《种树的牧羊人》影评10篇
《种树的牧羊人》是一部由弗雷德里克·贝克执导，Philippe Noiret / Christopher Plummer主演的一部动画 / 短片类型的电影，文章吧小编精心整理的一些观众的影评，希望对大家能有帮助。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(一)：《种树的牧羊人》的电影画面
一部电影的画面是构成一部好电影的重要因素。画面的构造，清晰以及转换等等又在观众观赏体验中占比重要。我简单的说一说我对于这部短片画面的理解。
《牧羊人》的画面比较抽象，切换比较快，三十分钟的短片看下来，我除了一直很直接的眩晕的感觉没有其他的想法。在前半段里，陈述者在沙漠里走的时候，抽象而模糊的画面使人物和背景融为一体，时而显现，时而消失，我还要花功夫去定位人物的位置。后半段的画面整体风格转变，摆脱了之前死气沉沉的荒漠，变成了富有生机活力的绿洲，于是问题又出在哪儿呢？我对这片绿洲的理解就是一片绿，我不知道那里是树那里是草。可能转念一想，这样前后能够有足够的对比度。
你可能会说，这部动画就是这种风格，它有种沙画一样的美感，它不会像《喜洋洋与灰太狼》一样迎合观众。我承认，这种抽象的画面确实达到了他想要的效果。
影片的前半段着重描绘了沙漠的“干”，于是导演用一种颜色，将近白色的灰，表达了整个场景。这个场景里的地我们看不出是土地还是沙地，总之，我们知道这片地是荒芜废弃的。包括风，也是这同种颜色来表示，一瞬间有种风沙地混合的干燥感觉。
影片的中断讲述这个村子过去的故事时，将抽象的手法又上升了一个高度。这一连串的事情，它没有采用一幕一幕的蒙太奇，反而是用了一个很精彩的连续的画面切换，把这里的往事抽茧拔丝一般地一股脑说完。我上一次看到这样的表现方法是在《哈利波特与死亡圣器（上）》中，讲述三兄弟的故事。我不知道这种手法的专业术语，但我感觉似乎使用的比较少的，可能是我看动画比较少，可能是我要看都是看的梦工厂迪士尼的画面鲜明利落的动画。但无论怎么说这部短片1988年在法国上映，估计在当时会是很有吸引力的的一部动画（现在的话，画面真的不咋地，没有日本的美感，也没有迪士尼的清新）。
影片最后的画面如我之前所说的，变得一片绿色，很不好辨认。但镜头从一座座山丘上挪过的时候，那一片摇摆的绿色，那一汪叮咚的小泉，让我仿佛也感受到那种法国乡村的美好。
既然说到画面我也不得不把我看过的为数不多的动画拿出来跟这部电影作比较了。日本以宫崎骏为代表的一派着重表现日本乡村的美好，夕阳，河流，农田中间的公路，电线杆……以梦工厂迪士尼为代表的美国动画则是梦幻又比较写实，比如说《飞屋环游记》，也可能是类似于木偶戏的动画版，例如最近很火的《失常》。但这些动画的有的《牧羊人》没有，这些没有的，《牧羊人》有。怎么样都能说，《牧羊人》是一部风格独树一帜的短片了吧。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(二)：不忘初心
这部动画不长，半个小时左右。最初了解到的是文字版，看着排版，我还以为是首诗。不长，一口气读完也不过几分钟。可是很快我又转回头去读了第二遍甚至第三遍，一个一个字的去看。 一个老人无欲无求，兢兢业业的种了漫山遍野的树。他一颗一颗的挑他认为最好的树种，怕羊毁坏树苗便转养蜂。他一天到晚的事就是种树，不问他事。战争与他无关，名利与他无关，除了种树之外的任何事好像都与他无关。独自一人在这荒漠中，没人陪伴，但我认为他一点也不孤独。内心平实而又富足，他有一颗坚韧而又平和的心。
我们总是追求的太多。欲望就像线，弯弯曲曲的线。欲望与欲望交织就容易形成空洞，那是内心的空洞，我们一不小心就会掉在欲望之间甚至欲望之内的空洞里，迷失自己，忘了初心。
但这并不是意味着我们不去追求，放弃追求。我们要明白自己真正的追求到底是什么。可能一开始你并不能像老爷爷那样知道自己到底想做什么，没关系。那种想放弃千遍万遍后还是不忍心放弃的事，就接受吧，敢于放弃该放弃的，一步一步的认认真真的把该做的做好。
不忘初心很难，但同时又很简单。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(三)：《种树的牧羊人》旁白英文原文
（http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/002609.html）
[The following English translation of Jean Giono's original essay in French by Peter Doyle is a public domain text. For your convenience, we're reproducing it here in it's entirety. Found via the excellent Ming the Mechanic.]
