《河畔的朔子》好看吗？经典观后感10篇
《河畔的朔子》是一部由深田晃司执导，二阶堂富美 / 鹤田真由 / 太贺主演的一部剧情类型的电影，文章吧小编精心整理的一些观众的观后感，希望对大家能有帮助。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(一)：那首关于夏天的歌
（搬运自A站） 之前的一个小时，几度想把这电影叉掉。 虽说沉闷的节奏一向是日影的风格，但是。如《鸟人》一般，大量长镜头的使用加上始终如水般的剧情节奏，夏天的虫鸣和海水的BGM....让人昏昏欲睡。 还好的是，一向熟悉日影于是更加的期待，那一处处不被注意到的伏笔埋下之后。最后那高潮的惊艳，它好像并没有辜负我的期盼呢，像名字《河畔的朔子》 影片以朔子的故事为引子，讲着一群海边小镇生活的人他们的故事。高考落榜去小镇散心的两个星期的朔子，为翻译书籍的海希江，环游世界的水帆，表面上经营商务旅馆实则是爱情旅馆的兔吉，福岛核泄漏后来避难的孝史，喜欢诗歌的辰子。。。。。。 我一向觉得好电影的最标志性的一点就是，它是有灵魂的。它想告诉观者的是什么。虽然标签打着是清新的旗号，但它深层次的其实是梦想片。 落榜之后的朔子迷失了，因为她偏离了大多数人固定的，作为正确的人生轨道大学，入职，结婚生子。她来到小镇后，用旁观者的角度去观察，去倾听其他人的梦想，真正喜欢想做的事情。 水帆热爱的陶艺，即使年长也仍周游世界的自由； 海希江对东南亚文化的热情，翻译战争小说的书籍； 兔吉在妻子亡后，即使背负道德善良上的谴责，周围人对他的恶言仍在开着有老头援交初中少女的旅馆，并假装默然。因为他想让自己的女儿辰子过更优渥的生活，读得起更好的大学； 从遭受福岛辐射家乡，父亲虐待的家中逃出的孝史，过着与以往截然不同的生活，并觉得这就是他想要的梦想。 影片后段，孝史将钢琴曲换成民谣的那一刻，将影片推向了一个高潮 孝史和朔子结伴离家出走，走在田野中的铁路上，报着一个又一个更遥远的地名北海道，冲绳，中国，香港，俄罗斯，美国，英国，瑞士，非洲和周游世界的水帆阿姨不一样的是他们只是心，在去远方的路上，就像他们深夜到达的路边的小酒吧，那个无声的舞者手里吹起的红色气球，不断吹大，然后托起放在怀中，气球时而重的舞者的双臂下沉，时而挣脱舞者的怀抱，最后被舞者紧紧的抱在怀里。 镜头切换，到一个喝酒的上班族大叔到目瞪口呆的男女主角。虽然没有气球爆裂的镜头。但知道的是气球在最后的挣脱挤压中是爆裂的。 这气球就是，大多数人，从出生便慢慢成长的梦想。到有些因沉重而逐渐放下，有些因背道而驰的现实，自身的无力与渺小最后碎裂掉的梦想。 如影片中出走的那个夜，在天亮时分，他们互相告别回到家中，回到了现实，而此刻他们的梦想有更加清晰明白的显露出来。 海希江只是想有个可以照顾的孩子，并怀念以前与兔吉在一起的时光，却架不住自己无法生育只能与兔吉分开的现实； 兔吉真正期盼的是，在对妻子充满愧疚之情却无法偿还的亡后，希望真正的哪怕全镇的人都否定他，也有自己的女儿可以认同他； 孝史梦想是最简单也是最难的，就像是个正常人一般，在欢笑的时候欢笑，遇上喜欢心动的女孩谈场恋爱。他想要的是最平凡的生活； 而影片主人公的朔子，也在影片最后，和海希江的对话中 清楚的告诉了观者她也找到了她的梦。 “当局者迷，旁观者清，只有自己能帮助自己吧” 如此的话语说出她已经不再去试着观察，去临摹他人的梦想，而真正的去思考自己想 要走的，接下来的路。 她说自己的梦想，是个秘密。 “充满鲜花的世界到底在哪里，如果它真的存在那么我一定会去我想在那里最高的山峰矗立，不在乎它是不是悬崖峭壁”嘛....7.9分
火车移动，横过房屋，横过丛木。昏睡中，「到了，朔子」。这是电影的开篇，就像所有的开始，就像人的成长，我们都是糊里糊涂来到世上，混混噩噩寻找方向。
朔子，18岁，高三毕业，没考上任何一间大学，对未来一无所知，没有想做的事。家人目见跟主流大众的路偏差了，会说上几句。这种关心在当事人听来就是烦心，逃避是必然的选择。朔子跟着海希江阿姨逃到临海乡下，弹琴丶海滩玩水丶听人闲聊丶踩单车，做甚麽都可以，除了读书温习。毕竟也读了至少十二年的课本，结果换来失败的下场丶空荡的人生。继续读下去有甚麽意义？说来也奇怪，成绩差的人不喜欢读书，成绩好的人也不喜欢读书，如朔子口中那个逃课的同学。人，要做甚麽好？
水帆阿姨，做陶艺的，喜欢旅游。
邻居敏江，没有职业，闲时旅游丶闲时画画丶闲时找友人谈天说地。
西田郁夫，大学老师，高尚职业，有妻儿，但跟海希江阿姨的关系暧昧，会挑逗自己的女学生。
人，生活，总需要做点事，像这样才有意义。但做的事未必叫自己喜欢，有时自己作贱，有时逼不得已。作贱还是逼不得已，离不开跟他者的互动。人，与人的相处，是生活的面相，可以产出自由快乐，可以产出难过悲伤。其中的运作，引起了朔子的兴趣。
海希江阿姨的生活，朔子不明白，包括她跟自己母亲的关系丶跟西田的关系和跟兔吉先生的关系。她跟朔子母亲没有血缘关系，但她们的名字叫法一样，同年级读过同一班，而阿姨比母亲漂亮，为朔子母亲带来过烦恼。西田有妻儿，为甚麽还跟他一起？她曾经跟兔吉先生相恋，为甚麽第一天介绍兔吉先生的时候只说他是水帆阿姨的前男朋友，没有说也是她的前男朋友？那次找花的那条分岔路，她跟兔吉先生的路明明较短，为甚麽却花更长的时间才到达？
为甚麽邻居敏江无所事事就周围跟人说三道四？为甚麽辰子不喜欢努力赚钱供自己读大学的父亲？为甚麽拥有高学历的西田那样厚颜无耻？为甚麽兔吉先生会容忍喜欢过的人做人情妇？
大人的事情好像都不可理喻。孝史都不明白兔吉叔叔为何纵容权贵，VIP跟初中生发生性关系也无动於衷，还一如既往为他播歌助威。孝史和朔子都离家出走，是对於成人世界的看不过眼吗？咖啡室的那个气球表演，为甚麽那个大人会流泪？
大人对於自己的事情，自己可能也不好说。孝史丶朔子离家出走的那天，海希江和兔吉独处的时间，像有很多话要说，最後却只有寥寥数句。人，越大，是否都越喜欢把事情深埋？然後给它一个「秘密」的名称。
通过观察人和人的相处，朔子对於自己的将来有了点眉目。或者每一个人每一天的生活都是一样的，像刨冰各种糖浆的味道，不论浇上草莓还是蜜糖，闭上眼吃味道都是一样。不同，只是大脑产生的错觉。
朔子是喜欢孝史的。当她见到他跟女同学约会，就到海边忘我地跑步；当听到他第二天又跟女同学约会，她就转身背向他点烟花。离家出走完回家，她给喜欢的人轻轻一吻。
人，是一种有趣的东西。河畔的朔子，涉水未深，带着有点清晰的头脑回去，不知会否从事研究“人”的工作。火车移动，书本合上。
