than
hectoring, though it’s still relatively rare for
a contemporary Japanese film to manifest a
genuine sense of social engagement while still
delivering an attractive and engaging drama.
Fukada’s previous work, including 2010’s
social comedy Hospitalité, has been acclaimed
on the festival circuit, but this will be the first
chance for UK cinemagoers to experience
the work of a Japanese writer-director-editor
whose work runs stealthily against the
grain – not least for the fact that he honed his
craft in the theatre with Hirata Oriza’s famed
Seinendan company, responsible for a new
strain of naturalism on the Japanese stage.
Trevor Johnston: The original Japanese title,
Hotori no Sakuko, roughly translates as ‘Sakuko
on the margin’, yet presumably creating
her character was the key to the story?
Fukada Koji: Yes, I was actually inspired
by meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
professional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
between childhood and the adult world. She’s
failed her university entrance exam so has to take
a year out, so it’s an ambivalent, unbalanced time
in her life, which makes her the person to take
the audience on the journey into the labyrinth.
TJ: And what are the component
parts of this labyrinth?
FK: Well, for instance, there’s a sort of fake hotel.
It looks normal, but it’s actually operating as
a love hotel, where we see the local politician
and a suggestion of teenage prostitution. It’s
illegal, but it goes on, and for me that’s a way of
exploring women’s sexual roles. Contrast that
with Mikie, Sakuko’s aunt, someone who’s made
a very strong decision not to have children, which
really runs against the common perception in
Japan that women are there to have babies.
TJ: Sakuko also strikes up a friendship with a
refugee from Fukushima, which presumably
was a way of approaching this thorny subject?
FK: Absolutely. It would not have been possible
for me to make a film without tackling the
nuclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
become pretty much inured to images of the
suffering in Tohoku [the region surrounding
Fukushima]. What you have to realise is that
the nuclear power issue is actually fundamental
to the question of democracy in Japan. The
explosion and the aftermath are one thing, but
then we elected politicians who are continuing
the policy of nuclear power. There are antinuclear
demonstrations almost every day,
yet that doesn’t in any way affect the power
base of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party.
TJ: You can sense a sort of simmering
discontent as the story progresses, but
the film never becomes overtly angry.
FK: For me the cinema is really bound up with the
history of propaganda – not so much in subject
matter, but in the process, the notion of just how
easy it is for us to be made to change our minds,
to be manipulated. So when it comes to my own
films, I’m really very wary of creating emotional
propaganda. Instead I want to create a sort of
unresolved space, something that’s discursive, so
the audience has to fill in the gaps for themselves.
TJ: There’s a certain hint of Rohmer in the
subject matter, but do I also detect a Naruse
influence in the combination of everyday
drama and underlying social comment?
FK: You spotted it. When I was growing up, I
really watched a lot of pre-1960 films, and Naruse
was the one who made the strongest impression. I
see a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
because there’s always a clear relationship
between the characters and the camera. They
create a very simple, almost a pure environment
for the story. And I’ve tried to capture something
of that by always shooting the action from the
front, by keeping a certain distance, and never
distorting the relationship between the characters
and the viewer by using low camera angles.
TJ: Yes, it’s certainly unfashionably
classical in that regard, so does that
explain your choice of Academy ratio?
FK: What I’m trying to do with film is shoot
human beings and show their relationships. 4:3 is
definitely the most suitable ratio for the human
face, though something that I learned from my
work in the theatre was that when we really look
at people we realise they never really say what
they’re actually thinking. I don’t know if that’s
typically Japanese, but it’s something Sakuko
discovers for herself in the course of the story.
懒，我就不重新排版了。。。。。

一个最正常不过的夏天，普普通通的少女朔子高考失利来到海边的一个小地方放风，一切都是那么自然恬静美好，朔子虽然高考失利，对人生前景也略迷茫，但看着心情还不错，这应该是个舒适宜人的海边假期。慢慢得，依然日式舒心的环境，同样的一群人，但每个人的生活和人生仿佛都跟看上去的不一样，朔子懵懵懂懂，迷茫变成了疑惑，为什么大家都过得奇奇怪怪的，但都表现得很正常呢，仿佛这一切都是自然的。漂亮文艺范的阿姨跟n个怪蜀黍关系暧昧，一本正经的大学教授家有妻儿还跟阿姨不三不四外加调戏学生，商务酒店外表下的情侣酒店，为了框别人不惜牺牲色相的大学生，听着卡通歌都能笑的初中生却在援交。各种各样的冲突却宁静平和的流淌着，时间也就这样过去了，该过得日子还得过，朔子怪异又自然的假期结束了，她得回去复读了~~~~我默默得希望朔子的将来不会也跟这些冲突中的主角一样，希望她能过得真心恬静美好。