The Man Who Planted Trees
【In order for the character of a human being to reveal truly exceptional qualities, we must have the good fortune to observe its action over a long period of years. If this action is devoid of all selfishness, if the idea that directs it is one of unqualified generosity, if it is absolutely certain that it has not sought recompense anywhere, and if moreover it has left visible marks on the world, then we are unquestionably dealing with an unforgettable character.
About forty years ago I went on a long hike, through hills absolutely unknown to tourists, in that very old region where the Alps penetrate into Provence.
This region is bounded to the south-east and south by the middle course of the Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down to Die; to the west by the plains of Comtat Venaissin and the outskirts of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the Département of Basses-Alpes, the south of Drôme and a little enclave of Vaucluse.
At the time I undertook my long walk through this deserted region, it consisted of barren and monotonous lands, at about 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level. Nothing grew there except wild lavender.】
I was crossing this country at its widest part, and after walking for three days, I found myself in the most complete desolation. I was camped next to the skeleton of an abandoned village. I had used the last of my water the day before and I needed to find more. Even though they were in ruins, these houses all huddled together and looking like an old wasps' nest made me think that there must at one time have been a spring or a well there. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six roofless houses, ravaged by sun and wind, and the small chapel with its tumble-down belfry, were arrayed like the houses and chapels of living villages, but all life had disappeared.
It was a beautiful June day with plenty of sun, but on these shelterless lands, high up in the sky, the wind whistled with an unendurable brutality. Its growling in the carcasses of the houses was like that of a wild beast disturbed during its meal.
I had to move my camp. After five hours of walking, I still hadn't found water, and nothing gave me hope of finding any. Everywhere there was the same dryness, the same stiff, woody plants. I thought I saw in the distance a small black silhouette. On a chance I headed towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty lambs or so were resting near him on the scorching ground.
He gave me a drink from his gourd and a little later he led me to his shepherd's cottage, tucked down in an undulation of the plateau. He drew his water - excellent - from a natural hole, very deep, above which he had installed a rudimentary windlass.
This man spoke little. This is common among those who live alone, but he seemed sure of himself, and confident in this assurance, which seemed remarkable in this land shorn of everything. He lived not in a cabin but in a real house of stone, from the looks of which it was clear that his own labor had restored the ruins he had found on his arrival. His roof was solid and water-tight. The wind struck against the roof tiles with the sound of the sea crashing on the beach.
His household was in order, his dishes washed, his floor swept, his rifle greased; his soup boiled over the fire; I noticed then that he was also freshly shaven, that all his buttons were solidly sewn, and that his clothes were mended with such care as to make the patches invisible.
He shared his soup with me, and when afterwards I offered him my tobacco pouch, he told me that he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without being fawning.
It had been agreed immediately that I would pass the night there, the closest village being still more than a day and a half farther on. Furthermore, I understood perfectly well the character of the rare villages of that region. There are four or five of them dispersed far from one another on the flanks of the hills, in groves of white oaks at the very ends of roads passable by carriage. They are inhabited by woodcutters who make charcoal. They are places where the living is poor. The families, pressed together in close quarters by a climate that is exceedingly harsh, in summer as well as in winter, struggle ever more selfishly against each other. Irrational contention grows beyond all bounds, fueled by a continuous struggle to escape from that place. The men carry their charcoal to the cities in their trucks, and then return. The most solid qualities crack under this perpetual Scottish shower. The women stir up bitterness. There is competition over everything, from the sale of charcoal to the benches at church. The virtues fight amongst themselves, the vices fight amongst themselves, and there is a ceaseless general combat between the vices and the virtues. On top of all that, the equally ceaseless wind irritates the nerves. There are epidemics of suicides and numerous cases of insanity, almost always murderous.
The shepherd, who did not smoke, took out a bag and poured a pile of acorns out onto the table. He began to examine them one after another with a great deal of attention, separating the good ones from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help him, but he told me it was his own business. Indeed, seeing the care that he devoted to this job, I did not insist. This was our whole conversation. When he had in the good pile a fair number of acorns, he counted them out into packets of ten. In doing this he eliminated some more of the acorns, discarding the smaller ones and those that that showed even the slightest crack, for he examined them very closely. When he had before him one hundred perfect acorns he stopped, and we went to bed.
