很难接触到的题材。甜茶的表现力与爆发力在这部电影中可以说是impressive and incredible. 影片结局不是所谓毒瘾少年改头换面重新做人的圆满,因为你知道的,那就是他。
我想到一年前的幼童自缢事件。如今的我并不知精神压迫和动辄打骂哪个属于更好的教育方式,甚至会怀疑“教育”这东西,我觉得只是大人用自己的傲慢也好耐心也好碰运气遇到一个跟你对盘的小朋友。像是驯服,可人不是动物。
存在的问题很多 碎片化的叙事 凌乱的剪辑故事线 完全没有情感交融的配乐 即便父子的演绎再出色动人 观众的情绪也被局限在了一个不断戒断复吸的循环往复里
除此之外 主角父子 两位母亲 两位小天使配角还是非常优秀的 个人的共情点也就是在Karen最终选择停车那里 那是父母终于意识到亲情已然无用的时刻 因为面对的已经不再是曾经看着他长大的漂亮男孩 只是一个沉溺药物不能自拔的junker
最后从甜茶迷妹角度评价 这次甜茶的角色挑战还是相当大的 在平日里的清醒状态 Nick可爱懂事 阳光开朗 爱写诗画画 然后就交到了个不忍直视的女朋友我真是..手动微笑再见了 针管推进皮肤过程里 他眼里属于曾经漂亮男孩的快乐和美好不见了 取而代之的是一种病态到极致的沉醉而不自知
最后一次在厕所隔间里的注射 俯拍视角里的他 清瘦的手臂已经伤痕累累 那时他的身体也已经到了极限 完成注射就好像完成了日常吃饭喝水的任务 他倒下的时候眼里已经没有了一丝一毫的光 也许正是因为这样 在最后一幕 靠在父亲身边见到了太阳的他 才会那么无助 而又令人心生希望
(甜茶真的好美好美啊 其实他一笑我就不是很care他在说什么了 所以说少年啊糟蹋自己的时候好好照照镜子你怎么舍得😭..)
" Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you.
When I was a young man I felt that these things were dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing.
I was hard as granite. I leered at the sun. I trusted no man and especially no woman. I was living a hell in small rooms. I broke things, smashed things, walked through glass cursed. I challenged everything was continually being evicted, jailed, in and out of fights, in and out of my mind.
Women were something to screw and rail at
I had no male friends. I changed jobs and cities. I hated hoildays, babies, history, newspapers, museums, grandmothers, marriage, movie, Spiders, garbagemen, English accents, Spain, France, Italy, walnuts and color orange.
Algebra angered me. Opera sickened me.Charlie Chaplin was a fake. And flowers were for pansies.
Peace and happiness were to me signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak and addled mind. But as I went on with my alley fights, my suicidal years, my passage through any number of women, it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't different from the others, I was the same.
They were all fulsome with hatred, glossed over with petty grievances.
The men I fought in alleys had hearts of stone.
Everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage.
The lie was the weapon, and the plot was empty. Darkness was the dictator.
Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark.
The less I needed, the better I felt.
Maybe the other life had worn me down. I no longer found glamour in topping somebody in conversation or in mounting the body of some poor, drunken female whose life had slipped away into sorrow.
I could never gobble down all its poisons. But there were parts, tenuous magic parts, open for the asking.
I reformulated. I don't know when-- date, time, all that-- but the change occured.
Something in the relaxed, smoothed out. I no longer had to prove that I was a man. I didn't have to prove anything.
I began to see things. Coffee cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe. Or a dog walking along a sidewalk. Or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there, really stopped there, with its body, its ears, its nose.
It was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself, and its eyes looked at me, and they were beautiful. Then it was gone.
I began to feel good. I began to feel good in the most situations, and there were plenty of those. Like say, the boss behind his desk.
He is going to have to fire me. I've missed too many days.He's dressed in a suit, necktie, glasses. He says, ' I am going to have to let you go.' 'It's all right, ' I tell him.
He must do what he must do. He has a wife, a house, children, expenses, most probably a girlfriend. I'm sorry for him. He's caught.
