An old house, an old courtyard somewhere in northeastern China, an old woman, a girl and the four seasons.
An old house, an old courtyard, an old woman living in a symbiosis of slow withering, so long ago and so slow that the present, present winter seems to have always been and always will be. The emergence of youth and freshness in this kingdom of decline cannot be regarded as anything but an invasion, practically a trampling of foundations.
The old house, the old courtyard, the old hostess, the lodger-girl - the story is simple and recognizable in every turn, it can almost not be represented in events, enough islets of dialogue, as if suddenly occurring in this house, in this stream of seasons, like flashes of human emotions against the truly beautiful background of majestic nature - despite the fact that the action takes place in the city, and the house, the courtyard, and people seem more part of self-organizing nature, rather than rationalizing and purposeful human community, eternally collaping in the face of lonely people.
Ideally in both dimensions fits only a neighbor, a thin, cheerful old woman. In pink pants with frills, she will simultaneously broadcast the voice of everyday wisdom, on the Spring Festival (Chinese New Year), she will bring her favorite fish, but she will not impose her company, she alone swims with the flow of time and society, like a Taoist master, without becoming a hostage of either.
The old house, the old courtyard, the old woman, the girl and the time. The cycle of the seasons will continue, but what happened this year will not happen again. Renewal is crushing, renewal turns into suffering, but it is better, more correct, than turning away from the temptation to experience life for real.
8 out of 10