The company of this man brought me a feeling of peace. I asked him the next morning if I might stay and rest the whole day with him. He found that perfectly natural. Or more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. This rest was not absolutely necessary to me, but I was intrigued and I wanted to find out more about this man. He let out his flock and took them to the pasture. Before leaving, he soaked in a bucket of water the little sack containing the acorns that he had so carefully chosen and counted.
I noted that he carried as a sort of walking stick an iron rod as thick as his thumb and about one and a half meters long. I set off like someone out for a stroll, following a route parallel to his. His sheep pasture lay at the bottom of a small valley. He left his flock in the charge of his dog and climbed up towards the spot where I was standing. I was afraid that he was coming to reproach me for my indiscretion, but not at all : It was his own route and he invited me to come along with him if I had nothing better to do. He continued on another two hundred meters up the hill.
Having arrived at the place he had been heading for, he begin to pound his iron rod into the ground. This made a hole in which he placed an acorn, whereupon he covered over the hole again. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose land it was？ He did not know. He supposed that it was communal land, or perhaps it belonged to someone who did not care about it. He himself did not care to know who the owners were. In this way he planted his one hundred acorns with great care.
After the noon meal, he began once more to pick over his acorns. I must have put enough insistence into my questions, because he answered them. For three years now he had been planting trees in this solitary way. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come up. He counted on losing another half of them to rodents and to everything else that is unpredictable in the designs of Providence. That left ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where before there was nothing.
It was at this moment that I began to wonder about his age. He was clearly more than fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzéard Bouffier. He had owned a farm in the plains, where he lived most of his life. He had lost his only son, and then his wife. He had retired into this solitude, where he took pleasure in living slowly, with his flock of sheep and his dog. He had concluded that this country was dying for lack of trees. He added that, having nothing more important to do, he had resolved to remedy the situation.
Leading as I did at the time a solitary life, despite my youth, I knew how to treat the souls of solitary people with delicacy. Still, I made a mistake. It was precisely my youth that forced me to imagine the future in my own terms, including a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years these ten thousand trees would be magnificent. He replied very simply that, if God gave him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many other trees that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.
He had also begun to study the propagation of beeches. and he had near his house a nursery filled with seedlings grown from beechnuts. His little wards, which he had protected from his sheep by a screen fence, were growing beautifully. He was also considering birches for the valley bottoms where, he told me, moisture lay slumbering just a few meters beneath the surface of the soil.
We parted the next day.
The next year the war of 14 came, in which I was engaged for five years. An infantryman could hardly think about trees. To tell the truth, the whole business hadn't made a very deep impression on me; I took it to be a hobby, like a stamp collection, and forgot about it.
With the war behind me, I found myself with a small demobilization bonus and a great desire to breathe a little pure air. Without any preconceived notion beyond that, I struck out again along the trail through that deserted country.
The land had not changed. Nonetheless, beyond that dead village I perceived in the distance a sort of gray fog that covered the hills like a carpet. Ever since the day before I had been thinking about the shepherd who planted trees. Ten thousand oaks, I had said to myself, must really take up a lot of space.
I had seen too many people die during those five years not to be able to imagine easily the death of Elzéard Bouffier, especially since when a man is twenty he thinks of a man of fifty as an old codger for whom nothing remains but to die. He was not dead. In fact, he was very spry. He had changed his job. He only had four sheep now, but to make up for this he had about a hundred beehives. He had gotten rid of the sheep because they threatened his crop of trees. He told me (as indeed I could see for myself) that the war had not disturbed him at all. He had continued imperturbably with his planting.
The oaks of 1910 were now ten years old and were taller than me and than him. The spectacle was impressive. I was literally speechless and, as he didn't speak himself, we passed the whole day in silence, walking through his forest. It was in three sections, eleven kilometers long overall and, at its widest point, three kilometers wide. When I considered that this had all sprung from the hands and from the soul of this one man - without technical aids - , it struck me that men could be as effective as God in domains other than destruction.
He had followed his idea, and the beeches that reached up to my shoulders and extending as far as the eye could see bore witness to it. The oaks were now good and thick, and had passed the age where they were at the mercy of rodents; as for the designs of Providence, to destroy the work that had been created would henceforth require a cyclone. He showed me admirable stands of birches that dated from five years ago, that is to say from 1915, when I had been fighting at Verdun. He had planted them in the valley bottoms where he had suspected, correctly, that there was water close to the surface. They were as tender as young girls, and very determined.