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。
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。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(四)：表面的和平
此时，是个停暖后阳光灿烂的春天午后，楼下高耸的杨树、成片的蔷薇发了芽，玉兰结着花骨朵。看着朔子每天一套清爽的衣裙，期待起夏天的到来。 电影开始比较日常，普通的夏日海边。 考大学落榜的朔子和阿姨好像无话不谈，人们也似快乐无忧。 寻找异域小说里花的水边，女孩明眸皓齿、笑容明朗，男孩眉眼干净、瘦削木讷，朦胧的像梦一般不真切。 慢慢悠悠，倒不沉闷。 直到朔子骑车到辰子父亲兔吉的“爱情”酒店，生活不那么光鲜的内里好像才开始拉开帷幕。 朔子的阿姨与兔吉的隐匿旧情，兔吉父女的莫名不睦，来看阿姨的有妻室大学老师的虚伪不堪，孝史挨打的不快乐过往...... 在辰子的生日聚餐之夜大家各揣心事，矫饰和掩盖的，转瞬就被撕裂，接着崩塌。 大人们无奈又伪善，年纪最小的朔子只顾吃吃喝喝，一言不发，又好似看穿一切，淡然无所谓。 辰子那两巴掌，利落、响亮。 朔子和孝史因女同学的龃龉，也被夜风轻轻吹散。 谁想孝史单方面的罗曼史第二天便戛然而止，还是以当着全世界展示“伤疤”的方式。以为他不会上台，会逃走。 他上了台，紧张地直搓手指，却也倔强地没有顺从主办方和观众的意愿“剖”开内心。 看到现场直播的朔子，追上扰乱酒店常客“好”事的孝史，“逃家二人组”仓促成行。 一夜游荡，“没心没肺”有一搭没一搭提及各种远方，生活的不顺遂和不好看，好像也没那么沉重。 默剧演员手里仿佛千斤重的红色气球，默然落泪的中年男子...... 铁道边迎来青色的晨曦，夜里未遂的吻，临别时朔子轻轻留在孝史的脸上。 谁还担心未来呢？ 本国人只能为本国人做事，帮助本国人？ 旁观者清，对自己的问题，总是更难面对和抉择。 阿姨的秘密，是和兔吉回不去的旧情？又为何与有妇之夫纠缠不清？ 朔子的秘密，她的决定是什么？她还会回来吗？ 和平的表面下，大人的痛苦和逃避，少年的迷惘和无助，都稍纵即逝，一切仍将看似平静。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(五)：假期过着过着就没了
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。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(六)：别人世界
河畔的朔子
1 夏日炎炎 朔子来到离海很近的小镇散心 海边的小镇可以时不时就可以去海边游个泳玩个水什么的
2 在小镇认识了一些人 阳光 但其实也和朔子一样 各有各的烦恼
3 朔子站在大人世界的门口 看着大人的烦恼 看着同龄人 不一样的生活
4 你画的那朵小花 从来没有见到过 我们一起去看看吧，朔子
幽灵把花吃下去了 你也尝尝 味道是苦的 哈哈哈哈
就像不顺利的心情一样 苦苦的味道
5 当局者迷 越是离自己近就越会 迷失在其中 所以选者旁观的角度 发现问题 才能更容易解决好问题
《河畔的朔子》观后感(七)：翻浆
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》。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(八)：《视与听》上导演的访谈
UMMER 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.
y 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
ay about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
mall seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
inster 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
ocial 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
einendan company, responsible for a new
train 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
y meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
rofessional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
etween 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
arts 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
uclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
ecome pretty much inured to images of the
uffering 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
ase 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
ropaganda. 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
ubject 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
ee a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
ecause there’s always a clear relationship
etween 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
y 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
