Monday Morning

This film (drama)Also known asLundi matin，is aFrance, ItalyProducerwomen sex，At2002Released in year 。The dialogue language isFrench, Italian, Romanesco，Current Douban rating8.0(For reference only)。

It's such a small town. So small that a telescope can see everything; so small that the mailman can leisurely go through every letter and then seal them up again; so small that people don't need to greet each other because they always run into one another. There is a man in the town who does the same thing every morning: changes his shoes, goes out, and works. On the surface, he is a welder at a construction site, but in reality, his true job is to pursue the dream of being an artist. He paints with cheap watercolor paints, leaving a lot of blank space in the sky. Like his peers in the town, he feels monotonous, trivial, and mundane. He also resembles the youth, restless for his ideals. The man has a wife, her plump body proving that she is a dutiful housewife. The man earns a living, and his wife transforms the money into food to sustain him. They understand the importance of adhering to their roles, so they rarely speak. The man's father is a fallen noble who may not have had a legendary first half of his life, but he still passed on elegance and emotion to the next generation. The love in the small town is plain; it is called plain because there is no distance between rich and poor, nor any difference in skin color, as if everything outside of love is irrelevant to love. Just a few strokes, and until the moment of marriage, it still does not evoke the feeling of a grave. The toilet attendant at the tavern used to dress as a woman. It's not just women he dislikes, but people in general. So he feels happy when he sees animals. However, he is certainly not a true cross-dresser, as it is difficult to imagine him liking his own appearance dressed as a woman, old and bloated. The town's postman enjoys opening letters one by one, reading briefly, then sealing them back up again. Perhaps the sender never sealed them in the first place, or maybe all postmen in the world are curious about the contents of the letters. On a Monday morning, the man leaves home. Thus, he arrives in Venice. The freedom of Venice can almost accommodate everything, provided that you are free as well. People do anything they want, even being a thief is allowed. Pretense is out of place here; they are too real, so real that beauty and ugliness cannot be hidden; as long as you have a shred of compassion, it will be laid bare. He meets a stranger on the train by chance. The commonality of freedom allows the man to part ways with his father’s hypocritical friend and quickly become friends with the person he encounters a second time. He boards his friend’s small boat, leaving behind the deliberate helplessness of his life while carrying unexpected curiosity. He has another encounter, only to find out that romantic escapades are not the theme of this trip. More encounters do not lead to continuation; they are just brief moments of passing by. Even if repeated, meeting the same person yields the same result. He sends a postcard to his wife, depicting the scenic views of Venice on the front. This time, the postman already knows what he wants to say to his wife without needing to open it, but his wife tears it to shreds without even looking. The postman guessed it would be like this; sometimes the romance the man loves represents the separation that the woman detests. Thus, the man returns home. Sometimes, habits cause a person to feel the impulse to lose, and after a roundabout, they return to the same place to see everything unchanged: men, women, old, young, pastors. The man, as usual, changes his shoes, goes out, and works. Only this time, there is an extra kiss from his wife before he leaves. And so he realizes that some things do not require a long journey to be attained.