This creation had the air, moreover, of working by a chain reaction. He had not troubled about it; he went on obstinately with his simple task. But, in going back down to the village, I saw water running in streams that, within living memory, had always been dry. It was the most striking revival that he had shown me. These streams had borne water before, in ancient days. Certain of the sad villages that I spoke of at the beginning of my account had been built on the sites of ancient Gallo-Roman villages, of which there still remained traces; archeologists digging there had found fishhooks in places where in more recent times cisterns were required in order to have a little water.
The wind had also been at work, dispersing certain seeds. As the water reappeared, so too did willows, osiers, meadows, gardens, flowers, and a certain reason to live.
ut the transformation had taken place so slowly that it had been taken for granted, without provoking surprise. The hunters who climbed the hills in search of hares or wild boars had noticed the spreading of the little trees, but they set it down to the natural spitefulness of the earth. That is why no one had touched the work of this man. If they had suspected him, they would have tried to thwart him. But he never came under suspicion : Who among the villagers or the administrators would ever have suspected that anyone could show such obstinacy in carrying out this magnificent act of generosity？
eginning in 1920 I never let more than a year go by without paying a visit to Elzéard Bouffier. I never saw him waver or doubt, though God alone can tell when God's own hand is in a thing! I have said nothing of his disappointments, but you can easily imagine that, for such an accomplishment, it was necessary to conquer adversity; that, to assure the victory of such a passion, it was necessary to fight against despair. One year he had planted ten thousand maples. They all died. The next year,he gave up on maples and went back to beeches, which did even better than the oaks.
To get a true idea of this exceptional character, one must not forget that he worked in total solitude; so total that, toward the end of his life, he lost the habit of talking. Or maybe he just didn't see the need for it.
In 1933 he received the visit of an astonished forest ranger. This functionary ordered him to cease building fires outdoors, for fear of endangering this natural forest. It was the first time, this naive man told him, that a forest had been observed to grow up entirely on its own. At the time of this incident, he was thinking of planting beeches at a spot twelve kilometers from his house. To avoid the coming and going - because at the time he was seventy-five years old - he planned to build a cabin of stone out where he was doing his planting. This he did the next year.
In 1935, a veritable administrative delegation went to examine this « natural forest ». There was an important personage from Waters and Forests, a deputy, and some technicians. Many useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, but luckily nothing was done, except for one truly useful thing : placing the forest under the protection of the State and forbidding anyone from coming there to make charcoal. For it was impossible not to be taken with the beauty of these young trees in full health. And the forest exercised its seductive powers even on the deputy himself.
I had a friend among the chief foresters who were with the delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week, we went off together to look for Elzéard Bouffier, We found him hard at work, twenty kilometers away from the place where the inspection had taken place.
This chief forester was not my friend for nothing. He understood the value of things. He knew how to remain silent. I offered up some eggs I had brought with me as a gift. We split our snack three ways, and then passed several hours in mute contemplation of the landscape.
The hillside whence we had come was covered with trees six or seven meters high. I remembered the look of the place in 1913 : a desert... The peaceful and steady labor, the vibrant highland air, his frugality, and above all, the serenity of his soul had given the old man a kind of solemn good health. He was an athlete of God. I asked myself how many hectares he had yet to cover with trees.
efore leaving, my friend made a simple suggestion concerning certain species of trees to which the terrain seemed to be particularly well suited. He was not insistent. « For the very good reason, » he told me afterwards, « that this fellow knows a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. » After another hour of walking, this thought having travelled along with him, he added : "He knows a lot more about this sort of thing than anybody - and he has found a jolly good way of being happy!"
It was thanks to the efforts of this chief forester that the forest was protected, and with it, the happiness of this man. He designated three forest rangers for their protection, and terrorized them to such an extent that they remained indifferent to any jugs of wine that the woodcutters might offer as bribes.
The forest did not run any grave risks except during the war of 1939. Then automobiles were being run on wood alcohol, and there was never enough wood. They began to cut some of the stands of the oaks of 1910, but the trees stood so far from any useful road that the enterprise turned out to be bad from a financial point of view, and was soon abandoned. The shepherd never knew anything about it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his task, as untroubled by the war of 39 as he had been of the war of 14.