深田晃司真是对话能手~两小时看似全是日常闲笔，然而针脚细密中又时时反挑出来，这种用力，也可以说是温柔中的针尖对麦芒。 桑塔格在《反对阐释》中曾说，释义的目的是树立一个“意义”的影子世界，这样看来，试图挖掘原作“伴随暗示”的行为似乎造出的只是并不必然的摹本。然而《河畔的朔子》真的足够优秀，它好像一直在传递一种连贯的不确定性，这些不确定的、对照的碎片最后像万花筒中的影像一样连缀起来，拼成了不可思议的图像。到现在我也还没看懂《河畔的朔子》，好像不断地回溯那些疑虑的细节却越来越不懂了，然而它真正启发人去开启它的“有趣”，即使这样审美可能是徒劳。

1.藤壶
火曜日的对话非常动人，敏江阿姨形容蒙娜丽莎前面的人群怎样壮观：“就比如，把海边的石头翻过来的话，上面沾满了藤壶，就是那种感觉。”接着作了更深的着色：“只有那一处像围着偶像明星似的，人都挤在那儿，完全看不见画。”
海希江给出的回应使得这段对话微妙起来。回应着的海希江好像不是自己，整场对话更像是敏江阿姨的内心复调，海希江的重要在于她能问出敏江不便自我称赞的话。 然而这场对话唯一不对劲之处在于开头，敏江突兀地感叹道：“还真是壮观啊。”海希江不经意地追问一句：“蒙娜丽莎吗？”敏江阿姨后面还有一段台词：“但是，蒙娜丽莎旁边也有其他的画，那些画都没有人去看，落差特别大，明明都是画，看的我都有点伤心了。”旋即笑着对海希江眨了眨眼睛，神情轻快。
这是小镇的“藤壶”之一敏江阿姨的第一次亮相，其后的两次隐没到到访邻居的群像中去。小镇的邻居们其实是整个微型舞台密实的底调，在这里流言发酵，看客们像藤壶一样兴奋地扑在每一种新事物上。邻居们的另两次谈话分别热络地对新来的大学老师表示满意，又不屑地责备了“混混”兔吉先生和从福岛来到这里“避难”的孝史。 值得注意的是，全程兴趣寥寥坐在一旁安静地听着的朔子，唯一的搭话是：“我讨厌藤壶。”

2.黑节剪秋罗
戏中戏嵌入一个小说故事：主人公的弟弟在印度尼西亚屠杀事件中遇害，每夜变成幽灵出现摘下黑节剪秋罗吃下。和这个故事对应的情节是朔子跟海希江去山脚找黑节剪秋罗那天，朔子问：“你不吃吗？”，见海希江诧异，补充说：“幽灵不是吃吗？”
吃下黑节剪秋罗的海希江，和死去后久久徘徊人间的幽灵，在朔子对海希江“为什么想要研究东南亚”的提问中好像发酵出某些新的东西。这种以西方视角对殖民地人民倾注同情的主权形象就像是徘徊在第三世界苦难经历上空暧昧的幽灵，朔子的问题提出的其实是：这种“主场式”的感同身受为什么不用在你的身份真正所在的地方，作为一个局外人、一个“他者”，你试图接近的东西真的被你的研究对象所需要吗？

3.刨冰
辰子的话：“刨冰的各种糖浆味道其实是一样的，只是上的颜色不一样，闭上眼睛吃的话完全一个味道。尝到不同的味道，据说是大脑产生的错觉。”觉得是对于电影中人际关系一针见血的概括。

4.无地
孝史在中央公园第一次遇见短发女初中生，女孩在秋千旁边被另两个孩子欺负，孝史急于赴“约会”匆忙走掉了，随后挫败地发现自己抱有好感的女生并不是想要与他交往，而是利用他福岛核电受害者的身份消费他的苦难。
 影片前述提到朔子和孝史均有过被同学取笑的经历，中央公园的初中生也因为总被别人抢钱而最终想到去当援交少女。第二次遇到初中生，孝史帮助了她，因为忍受不了爱情旅馆对未成年少女惊人的冷漠气愤地决定离家出走，和朔子两人靠着草地边的篱笆睡了一晚，天亮了又决定回去跟叔叔道歉。其实朔子和孝史都不是心血来潮就会真正离家出走的人，这点在朔子刚认识孝史时说他和叔叔看起来关系很好，孝史语气平和地反问一句“是吗”，以及朔子也很懂得在大人间充满性暗示的场合保持沉默这些地方就可见一斑了。
两人离家出走那天回家的路上，铁轨上有一搭没一搭地列举了许多国家的名字，然而能想到的“远方”根本都不是“远方”，孝史顿了一会儿，有一瞬间我觉得导演都不忍心拍他们的脸于是拍了近处的铁轨和草皮，孝史平静地说：“哪里都是一样的。” 孝史曾说“在下是抛弃故乡的人”，然而在这里又被小镇的人们视为“避难者”，一个投机地享用着并不属于自己的阳光空气水的他者。 影片最后画面定格在月台上一个穿白衬衫、西裤的模糊人影上——朔子走的那天兔吉、海希江和辰子都去送她，孝史却不在。
《影的告别》中有一句是：“然而黑暗又会吞并我，然而光明又会使我消失。” 小镇的青年们仍葆有不愿与周遭的曲意逢迎同流合污的觉悟，然而这种觉悟正是成年人戴着温情脉脉的伪善面具所竭力祓除的。片名《河畔的朔子》，朔子真正去河畔只有两次，一次是和海希江一起去看黑节剪秋罗，一次是去河畔拿落在树枝上披肩，其他时候出现的都是海水。真正严格地称之为“河畔的”朔子的那天，朔子穿了红色连衣裙，和黑节剪秋罗一样的颜色，也是和小酒馆气球一样的颜色。徘徊于人间迟迟不肯散去的幽灵与小镇身份暧昧、进退失据的青年们，这种对此岸现实近乎“无意味”的执著，是很有些西西弗斯意味的。
　　
5.气球
孝史和朔子两个人在小酒馆，遇到一位骨瘦如柴的表演艺人，神情凝重，攥着一个红气球，像是从腹中长出的红色瘤块一样，用了很大力气去戳它终究也没有破。那人好像顿悟了什么，像生长的树枝那样举起气球起舞。邻桌的一位年愈不惑的客人早已泪流满面了。
我们被身上负重的东西压得喘不过气来，这些沉重的易碎物啊。



