《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)：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(二)：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。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(三)：盛夏青春告别
在花园里读拜伦的少女，躲在暮色角落写情书的少年，那是童年假期的最后一天：还是孩子的继续让烂漫蔓延；有的似是而非的想抓住心头的小鹿，却又羞涩的不知从何下手；还有些被情感的刺刺中，说不出的苦涩梗咽在唇齿。
我更喜欢，也更怀念朔子站在河边赤足玩水的镜头，远处是鼓噪的蝉声，心仪男生的注视，阿姨和前度小心翼翼回避着旧疮疤的聊天，这些都太遥远。一圈又一圈从脚踝荡漾开的涟漪里，是少女透明的心事。如同自己初中结束的那个夏天，如同那年夏天最静的海。晃眼的日光洒在朔子布满细密汗珠颈项的弧度上，慵懒的笑容从嘴角慢慢绽放，一切都美好得心醉。
他和她的秘密，她和他的秘密，他的秘密，她的秘密...湘南海边的沙滩上埋着数不清的宝匣，无意中得到的钥匙，原来开启的是他人的秘密。并不是每一个潘多拉都耀眼炫目，大人世界的自私虚伪，面具下赤裸的狰狞，惊鸿一瞥，也如窜起的烈焰般会灼伤容颜。
那么，青春就如阳光般透明纯白嘛？
被欺凌勒索后去色情酒店做援交的初中生、仰慕的大学教授原来只是贪婪想吞噬自己青春肉体的女孩、为了反核示威刻意利用自己美色接近福岛受害家庭成员的少女，主动与被动之间，只顾着在河边玩耍的快乐，却没有看到被搅动的沙砾和污泥浑浊了清水。她们用自己都没察觉的方式，或早或迟的完成了告别青春的祭典。
人生，本来就是在时间的流逝中不知不觉的失去和遗忘。
一次短暂的青春叛逃，酒精麻醉下，在酒吧里表演的默剧艺人只剩下朦胧的轮廓，中年男子脸上滑落的泪痕却无比清晰，世界上实在有太多不安和不解。在铁路旁的草丛中醒来，拂去裸露肌肤上的露珠，踏着碎石子归家。分叉路口上，她在他面颊上轻轻的一吻，日记里的虫，听到身上厚厚的茧发出破裂的声响，会是蝴蝶嘛？她在无声告别，把开始留在他易碎的心上。
车厢里朔子的侧影中，满是麦子般金黄色的阳光。微微翘起的嘴角，笑意中，是和自己青春私奔的幸福味道，那么淡然，那么静默，在告别中成长。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(四)：蓝绿色背影
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。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(五)：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(六)：あります
大概是很久之前看了河畔的朔子，当时对二阶只是普通的无感，电影所记得的也不过是十几岁的少女在炎夏里骑着脚踏车无聊的转悠着。
第二遍找来重看，是因为二阶已经是我最喜欢的演员，想起电影所带有的感觉和气息，产生了一种很着迷的感觉。
第二遍看时，发现电影情节还是记住了些。原本电影前段是不喜欢辰子的，觉得她是晦暗的人，和单纯的朔子一相比，心思也更重了。可是看到结尾处，她在路边招手，送给朔子一张她们小时候的照片时，那一刻又觉得：辰子不论怎么样，就算再怎么样，其实也是个可爱的女孩子啊。
海希江阿姨应该是很多人幻想中的生活的样子吧，是个美人，做着翻译和研究的工作，偶尔来到乡间生活，也去国外住过。孝史说的伪善难道就没有一点羡慕吗？
电影里那场唯一胆颤的戏，辰子和辰子的父亲，海希江阿姨和朔子，还有那位老师，朔子只是坐在旁边吃着草莓蛋糕。
在海边散步的时候，朔子问海希江阿姨和兔吉叔叔的关系，她回答说“秘密”。所以末尾时海希江阿姨问朔子想好将来做什么了吗，朔子也回答“秘密”。
只是秘密对秘密，朔子其实也还不知道自己未来要做什么吧，这样的事情哪有那么容易就想到呢。只是再回去补习学校时，已经不再像来时那样低落，对未来又有了信心。
关于朔子和孝史，这样淡又有点什么，也许是最好的感情了。这样走时也不用告别，也不会悲伤，而是认识你真好的感觉。
而对于也许看到了大人的秘密的朔子，她不是会偏离正常生活轨迹的人，未来也不会成为有那样秘密的大人。即便知晓了体面生活下隐藏些许的污垢，也会能够体谅和理解，嘛，那样的事情，发生了也很正常，也不会影响了什么呀。
朔子是在能很正常的生活里却能够包容偶尔偏离轨迹的人们的人。我觉得这样子的人是能够看透无聊同时能忍受无聊的人吧。
《河畔的朔子》观后感(七)：《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(八)：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(九)：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
《河畔的朔子》观后感(十)：岁月很长我们要慢慢走
一开头似风铃的配曲代入安逸的小镇风景，温暖柔和的夏风吹乱青春少女的发丝，如果你此时此刻也是在充满阳光的午后，时间庸长而无聊，那么细细品味这部电影是最适合不过的了。
青春少女的心纯洁而美丽，是成人世界的旁观者。电影的节奏不快，但是几个不经意的片段却灼显出现代人的欲望和错乱，导演用少男少女纯洁的感情去反衬成人世界不道德的感情。
男孩在跟塑子约会的时候接到女同学的电话，乱了心，塑子这个时候选择让位是内心美的真实体现，喜欢他，默默的陪伴。
人生岁月很长，贪图一时的享乐却导致生活中充满谎言和烦恼，慢慢走，像塑子一样追寻内心的感受，不为欲望所迷惑，让心灵以最原始最轻盈的姿态穿行在世间，才能享受更多的美，而这跟王阳明的我心光明又何其相似。
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