I saw Elzéard Bouffier for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had once more set off along my trail through the wilderness, only to find that now, in spite of the shambles in which the war had left the whole country, there was a motor coach running between the valley of the Durance and the mountain. I set down to this relatively rapid means of transportation the fact that I no longer recognized the landmarks I knew from my earlier visits. It also seemed that the route was taking me through entirely new places. I had to ask the name of a village to be sure that I was indeed passing through that same region, once so ruined and desolate. The coach set me down at Vergons. In 1913, this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had had three inhabitants. They were savages, hating each other, and earning their living by trapping : Physically and morally, they resembled prehistoric men . The nettles devoured the abandoned houses that surrounded them. Their lives were without hope, it was only a matter of waiting for death to come : a situation that hardly predisposes one to virtue.
All that had changed, even to the air itself. In place of the dry, brutal gusts that had greeted me long ago, a gentle breeze whispered to me, bearing sweet odors. A sound like that of running water came from the heights above : It was the sound of the wind in the trees. And most astonishing of all, I heard the sound of real water running into a pool. I saw that they had built a fountain, that it was full of water, and what touched me most, that next to it they had planted a lime-tree that must be at least four years old, already grown thick, an incontestable symbol of resurrection.
Furthermore, Vergons showed the signs of labors for which hope is a requirement : Hope must therefore have returned. They had cleared out the ruins, knocked down the broken walls, and rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight inhabitants, including four young families. The new houses, freshly plastered, were surrounded by gardens that bore, mixed in with each other but still carefully laid out, vegetables and flowers, cabbages and rosebushes, leeks and gueules-de-loup, celery and anemones. It was now a place where anyone would be glad to live.
From there I continued on foot. The war from which we had just barely emerged had not permitted life to vanish completely, and now Lazarus was out of his tomb. On the lower flanks of the mountain, I saw small fields of barley and rye; in the bottoms of the narrow valleys, meadowlands were just turning green.
