I think I love ideas. I like a story that’s got some concrete you know structure but also holds abstractions. Life is filled with abstractions and the way we make heads tails of it is through intuition. And so people get used to film that pretty much explains itself a hundred percent. And they kind of turn off that you know beautiful thing of intuition when they’re looking at a film that has some abstractions. And some people on the other hand love these abstractions. And it gives them room to dream.

A abstractions to me is a thing that cinema can say. And it’ so beautiful for me anyway to think about these pictures and some sounds flowing along together in the time in a sequence making a thing that can only really be said in cinema. It’s not words. It’s not just music. It’s the whole bunch of things coming together and making a thing that didn’t exist before. And that’s what i really love about it.

And then to answer your question a little further. It’s up to the people you know to you know find their own your know interpretation. It’s doesn’t really matter what I think. It’s all every screening no matter what even if all the frames of the film are exactly the same. But there no two screenings that are exactly the same. It’s the viwer and the picture and the sound and it makes a circle and it just goes like that. And so you just feel it and think it. That’s kind of intuition emotion and thinking together and come up make it have a sense to you.

译: 我想我钟爱的是理念本身. 我喜欢那种既有具象结构又蕴含抽象思维的故事. 生活本就充满抽象, 而我们理解它的方式就是通过直觉. 人们已经习惯了那些将一切解释得明明白白的电影, 当看到带有抽象元素的影片时, 他们往往会关闭那种美妙的直觉感知. 而另一些人却恰恰痴迷这种抽象, 因为这给了他们造梦的空间.

对我而言, 抽象正是电影独有的表达方式. 当画面与声音在流动的时间中交织, 形成唯有电影才能言说的意境 $—$ 这不是文字能描述的, 也不仅是音乐能呈现的, 而是所有元素共同创造出前所未有的存在 $—$ 这种构想本身就已美得令人心醉.

进一步回答你的问题: 观众完全可以根据自己的理解来诠释作品. 我的想法其实无关紧要. 每一次放映都是独特的相遇, 即便胶片帧数分毫不差, 但银幕光影与观者感受却不可重现. 这种循环生生不息, 你只需去感受, 去思考, 让直觉情感与理性交融, 最终形成属于你自己的体验.

The preface to the 1957 edition of Jorge Luis Borges’ collection of essays The Book of Imaginary Beings (幻兽辞典) contains the comment that monsters will always stalk mythic stories because real animals are a deeply important part of human experience and because monstrous beings are combinations of the real and the imagined, the stuff of nightmares and dreams. The Classical mythic centaur, which melds the forms of man and horse, has its Celtic counterpart in the Welsh horse-woman, Rhiannon. The Cretan Minotaur (米诺陶洛斯), a hideous blend of bull and human, can perhaps be seen transmuted in Irish mythology to become the great fighting bulls of Ulster and Connacht, which had human speech and understanding, or, in Wales, the enchanted boar Twrch Trwyth (图鲁夫图鲁维斯). Borges even goes so far as to argue that monsters are ‘necessary’ for human society. In our own day, fascinated by space and the possibility of worlds beyond, we conjure up fantastic images of galactic monsters, nowhere more clearly presented than in the Star Wars cantina, in which Skywalker and Solo encounter a collection of weird and wonderful beings from all over the Universe. Such are our modern mythic creations. 26

A persistent feature of both Irish and Welsh mythology is the theme of the magical cauldron, a vessel capable of raising the dead and of providing ever-replenishing supplies of food. The Irish god Daghdha, (‘the Good God’), possessed a huge inexhaustible cauldron. The central focus of the Irish Otherworld feast was the cauldron, which never ran out of food. One Irish cauldron-myth was associated with sacral kingship, where the new king of Ulster had to bathe in one, while consuming the meat and broth of a white mare he had ritually ‘married’. 29

$\S$ Ceridwen’s Cauldron: A Welsh mythic tale, preserved in a 13th-century text, The Book of Taliesin (塔列辛之书), contains a rich story of an enchanted cauldron, whose contents endowed those who ate or drank from it with knowledge and inspiration. The cauldron’s keeper was Ceridwen. She bore two children, Crearwy (‘the light or beautiful one’) and Afagddu (‘black’ or ‘ugly’). Wanting to compensate her son for his ill-favoured appearance, his mother mixed a special brew in the cauldron, designed to give him absolute wisdom. Because the potion needed to boil for a year, Ceridwen appointed a young boy, Gwion, to watch over it. As he was tending the cauldron, three drops of scalding liquid splashed onto his hand and, without thinking, he licked his fingers, thus inadvertently acquiring the wisdom intended for Afagddu. Gwion’s flight and pursuit by the angry Ceridwen eventually caused Gwion’s rebirth as the great visionary poet Taliesin. 30

Words are powerful things, the more so if they are spoken aloud, so that sound and meaning blend into a single powerful message that can be shared simultaneously by many people. Keepers of oral tradition had to have prodigiously long and accurate memories and the ability to learn long tales by heart, while adding embellishments along the way. Listeners, too, would remember stories they had heard all their lives, and would not have hesitated to point out errors or inconsistencies. 43