I walk out into the blazing sunshine. The whole day is mine, temporarily anyhow.
The whole world is at the throat of the world. Everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated. Everybody is despondent, disillusioned.
I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness. I remember that stuff like the hottest number, like high heels, breasts, singing, the works.
Don't get me wrong, there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism that overlooks all basic problems just for the sake of itself.
This is a shield and a sickness. The knife got near my throat again. I almost turned on the gas again.
But when the good moments arrived again, I didn't fight them off like an alley adversary.
I let them take me. I luxuriated in them. I bade them welcome home. I even looked into the mirror once having thought myself to be ugly.
I now liked what I saw. Almost handsome . Yes, a bit ripped and ragged. Scars, lumps, odd turns. But all in all, not too bad.
Almost hadsome.
Better at least than some of those movie star faces like the cheeks of a baby's butt.
And finally I discovered real feelings for others, unheralded.
Like lately, like this morning, as I was leaving for the tracks, I saw my wife in bed, just the shape of her head there, covers pulled high, just the shape of her head there.
Not forgetting centuries of living and the dead and the dying, the pyramids, Mozart dead, but his music still there in the room, weeds growing, the Earth turning, the tote board waiting for me.
I saw the shape or my wife's head, she so still. I ached for her life, just being there under the covers.
I kissed her on forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seat belt, backed out the drive.
Feeling warm to the fingertips, dowm to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the house full and empty of people.
I saw the mailman, honked. He waved back at me."
Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.
I was hard as granite, I
leered at the
sun.
I trusted no man and
especially no
woman.
I was living a hell in
small rooms, I broke
things, smashed things,
walked through glass,
cursed.
I challenged everything,
was continually being
evicted, jailed, in and
out of fights, in and out
of my mind.
women were something
to screw and rail
at, I had no male
friends,
I changed jobs and
cities, I hated holidays,
babies, history,
newspapers, museums,
grandmothers,
marriage, movies,
spiders, garbagemen,
english accents,spain,
france,italy,walnuts and
the color
orange.
algebra angred me,
opera sickened me,
charlie chaplin was a
fake
and flowers were for
pansies.
peace and happiness to me
were signs of
inferiority,
tenants of the weak
and
addled
mind.
but as I went on with
my alley fights,
my suicidal years,
my passage through
any number of
women-it gradually
began to occur to
me
that I wasn't different
from the
others, I was the same,
they were all fulsome
with hatred,
glossed over with petty
grievances,
the men I fought in
alleys had hearts of stone.
everybody was nudging,
inching, cheating for
some insignificant
advantage,
the lie was the
weapon and the
plot was
empty,
darkness was the
dictator.
cautiously, I allowed
myself to feel good
at times.
I found moments of
peace in cheap
rooms
just staring at the
knobs of some
dresser
or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.
maybe the other life had worn me
down.
I no longer found
glamour
in topping somebody
in conversation.
or in mounting the
body of some poor
drunken female
whose life had
slipped away into
sorrow.
I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking.
I re formulated
I don't know when,
date, time, all
that
but the change
occurred.
something in me
relaxed, smoothed
out.
i no longer had to
prove that I was a
man,
I didn't have to prove
anything.
I began to see things:
coffee cups lined up
behind a counter in a
cafe.
or a dog walking along
a sidewalk.
or the way the mouse
on my dresser top
stopped there
with its body,
its ears,
its nose,
it was fixed,
a bit of life
caught within itself
and its eyes looked
at me
and they were
beautiful.
then- it was
gone.
I began to feel good,
I began to feel good
in the worst situations
and there were plenty
of those.
like say, the boss
behind his desk,
he is going to have
to fire me.
I've missed too many
days.
he is dressed in a
suit, necktie, glasses,
he says, 'I am going
to have to let you go'
'it's all right' I tell
him.
He must do what he
must do, he has a
wife, a house, children,
expenses, most probably
a girlfriend.
I am sorry for him
he is caught.
I walk onto the blazing
sunshine.
the whole day is
mine
temporarily,
anyhow.