It has taken only the eight years that now separate us from that time for the whole country around there to blossom with splendor and ease. On the site of the ruins I had seen in 1913 there are now well-kept farms, the sign of a happy and comfortable life. The old springs, fed by rain and snow now that are now retained by the forests, have once again begun to flow. The brooks have been channelled. Beside each farm, amid groves of maples, the pools of fountains are bordered by carpets of fresh mint. Little by little, the villages have been rebuilt. Yuppies have come from the plains, where land is expensive, bringing with them youth, movement, and a spirit of adventure. Walking along the roads you will meet men and women in full health, and boys and girls who know how to laugh, and who have regained the taste for the traditional rustic festivals. Counting both the previous inhabitants of the area, now unrecognizable from living in plenty, and the new arrivals, more than ten thousand persons owe their happiness to Elzéard Bouffier.
When I consider that a single man, relying only on his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite everything, the human condition is truly admirable. But when I take into account the constancy, the greatness of soul, and the selfless dedication that was needed to bring about this transformation, I am filled with an immense respect for this old, uncultured peasant who knew how to bring about a work worthy of God.
Elzéard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.
《种树的牧羊人》影评(四)：《种树的牧羊人》观后感
在这部短片里，我看到了一个人的力量有多伟大，也看到了一个人的力量有多渺小。
仅仅凭这一个人的努力，就可以把一片不毛之地变成森林，可是也只能把这一片地方变成森林。如果来一群人砍伐，这片森林照样会在很短的时间内消失。但如果每个人都去种树，那这世界将会变成什么样子呢？再想想看，其实只要一万个人中能有一个这样的人，就已经足够好了。
森林逐年减少，珍稀物种濒临灭绝，草原沙漠化，全球变暖等等，这些问题是不是真的这么难治理呢？我不是专业人士，但是再来看看这位仁兄的故事，似乎一个人就可以改变很多事情。人们除了每年植树节去种树作秀之外，也许可以下决心做一些更多的事情来改变现状。
我很想把这部短片推荐给朋友们和每一个认识的人去看，这部短片告诉我们——只要每个人减少一点污染环境的行为，合起来就可以为环保事业做出无法想象的贡献！
再来看看现在某些人的“恶劣行径”，现在大家都在呼吁要环保，有些人喊得更响亮，但实际行为却和嘴里说的大相径庭。要让他去种几棵树，觉得太渺小；手里要有个空塑料瓶之类的，就随手一丢了事。还是那句老话——勿以恶小而为之，勿以善小而不为。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(五)：美丽人生
风一直吹到人的骨子里，就变得疲惫不堪；烈日直接烘烤着人的灵魂，就变得头晕目眩。干枯的河床、败落的村庄、满天的黄沙以及四面八方的抱怨，所有的一切，像极了某场梦里末日前的景象。
几十年后，风仿佛携带着春天，阳光伴随着花开的声音，小河在流淌、村庄在复兴、人们在辛勤的劳动，我听到的是欢声笑语，我看到了几个孩子，充满生机和希望。
