美丽男孩

（撸了生肉）

茶老师的演技真的太厉害 不得不说整个电影确实很乱很没有重点又冗长，bgm也 莫名其妙 但是茶老师的part真的让人看到心疼，literally心疼，把Nic的绝望和挣扎都表现的很真实，还有吸完毒的状态也拿捏的很到位 茶老师前途无量

—————————二刷分割线———————— •第一次看的时候感觉配乐简直是生硬到不可理喻，二刷反而觉得配乐有种戏谑的效果（比如David尝试病毒的时候以及歌词和剧情的对应）

•David口口声声说他想要understand Nic，但他想要了解的只是他想像的Nic（所谓的beautiful boy）

•David做了那么多的研究去了解毒品，但是却从来没有试着去了解他的儿子

•Nic有那么多次都向David发出了求救的信号但是David每次都迟钝到直接忽略这些，然后再把所有的事都怪在Nic身上，就像他是一个完全尽职尽责的家长。David确实像Nic所说的，有很强的控制欲，他一直去“努力”的很大原因也是出于他没能成功地掌控局面（掌控他的儿子）

•Nic太敏感了太脆弱了，他一直一直都想得到爸爸（家人）的爱和关心（"I want them to be proud of me."），一直都想要一个家一个safe place，David的新家庭对Nic来说并不是安慰而是刺激因为弟弟妹妹们的生活全是他不曾得到也不会再得到的，他也根本无法融入根本无法在任何地方找到归宿感（爸爸从来没有真正试着去理解他，房间被堆满杂物，"be invited"），所以他只能把自己藏起来，自己去填补他一直渴望但是又得不到的东西（因为没有能力改变现实所以干脆逃离现实）

•这部电影其实说仅仅是关于毒瘾也许不太准确，我觉得更多的是Nic的心理疾病（抑郁症甚至是躁郁症），家庭是诱因，吸毒是结果（茶老师说过why不是重点但是我觉得why才是真的重点）

•二刷之后看懂了很多，不知道真实世界里的Nic怎么样了，但是希望他是真的填补了自己心里的big black hole（虽然觉得很不可能……）

" 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."

（片中和片尾念到的Charles Bukowski诗作，觉得非常美。找出来分享。）

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 angered 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.

为了那段欲到窒息的吻戏看，看了才发现是冰毒之后的高潮，瞬间毫无感觉。

好莱坞最深情最甜的爹 是当年《阳光小美女》里的gay uncle，最让人心疼的崽是一步一步注定万丈光芒的茶。

从《史蒂文森小姐》到《CMBYN》到这部《漂亮男孩》到《lady bird》到《小妇人》到《纽约的一个下雨天》到《沙丘》，我总打趣说我能看到同是infp的他的所有感性倾注和没有防御的脆弱。他是这样的体验派演员，他生来就一定会成为一个movie star.

故事插叙的乱七八糟，剪辑一片混乱完全是硬伤，叙事立足点完全没有打出来，于是父子再好的演员也无济于事。

我在想我的仔也是从小就被说是漂亮男孩，值得最好的父母的仔。可是我总是害怕我没有那么好，那么强力，在他未来需要抉择的时候帮助他选择看起来更多的那条路。甚至在他无助的时候我也会无助，我甚至没有办法在姨妈期间对他保持耐心。我的缺点会在他日后造成没办法纠正的影响… 想到这些我就很绝望。不要说他深陷毒品，他失恋我可能都没办法让自己以正确的角色和方式出现能帮到他。

作为父母的视角看孩子 一个所谓自己的作品 其实“充满了【盲点】。”你的视角 你爱他的不行。他的视角可能无助，害怕，丧失，毫无安全感。

说到这去看了漂亮男孩影评区的第一篇影评。作者：hugo蔷薇（来自豆瓣）来源：//movie.douban.com/review/9878272/

太牛逼了。无论是原著还是电影 真的是我见过看的最透彻的影评之一了。仔细看完作者所有的解析发现、我茶真的也是把角色吃透到烂了。天赋异禀。

这篇影评里有一段甜茶的获奖词如下：

【在此我引用甜茶在颁奖季的一则获奖发言，也是他对于参与这部电影的领悟，发出来分享给大家:

在成长的过程中，有一个瞬间，我意识到父母和周围其他成年人都是是普通的人。所谓人类，就是有着各种各样的弱点和缺点，这个发现对我的表演产生了最大的影响。但当我得知每个人都是脆弱的，都会受到伤害的时候，我感到了恐惧和失败。我的梦想是成为一名职业运动员。像勒布朗詹姆斯或莱昂内尔梅西这样的球员。我被无敌的人所吸引，而不是其他任何东西。然而，我看到自己在镜子里，意识到我不能像他们一样。除了太瘦弱之外，我不具备那样的才华（会议厅笑）。

我去了纽约的戏剧学校，我的叔叔，母亲，姐姐都去了。我开始有所改变。在我的生命中，我第一次坠入爱河，我感到前所未有的兴奋感，就像当初我想成为运动员一样，但这次我不是想成为超级英雄而是憧憬成为一个普通人。像希斯莱杰和瑞凡凤凰这样精致的艺术家，和不屈不挠的梅西和勒布朗同样具有吸引力。那些敢于展现脆弱的演员都使人着迷，我开始疯狂地学习他们的作品。真实的人物、真实的故事所揭露的人性真相是那样鼓舞人心，我希望总有一天得到认可的不再仅仅是那些赞颂人类不可战胜的作品，而是那些看到我们缺陷之美的作品。】

看到这我瞬间有点点释然

我们的路 他的路 总不能都被“过去”决定。

即使人生复杂，也总有机会走向还不错的方向。

以及永远要相信爱珍惜爱。是真的持久的爱而不是只是短暂出现的关心。

写到这真的好累。

漂亮男孩 (2018)

6.2

2018 / 美国 / 剧情 / 菲力斯·范·古宁根 / 史蒂夫·卡瑞尔 提莫西·查拉梅

这部电影适合全家人去看，因为你看完之后你会觉得特别好看，你也会让你的孩子彻底认识到毒品对一个人的危害多大，它不仅仅会坏掉，你还会坏掉你全家搞得你家破人亡，这就是毒品的危害，管怎么样？我觉得禁毒是肯定是一定要进行到底的，因为毒品的危害实在是太可怕了，他可以把一个本来品学兼优的男生给毁掉了!

甜茶主演的电影，没看简介来看以为是很平常的故事线进行。没想到是讲一个孩子吸毒反复挣扎无法逃离的故事，画面+音乐很是渲染人物心境和故事起伏这样。吸毒环境的压抑+看到父亲为了了解儿子吸毒而去尝试吸毒来感受毒品瞬间炸裂的愉快享受，不同时期画面的来回组接，有一种吸毒的现实与幻灭的切换，颠倒一般人的生活线。没有毒品短暂家人相聚的日子，以及吸毒逃离又联络父母的挣扎恐惧。家庭起初主要拍了主角尼克和父亲重组家庭继母和弟弟妹妹画面，因母亲住在美国另一座城市，后期母亲和父亲出现在一起陪伴尼克，看完是压抑的，父亲在起初就问他为什么要吸毒，尼克回答不出来。小时候尼克画面时不时切出，还很小到父母膝盖的孩子，假期坐飞机去妈妈家看着就很心疼的宝贝，眼里充噬着不安，可能从小伴随的不安与恐惧是长存的吧。以至于与亲情父母的交流接口也在无形中迷了方向，不知为何，答不上来。结尾先是字幕讲述美国毒品现状，和说要把它当作疾病来正视，并以一点数据来展现吸毒带给美国人民的巨大伤害。 在结尾字幕快出完，有一段独白，是尼克在学校里读过的一个诗人的一段话，写实而又并非可以用通俗字面理解，却通过尼克角色声音再一次把那段诗读完又有了许多赋予意义在里面。对了父亲是作家的身份，儿子尼克之前也在跟随兴趣写作（不得不说这是否是有遗传在里面呢），这部电影是根据书改编的，电影里父亲的名字是和书作者的名字一样，最后才意识到这可能是作者的自述与表达，面对儿子自己与毒品所经历的一切。（百度搜了下，是作者的回忆录改编～）