ay about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
mall seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
inster 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
ocial 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
einendan company, responsible for a new
train 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
y meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
rofessional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
etween 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
arts 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
uclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
ecome pretty much inured to images of the
uffering 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
ase 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
ropaganda. 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
ubject 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
ee a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
ecause there’s always a clear relationship
etween 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
y 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
ay about the ills of Japanese society. Here the
mall seaside town, where Nikaido Fumi’s
teenager Sakuko finds herself staying with her
inster 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
ocial 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
einendan company, responsible for a new
train 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
y meeting the actress Nikaido Fumi, who
manages to combine a real youthfulness with a
rofessional maturity, having been in the business
for a number of years. So Sakuko is someone
etween 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
arts 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
uclear power issue in some way, but I didn’t
want to do it directly, because in Japan we’ve
ecome pretty much inured to images of the
uffering 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
ase 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
ropaganda. 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
ubject 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
ee a strong kinship between Naruse and Rohmer
ecause there’s always a clear relationship
etween 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。。。。。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(九)：恬静美好下的丑恶
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。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(十)：成长，不露声色。
极简的剧情，极缓的节奏。
成人的世界放佛“潘多拉的魔盒”，表面的平和之下充斥着各种暗潮涌动和狰狞的欲望。戛然而止的懵懂的感情，“诗和远方”的想象，时而迷惘时而清晰的青春。。。朔子赤着脚在水中拨弄着，一圈圈荡漾开去的涟漪和所有人的“秘密”随着渐渐远去的列车消散于无形。
日子还要继续，朔子离开了，她还得补课，参加来年的高考；镇子上的人们则戴着各自的面具日复一日的如同那位默剧演员一样，各种演绎，各种努力，各种挣扎。