(the whole world is at the
throat of the world,
everybody feels angry,
short-changed, cheated,
everybody is despondent,
disillusioned)
I welcomed shots of
peace, tattered shards of
happiness.
I embraced that stuff
like the hottest number,
like high heels, breasts,
singing,the
works.
(don't get me wrong,
there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
that overlooks all
basic problems just for
the sake of
itself-
this is a shield and a
sickness.)
The knife got near my
throat again,
I almost turned on the
gas
again
but when the good
moments arrived
again
I didn't fight them off
like an alley
adversary.
I let them take me,
I luxuriated in them,
I made them welcome
home.
I even looked into
the mirror
once having thought
myself to be
ugly,
I now liked what
I saw, almost
handsome, yes,
a bit ripped and
ragged,
scares, lumps,
odd turns,
but all in all,
not too bad,
almost handsome,
better at least than
some of those movie
star faces
like the cheeks of
a baby's
butt.
and finally I discovered
real feelings of
others,
unheralded,
like lately,
like this morning,
as I was leaving,
for the track,
i saw my wife in bed,
just the
shape of
her head there
(not forgetting
centuries of the living
and the dead and
the dying,
the pyramids,
Mozart dead
but his music still
there in the
room, weeds growing,
the earth turning,
the tote board waiting for
me)
I saw the shape of my
wife's head,
she so still,
I ached for her life,
just being there
under the
covers.
I kissed her in the
forehead,
got down the stairway,
got outside,
got into my marvelous
car,
fixed the seatbelt,
backed out the
drive.
feeling warm to
the fingertips,
down to my
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.
电影音乐很棒。
1. Nic情况有所好转以后回家,爸爸在他睡觉的时候唱着Beautiful Boy的摇篮曲。一开始声音开得小,我还以为那是个无声镜头,直到父亲回忆Nic小时候在机场跟他告别时BGM变大我才听到。让我很惊喜的细节是歌曲不光是约翰列侬的原唱,还有演员的声音,仿佛那首摇篮曲从Nic小时候唱到了现在。而我也终于听到了那句早在预料之中的“I love you more than evergthing”。
2. Nic在公路上开车的经典镜头,背景音乐是我称之为公路音乐最佳的Heart of Gold。
3. 如果说前半段的Nic是在混沌中堕落,他在clear一年多之后的复吸就是清醒着堕落。当他和女生一起堕落着的时候,音乐却是如此浪漫与缓和,仿佛这种沉沦是世上最美的事情。最后Nic想要结束生命那一段,凄美缓慢的女高同样安详而宁静。
4. Nic和女生开车逃出家,继母流着泪开车跟在后面,像是追赶,却没过多久又停了下来。但原来她不是在追,而是在驱赶。之前父亲说要去找儿子的时候,她愤怒地希望丈夫be responsible,当时没看懂,原来她希望丈夫放弃这个可能给自己孩子带来负面影响的哥哥,而她的驱逐也是想要让Nic远离年幼的孩子。不得不说挺绝的。
其实感觉整部电影都是那种节奏缓慢而充满回忆的,真好像吸了一大口drug而变得飘飘然。看其他影评才知道电影参考了父亲和儿子分别写的两本回忆录,这也解释了为什么前半段是父亲的视角为主、而后半段是Nic为主。
要不是看到片尾对现实中的主角后来人生的叙述,单是电影结尾给我的感觉没那么充满希望。因为反反复复多少次,总是以为他彻底clear了、与父亲做了坚定的保证了、被当作戒毒成功的典范了,最后又是新一轮的绝望,好像永无止境,像颗定时炸弹。但是总归会结束的吧。
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
I love you more than everything.
伴随着影片最后八分钟的落幕和音乐,我很想表达一下我对这部电影的喜爱!
