Monday Morning

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

Such a small town, very small. Small enough for a telescope to see everything; small enough for the postman to leisurely browse through each letter and then seal them up; small enough 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, steps out, and goes to work. On the surface, he works as a welder at a construction site, but in reality, his true job is to pursue the dream of being a painter. He paints with cheap watercolor paints, leaving large areas of white in the sky. Like his peers in the town, he feels monotonous, trivial, and dull. He is somewhat like a young person, restless for his ideals. The man has a wife, whose plump body proves she is a diligent housewife. The man earns money to support the family, while his wife turns that money into food to nourish him. They understand the importance of sticking to their commitments, so they rarely speak. The man's father is a fallen nobleman, and perhaps his early life is not legendary, but he still passed elegance and sensitivity down to the next generation. The love in the small town is plain; it’s called plain because this love has no distance of wealth, nor differences in skin color, as if everything outside of love has nothing to do with it. Just a few strokes, and until the moment of marriage, it still does not make one feel the presence of a grave. The toilet attendant in the tavern used to dress as a woman. What he doesn’t like is not just women, but people. Therefore, he feels happy when he sees animals. But he is certainly not a true cross-dresser, as it’s hard to imagine him liking the way he looks, bloated and aged, in women's clothing. The town's postman enjoys opening letters one by one, reading them briefly, and then sealing them up again. Perhaps the sender didn’t seal them at all, or maybe all postmen in the world are concerned about the content of the letters. On a Monday morning, the man left home. Thus, he arrived in Venice. The freedom of Venice can almost accommodate everything, provided that you must also be free. People do whatever they want, even being a thief, and it is equally permitted. Pretentiousness is out of place here; they are too real, so real that they cannot hide their ugliness and beauty; as long as you have a shred of compassion, it will be exposed. By chance, he met a stranger on the train. The commonality of freedom allowed the man to bid farewell to his father’s hypocritical old friend and become friends with the one he clicked with upon their second meeting. He boarded his friend's small boat, filled with unexpected curiosity, leaving behind the forced helplessness of his life. He also had another encounter, and afterward realized that romantic encounters were not the theme of this journey. There would be no further chapters in most encounters; they were merely fleeting brushstrokes. Even if repeated again, with the same people, the outcome would be the same. He sent his wife a postcard, featuring a view of Venice on the front. This time, the postman didn’t need to open it to see what he wanted to say to his wife, but she tore it to pieces without even looking at it. The postman guessed it would be this way; sometimes the romance the man likes represents the farewell the woman loathes. Thus, the man returned home. Sometimes, habits can create an impulse to want to lose something, returning to the same place after a round, finding that everything is still the same: men, women, elderly, children, pastors. The man changed his shoes, stepped out, and went to work as usual. Only this time, there was an extra kiss from his wife before leaving. Thus, he understood that some things can be attained without having to go too far.