On Monday I went to see the stalkers in the Old Tower. I've seen this film many times, and I went there just to see better results on the big screen. Sure enough, the effect of the theater is amazing, the texture of the film is beautiful and extraordinary, and I think all living people should experience the aesthetic taste of my male god who is shocking to the world, travels through time, and hits the soul. It's a science fiction story about a mysterious "zone" where it is said that all of one's wishes can be fulfilled in a room deep inside the zone. But the environment in the district is unpredictable, and only professional "stalkers" can lead people to find their way. Today Stalker has brought two more people, one is an uninspired writer and the other is a professor who explores science. The Stalker's wife uses their sick daughter to keep him, but he doesn't listen, and he leads the writer and professor through the obstacles to the "zone".

The problem with my male god is that he has a simple literary heart and has to make science fiction films, but even on the edge of the most bizarre universe, the atmosphere he captures is a flickering bonfire burning in the rainy Russian countryside. Actually, it's quite interesting. Patient friends can check out his "Solaris", which doesn't look like a sci-fi film at all. He is completely different from works such as Kubrick's 2001: Kubrick felt that the universe was full of endless and inexhaustible unknowns, and longed to explore deeper. Tarkovsky believes that the most mysterious thing is the human mind, no matter how far the universe is, what a person ultimately needs to find, and can never get, is the spiritual home in his distant childhood memories.

Where did I digress. They walked into the "district". My male god spent two hours filming this story of exploring the mysterious realm into a roadside picnic. (Actually, the original is called a roadside picnic, and I don't blame him.) Very few people told me they didn't look asleep. The protagonists walk over the railroad tracks, wade through the creek, through deep caves, and reach the edge of the district. The conversations along the way are filled with the philosophical speculations of writers and professors, their views on the mysterious power of the district, their experience of the value of their own lives, and so on. The Stalker, on the other hand, was only dreaming of a gray dream with a needle for his daughter's healing. Eventually, they reached the gate of the Holy Land. The Stalker says you can now go into the room and make a wish. Unexpectedly, the behavior of the two followers was unexpected. The professor pulled out a handful of explosives, intending to blow up the non-scientific force of the district. And the writer says that he doesn't really believe that this thing really exists at all. Otherwise, why didn't the stalker make his own wish.

Stalker fights with them, telling them that it is a condition of the profession that Stalker cannot make wishes, and that helping the desperate enter the zone is the only joy in his life. The two intellectuals were impressed. They were silent in the rain and went home together. Stalker's wife and daughter find them at the bar, and Stalker returns home. He lay in bed crying because they didn't believe him because his efforts were being belittled. His wife comforted him: If you want, I can go with you, I also have a wish to come true. He said, "No, what if your wish cannot be fulfilled."

He fell asleep, and his wife sighed and went to smoke. She told her disabled little daughter: I know it's hard, but I never regret it. She walked away, and the youngest daughter sat at the table, looking at the glasses on the table. Under her silent gaze, the cup moved out of thin air and fell to the ground.

I wrote too long and lost patience for analysis. Anyway, for the first time, I didn't focus on the conversation between the writer and the professor in this story, but empathized with the stalker. For the first time, I experienced the utter desolation he felt: that the only thing I believed in in this painful, burdened world might be a vanity known to all. The intellectuals used science, they used philosophy, they used money and education, they condescendingly laughed at my efforts, and deep down, I feared all the time that they were right. But what else can I do, if I don't believe in this miracle, what can I believe? If this distant dream shatters, what will I rely on to get through my endless, chilling, painful moments?

The works of the Old Tower often discuss religion, and this one is no exception. We can feel his arguments repeatedly throughout the story, and he has a strange, sad tenderness in his fatalistic pessimism about faith. That's why the little daughter of the stalker ended up moving the cup, and I never saw it before: yes, miracles don't come in front of you. In this life, faith is just an illusion that you cannot realize, and no matter how hard you try, it will only bring you endless self-doubt and torture. But in a certain corner of the world, even the closest to you, the most inconspicuous corner, a wonderful power exists, it exists.

I wrote so long. I want to say that I have never experienced the grandiose speculation placed on this role, because I have never substituted myself into this role. From his point of view, he did not feel the stabbing wound of the silent leader of the high-level intellectuals about sexuality and spirituality that runs through the whole film. I'm an atheist, and I'm naturally inclined to teach, inclined to think that miracles don't exist. I never realized that the truth could be a hurt, and that faith itself was a pain in a desperate situation.

One of the most famous points of the Old Tower is that the experience is something that cannot be shared. Every time I think of this sentence, I have a different experience. This time it's especially deep. How many people do I turn a blind eye to love and hate until I have tried to grasp a certain emotion? Pay attention to our own hearts and walk in the world, are we blind with open eyes? Exhausted my imagination and experience, how many people can I understand in my short life?

When readers tell me that my story is uncomfortable, I rarely take it seriously because I don't feel like it's contagious enough. But as a spectator, I was stabbed by the old tower every time I couldn't sleep at night. After watching this film, I lost my soul and almost cried when I walked on the road. When it was time for lunch, I bought a burger and put it on the long table by the boulevard, and sat next to it in a daze, waiting for me to come back to my senses from the jumbled thoughts. I found that there was only a first base of chips and pickled cucumbers left in the box, and the burger was missing. I stared at the slices of pickled cucumbers for a long time, wondering if the mysterious forces in the universe wanted to teach me what it meant to be truly "blind". To be reasonable, this is really puzzling, and I still can't figure out whether a classmate was hungry like this, or if the squirrel stole it.