首先,当我看到十分钟左右的时候,我就已经很怀疑豆瓣上的这个评分,看到后来我越来越不服气这个评分,我去IMDb上去搜了评分——7.3,要知道甜茶同样出演的《call me》在IMDb上也只有7.9的评分。因此,豆瓣上一些大V顶着流量的旗号,影响着一大批观影者的评判,当然不少时候我也是我刚刚说的那样,是一个被影响者。
电影的摄影构图绝对是精心的,我截了几张我很喜欢的图片。摄影一直保持着高水准的构图,有黄金分割,有中轴对称,整个画面一直都保持着很舒服的状态。
配乐是丰满的,虽然有几个片段显得故意了一点,honestly,但整部电影的配乐是让我融入情绪的重要配件。重金属摇滚和亲和钢琴,还有促进情绪的配乐,都很能借助音乐表达情绪。
再说剪辑手法,个人而言我很受用时空交叠的描述方式,因为当这样的手法是文字写在书上的时候,是会引起无尽的想象的。当然有一两个地方,这种剪辑用过了,造成了理解上的些些偏差。
很多童年片段的重演,是导演对人生前后的差别表达,也是剧情的一部分。
文学与艺术方面,诗歌的介入,摇滚乐的介入,小团体忏悔式的自述的介入,无不都在掀起一些列的情绪波澜,电影的价值是在无形中被赋予的。
很多人觉得这部电影,剧本太弱,甚至有说它是一部「禁毒宣传片」。我个人的感觉是,如果不去真的用情感带入,应该会很难理解情节上的反复重复;而且一再突出的「禁毒宣传」让他们情感上很难平静得去融入电影里。
剧本不弱,情感线更不弱!父子之间的感情线,从童年讲述起,一路贯穿成长。非要在这样的电影里讲述一个动人的感情故事吗?非要像寻亲那样悲鸣吗?父亲的信任变化与情感变化,是写实的;继母的情感也是真实的!
说起情感,难道,桌子上那封写给「漂亮男孩」的信,所要传递的,不够吗?冲浪的回忆对比,不够吗?写作在整部电影里出现的意义,与充满黑暗色彩的日记本,不够吗?不能够揭露内心吗?
说到写作,我很明白,一个擅长或忠于写作的人,是能够从写作中找到解脱的。这也是为什么电影总是在强调Nic需要写作,写作是一个人得到解脱,最廉价也最昂贵的方式,昂贵在很多人不愿意借助文字表达内心。
我喜欢这部电影!我觉得这个评分大家给的太低了!
我大胆猜测大家评分只有三星的主要原因是,大家不爱这个题材,觉得毒品电影就应该拍成《湄公河行动》???
为什么评分这么低?虽然甜茶的美貌一直干扰着我的全情投入,但是……我觉得每一分钟都很好,整部片子都很好。娓娓道来,上瘾这回事。我们内心的欲望的黑洞总是需要被填满,日常生活的种种看起来总是蠢不可耐,我们追求着一瞬即逝的那些highlight,度过漫漫的余生。某种程度上我们都是瘾君子,贪恋着必将结束的一切。因为我们过分地执着,不肯接受生活本来的样貌。
观感差不多是每半小时降一星,平庸的流水账,这个故事哪怕给到任何一个好莱坞二流导演手里都不会被糟蹋成这个地步吧,何况还握有两张好牌。
再漂亮爸爸也救不了你啊所以还是别吸毒了丑孩子们!