曾经的那些弱不禁风的小树们已蔚然成林，但那个精神健硕的老人却又更老了。但它丝毫也感受不到时间在自己身旁匆匆的流逝，他的目光已经习惯了向更远处眺望，他习惯了沉默，他习惯了用行动代替千言万语。
谁知道他为什么种下第一棵树？谁又知道他为什么种下这片树林？我只是看着他伟大的成果，想象着这一定是充满希望和快乐的！
我想说的是最近我总觉得不开心，因为我不知道自己因该干什么，我找不到生活中的乐趣。
短片中有几处都提到说“他是孤独的完成这一切”。“孤独”，这是我所在意的，最近这个词很让人有些纠结。有的人穿梭于人潮中，却觉得自己孤独的寸步难行，有的人独处一室却完全不能领会孤独，有的人想摆脱孤独却欲罢不能，有的人反而乐得去享受自己的孤独。
孤独到底是怎样的一种感受，此时此刻此地，再没有人在意自己了，于是就理所当然的去悲伤么？但是话说回来，要是能自得其乐了，孤独也就在不算什么的了。
除了自得其乐，还有就是有时候我们说“帮助别人、快乐自己”也不是没有道理的，至少看完这个短片，我心里有几秒钟的冲动，想着自己以后是不是应该做个乐于助人的好孩子。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(六)：《种树的牧羊人》观后感
在这部短片里，我看到了一个人的力量有多伟大，也看到了一个人的力量有多渺小。
仅仅凭这一个人的努力，就可以把一片不毛之地变成森林，可是也只能把这一片地方变成森林。如果来一群人砍伐，这片森林照样会在很短的时间内消失。但如果每个人都去种树，那这世界将会变成什么样子呢？再想想看，其实只要一万个人中能有一个这样的人，就已经足够好了。
森林逐年减少，珍稀物种濒临灭绝，草原沙漠化，全球变暖等等，这些问题是不是真的这么难治理呢？我不是专业人士，但是再来看看这位仁兄的故事，似乎一个人就可以改变很多事情。人们除了每年植树节去种树作秀之外，也许可以下决心做一些更多的事情来改变现状。
我很想把这部短片推荐给朋友们和每一个认识的人去看，这部短片告诉我们——只要每个人减少一点污染环境的行为，合起来就可以为环保事业做出无法想象的贡献！
再来看看现在某些人的“恶劣行径”，现在大家都在呼吁要环保，有些人喊得更响亮，但实际行为却和嘴里说的大相径庭。要让他去种几棵树，觉得太渺小；手里要有个空塑料瓶之类的，就随手一丢了事。还是那句老话——勿以恶小而为之，勿以善小而不为。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(七)：观后感
观后感
牧羊人其实是在玩一个叫做《树林养成计划》的运营类游戏，人家没有家人，总得干什么用来打发时间，所以一玩就玩了大半个世纪。这游戏比“种菜不如偷菜”的qq农场还简单，就一个劲地埋种子。牧羊人乐在其中，道理和我们虚拟种菜的“乐在其中”的原理是一样的：满足人的建设欲。 这就是作者借林务官之口所提出的“幸福的真谛”。
幸福是有份量的。文中不止一次提到牧羊人的艰辛。埋了20万颗橡树种子，最后剩下1万有用的。那么大的荒地，硬是花了一个人的半辈子才改变了荒地的状况。但是这份改变是值得的，只要荒地变成桑田，无论代价有多大。幸福就是存在着变化之中，如果没有“改变”，一切就没有意义。正因是艰难给我们带来的沉重，我们所体会到的幸福才有分量。
“单纯不等于没有
“牧羊人的简朴生活是幸福的”，在影片最后，作者对此人作出了盖棺定论。我是这么理解的，动机单纯的生活可以造就幸福。但是生活还是要有追求的。所谓i“清心寡欲”并不是无欲，孤独的牧羊人虽说生活单调，但是他的生活还是有动力的，有盼头的。他总是盼着这块土地能够蔚然成林。作者对牧羊人不时地赞美道：“优秀的人格”“纯净的心灵”，而提到战争政治等世俗话题时的口吻是带有厌恶和鄙视的,这让我等俗人情何以堪。人的追求是不同的，人生在世，总有世俗羁绊，为情所困，为钱权虽累，为生活所操劳，难道就错了吗？不可能个个种树吧，以改造大自然为人生唯一的终极奋斗目标。所以在当今高度发达的年代中，我们不能被这种诗歌般的田园生活所迷惑。恬静和诗意最存在于我们的想象中，当真正到底那里的时候，就会像从美梦中醒来一样，还是回到了残酷的现实中。
影评
“种树”这个行为无论是本意，还是各种文艺作品中出现的寓意，都是非常迷人的。“种树”是积极的，正面的建设行为。当埋下种子的时候我们都希望将来它能茁壮成长。一般来讲，文艺作品中只要出现了“种树”这个有些诗意的意象，必定深刻，所以都是高分。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(八)：我看《种树的男人》--宫崎骏访谈(转)
（文选自《出发点》）
这是一部令我眼前一亮的作品。不光是因为我本身从事动画业，就算我走的不是这一行，它在我看来依旧非常出色。我认为这是一部力道十足且相当成熟的作品。费德利克.贝克本身的深度和他的创作动机，思想等，融合的恰到好处。更另我感动的是，在这个人人为未来惶恐不安的年代里，还能看到象书中人物这样的人，更是一种激励。
片中的这位普罗旺斯爷爷仿佛是一位隐居乡间的哲人，充满了成熟的睿智，让我们不由得产生强烈的憧憬。作者能用自己的表现方式使其创作动机成形，这一点另我深深佩服。
而同样令我钦佩的，还有加拿大广播电台的那群人，因为他们竟然愿意为一部看似不卖座的影片投下资金。我记得那是一个魁北克的广播电台。在加拿大各省里就属这个州是法国区，偶尔还会为独立与否争论不已。这部作品的背景是普罗旺斯，也是南法民族主义色彩浓厚的地区。因此，虽然不是很清楚，但二者之间或许有关联也说不定。
初见这部作品时，我还不了解故事背景在何处，知道是普罗旺斯之后才恍然大悟--本作品的原著小说，和普罗旺斯当地的文艺复兴运动及方言写作运动。应该有某种关系才是。
以前，我曾有过在普罗旺斯开车的经验。那里大多是绿意盎然的平原，种了很多的防风林。想来是因为季风很强的缘故。我本以为那片绿意是原生的，看了这部作品之后才明白，果然还是人为的植林。