礼物：辰子母亲是谁
辰子曾说要送给朔子秘密的礼物，在朔子走的那天给她照片时说是妈妈的遗物，然而照片上却没有辰子的母亲（分别是朔子、孝史、辰子，朔子母亲、孝史母亲、辰子父亲和水帆），辰子解释说妈妈这种时候一般都是拍照片的人。影片开始时，海希江曾介绍兔吉说是姐姐的前男友，然而随着情节发展，真正在过去与兔吉有感情关系的并不是水帆而是海希江。海希江曾与兔吉发展到几乎谈婚论嫁的地步，即便水帆也与兔吉有过什么，这里提兔吉是姐姐前男友按常理来说是会很尴尬的。朔子与海希江两人去海边散步，海希江提到朔子小时候和母亲一起来过这里一次（应该是拍照片那次），因此拍照片那段时间海希江也回到小镇了，然而照片中有水帆却没有海希江。朔子和孝史出走那天海希江和兔吉一起等他们回来，海希江问兔吉辰子可爱吗，要兔吉好好照顾她，“总之生下来了”。朔子上了新干线后又取出照片来看，最后夹在一本教辅书中，书名给了特写《伦理问题集》。

红衣少女缓缓地走进了幽绿色的湖水，她弯腰下去，用白嫩的玉手不断撩拨着水面，画面外的少年如同那汪湖水般，心里早已涟漪不断，只好随手捡起几颗石子扔向湖面，来缓解盛夏与女孩儿美妙的倩影而带来的躁动与不安。

高考落榜来到乡村排遣心情的朔子在经历了短短的假期后，返程时，头倚靠在车窗边，暖暖的阳光打在她的脸上，饱满粉红的面庞，辅以少女莞尔一笑，这组画面的构成是典型的日式小清新加治愈系列的经典场景。与之前走向湖水那组色彩带来的视觉冲击相比，导演深田晃司的目的不言而喻，看似日常生活，实则暗流涌动。

如果说追求刺激享受的影迷在观看商业电影时的感觉是在吃大餐，那么本片相当于一盘“小葱拌豆腐”，日常的不能再日常，但是“小葱”和“豆腐”如何能拌的既好吃又美味，也是有讲究的。本片采用了日记式的章回体结构，每一天的假期又像散文诗般，基本没有什么剧情可言，事无巨细的对生活细节加以白描，所以过于缓慢的节奏可能会让大部分观看本片的观众在中途放弃，导演又特意使用了4：3的屏幕比例和略深灰色的色调，对于看惯了商业大制作的观众来讲，无疑是种折磨，但若是好这一口的人，这种用镜头说话，随手信笔挥毫的叙事手法，一定能带给你惊喜。

如我们青少年时期一样，受点挫折和不顺心的事儿老得找个地方换换心情，落榜的朔子来到乡村，本来悠长的暑假，不知不觉间就走到了最后，这在影片忽然结束的时候带给观者的直观感觉一致，这类型的电影仿佛有一种魔力，能把你吸住，慢慢的与故事里的人物合为一体。当年的我们也是如此，一个假期不知怎么地一眨眼就过完了，好像也没有做什么具体的事情。

朔子的眼睛观察着这里的一切，以她的视角为线索，带出了一众角色，这些角色看起来都是我们日常生活中常见的，但又各自心怀秘密。“秘密”是一个特别好的词儿，不仅能缓解尴尬，还能很好的保护自己的尊严和隐私，所以在这里，每个人平静的外表下都隐藏着不为人知的肮脏，如真实世界相等，而朔子像一个孩子，天真的审视着这一切，那种似成熟又非成熟的角色表达，恰如其分的真实记录着少女内心的成长。

本片所出现的人物其实并不多，但关系却十分复杂，每个角色之间都存在的必然联系，表面看起来光鲜亮丽，背后的不为人知，导演不厌其烦的时刻用角色间的对话和埋设的小伏笔来提醒观众。

大人的世界喧闹嘈杂，但每一个单纯的孩子最终都会成长，步入那个世界，就像朔子在分岔路口吻别自己暗恋的男孩儿，向着“大人之路”勇敢前行。