照片里的《漂亮男孩》最终成了一个男孩无法赎补改变的罪过。影片直至落幕也没能挖掘到青少年依赖毒品的深层原因。古宁根的强项在于剪辑,可惜时空拼图游戏只勾勒出了甜蜜的想象,父子间显而易见的追与逃关系他却没看到。这个本该对家庭教育中人格化了的牺牲提出批判的作品最终于一种正确的价值尺度内被谱写成了歌颂爱与牺牲的主旋律。
电影非常不会讲故事,只能把它当作父子俩人回忆的拼贴。不知道导演是不是想借音乐推动情绪,但每一次音乐奏起都刻意无比。甜茶这个人物欠缺说服力,跟其他角色缺乏火花。倒是Steve Carell成了整个电影最“漂亮”的人,他演的父亲,眼神里时时刻刻闪着动人的光。
看甜茶演瘾君子,就像拿青花瓷去打水。
虽然拍的很不错,但是吸毒的不值得可怜。谐星Steve Carell是想转型拿奥斯卡吗?他尖声叫我就出戏了。
timmy是漂亮男孩?这个设定我接受。
当今好莱坞最甜的爹+最令人心动的仔
Steve Carell:美国最“漂亮”的国宝男孩
导演用了很多插叙回忆来展示这个世界上最亲密却又最复杂的一种人际关系——亲情。我以为我们很亲密,可我们依然有不理解对方的时候;我以为我可以告诉你原因,可实际上我也不知道为什么成长的过程中我变成了这样。Steve和Tim把父子间的感情碰撞演绎得很精彩,眼神的细腻,神情之微妙……Steve演的父亲太棒了。尤其是他们和故事原型坐在一起,发现他们在说话方式上模仿到了精华。家人就是无关血缘,就是爱与责任,就是不会放弃彼此,就是如果有一个词、有任何语言可以形容我对你的全部感觉,那就是,Everything。
对不起真的很难看。
这片功利心也太强了,垃圾叙事拖演技后腿,甜茶还没卡瑞尔演的自然,就这样居然也能刷提名。
首先申明,我爱甜茶。但是甜茶的这个角色,就算他是甜茶,我也真的很想打死他了。前半个小时我以为这是个励志故事,结果后面一个半小时在戒和吸无线循环,叙述手法太复杂有时候就显得很鸡肋,故事和故事之间的过渡也不明确,关键是甜茶这个角色,他本身其实应该是有内涵可以讲,可是,不知道是编剧不行还是故事没拍出来。史蒂夫·卡瑞尔的父亲反而演得很好,为了这个毒瘾的儿子简直操碎了心,到最后的无奈想要放弃,以及父子之间的点点滴滴,算是整个电影的闪光点了。
我的漂亮男孩不见了,他不光走丢了,还忘了克林贡语,忘了布可夫斯基,忘了我有多爱他;他的英雄父亲也消失了,我不只失了约,没有守在出口,没有定时看守,没能帮他驱走怪物。我蹲在草地寻找我的男孩归来,他停在路边等候他的英雄解救。倘若爱填不满黑洞,回忆无法悼念生者之痛,记得我在这里很想他。
剧本真的不行……还强行用音乐煽情……我觉得问题关键在于这个故事没找到形式与情感的表达逻辑,完全避开内心刻画显得人物和故事都很干瘪,于是就要靠耍形式来逃避无聊,但时间线混乱并没有任何加分;同时,它又被圈在好莱坞经典叙事里,双重压力让它毫无魅力…失望
有一些动人的瞬间,但是更多时候是一种抽离感,很多东西太浮于表面和老生常谈了。因为是两部小说改编的,导演想表现两种视角,但有时反而造成了角色之间缺少了连接。全片都是source music, 没有任何scoring。一开始有做scoring,但导演和剪辑觉得不够有吸引力,没有强有力的意义,所以后来就全用了source music(但我觉得就单纯是你们找的做scoring的人不够好……)。然而source music用的真的很让人不喜欢,太出戏太刻意了。感觉导演好像还没适应好莱坞的工作方式,但导演有时候没听懂问题的样子还蛮可爱的啊哈哈。话说我茶本身已经这么瘦了,拍摄前居然还减了20磅,心疼。
片如其名,甜茶真的是漂亮男孩啊,而且又是跟成年男性更有化学反应。剧情就太单薄了,插叙看不到层次感,还不如直接拍成禁毒宣传片...
漂亮男孩除了男孩漂亮,片子其余的部分可实在说不上漂亮。结构松散,剧情琐碎,故事线甚至有点混乱,倒叙插叙过去线现代线堆在一起显得太杂。导演给人一种想要炫技却有点弄巧成拙的感觉,不知道是不是剪辑的问题。片尾出字幕后有甜茶念的独白,看完之后可以等一下。
欢迎大家收看由甜茶主演的戒毒公益宣传长片 遇到不会讲故事的导演 甜茶也只是个漂亮男孩了🤷♀️