故事里的普罗旺斯爷爷似乎是个虚构的人物，是作者汇集了许多当地人说的故事之后，才塑造出这样的人物。类似的故事在世界各地都有，日本也常常见到，特别是江户时代。
由于玉川上水被当作扑灭野火的用水，为此便在它的四周种满了树木。因为武藏野从前只是个荒凉的芒草地。八之岳山脚下的防风林，据说也是为了同样的目的而种的。
相反的例子也很多。先人在开拓北海道时种下的防风林，到了近代却因为不利于机械化而被砍掉。结果，土壤渐渐的流失掉，于是人们又说要重新种回树林。
说是自然保育，人为的成分依旧很高，我们并没有完全仰赖自然的力量去恢复旧观。其实时间可以帮我们很多的忙，只不过站在人类的立场，任自然保留原貌和人为的作用都得同时进行就是了。
日本人喜欢在神社四周维持自然林的风貌，称之为镇守之森；而为生活而种的树木则被当成一种景观。这种情况在江户时期以前还算稳定，但自从明治以后推行近代化，它们便逐渐遭到破坏。毁林，成了日本近代的历史之一。
我想加拿大应该没有这段历史，不过贝克肯定是被原著小说中种树老人的行为所感动--让荒地一步步变成绿意盎然的土地，让那里充满生命的力量，让人们在那里生活。导演亟欲表现这部作品的心情，我很能体会。
我最早接触费德利克.贝克作品是[CRAC！（摇椅）]。四.五年前，我和高畑(勲)先生因公留在美国时，在某个动画联映中看见那段短片，那部短片让我们相当震撼，我还记得在走回饭店的路上，我一边有气无力的走着，一边对高畑先生说：“我们真的不行耶！”
然后就是这部[种树的男人]。我们现在所用的赛璐珞动画很难描绘植物，光是小草迎风飘摇的景象就不容易作到生动活泼了。植物的美是在风中摇曳，在阳光下闪耀，且要在气候和光线的衬托下才显现的出来。我也曾想过自己会如何描绘它，但有一想到我们的表现手法达不到那个境界便放弃了。没想到贝克勇于正面挑战这样的主题，成果又是如此可观，光是这一点就令我佩服不已。这部作品在影像上也堪称旷世之作。
这样一部作品，当然不是一蹴而成的。要不是先有[摇椅]，恐怕也不会有[种树的男人]。[摇椅]在手法上的发展，摄影师和幕后人员的心血，我想应该都传承到[种树的男人]上了，而且[种]片的工作人员应该也经手过[摇椅]才是。再者，制作群超越前作的创作意图若是不够强烈，恐怕也完成不了这样一部作品吧。
若是以同样的题材拍成写实电影，说不定反而达不到这样的震撼性。贝克在这部作品中所使用的动画手法，也不是寻常人可以套用的。而这一点正告诉我们，动画的可能性不该被含糊曲解。假使我们硬要限定动画表现的适性，势必陷入表现手法的死胡同中，因此强求其定义是没有意义的。
其实所谓的表现手法，要先有想表现的事物，再谈技术层面的问题。光有技术却没有想表现的主题，岂不是一事无成？技术原本就是为了表现事物才发展出来的方式啊。
基于这一点，我推测贝克在[摇椅]中首创的表现手法，是藉由[种]片而更臻圆满。它最好不要再往上发展，就这么维持完成的形态就很好。否则下次再有类似的创作时，将难免有旧瓶装新酒之嫌。
费德利克.贝克之所以能完成这样的作品，和他的世界观--即看这个世界的“眼神”--有很大的关系。
当我们用这样的视线去看事物时，就可以发现我们和观众的共通之处。那是一种来自深处且长期累积的人文观点。片中的普罗旺斯爷爷有一张哲学家的脸，而贝克选择这张脸的理由，我非常能了解。
种下树苗，把它养大，长成森林之后，蜜蜂也会飞来，老爷爷仿佛望着远方，看到的是往后的梦想；贝克想描绘的就是这样的观点。
我在报纸上的某个小专栏读过一篇文章，讨论日本人和欧洲人的生死观，上面说日本人老了之后渴望与自然成为一体，欧洲人则希望与自然面对面。日本人所想的与自然化为一体，感觉上象是徜徉在在绿色的怀抱中那样，可是住在戈壁沙漠里的人，应该也有他们与自然合而为一的方式。天底下又不是只有日本人想要回归自然，我想每个民族应该都有这样的想法。大自然是生命的起源，是我们了解全世界的地点，它对任何人来说都是弥足珍贵的。
费德利克.贝克出生在德法边境一个叫做亚尔萨斯的地方，但他是在加拿大才发现了大自然的可贵，也许是人们制作枫糖浆的光景触发他对故乡的思念，所以才创作了[摇椅]吧。
当全球的自然景观正一步步的被破坏，人类反而越发思慕土生土长的大地，风景，和其中的一草一木。这份思慕之情正和普罗旺斯的种树男人相通，而这也正是这部电影要传达给观众的。
我仅以一个观众的角度，写下这部作品带给我的感动。我看尤里.诺斯坦（YURI NORSTEIN）也是一样。有这些好人在，真好。
《种树的牧羊人》影评(九)：·
1913年 我在法国南部旅游 那是一个非常偏僻、荒漠的高原 被称为普罗旺斯 我非常熟悉这儿的村子：它们坐落在橡木林里 人们主要靠砍柴烧炭维生 他们生活地非常贫苦：男人每天只是把碳运到城镇里卖掉 女人每天做的事儿是不停地抱怨自己命苦 但是 就是在这里 我却遇见了一个牧羊人 他叫艾尔哲阿·普菲尔 以前经营着一个农场 后来他的独子夭折 接着妻子也去世了 再后来 他来到这片高地 与他的狗和羊群一起生活 他看着这片不毛之地 决定改变这里 在我遇到他时 他已经种了十万棵树 但存活下来的只有两万棵 而这两万棵树苗又有一半被动物或者预料不到的天灾毁掉了 最后存活下来的虽然有一万棵树 但它们要在这片土地上生长也是很难的
一战结束后 我想呼吸一下清新的空气 过段平静的日子 于是再度踏上通往那片荒凉高地的道路……树木大约有六、七米高了 村庄也在一点点的重建 这些都为这里带来了朝气和干劲
这位平和、辛勤的长者 呼吸着清新的空气 过着简朴的生活 再加上无私的宁静心灵 使他一直保持着强健的体魄
我感到可以理解他（尽管当时我还年轻 却也过着离群索居的生活 知道怎样安慰一颗孤独的心）
1947年 艾尔哲阿·普菲尔在养老院安然逝去 我对他充满敬意