The beauty of this film is not only measured by the compliment of daily life, small talk and ordinary food in the Chinese fast food restaurant; not simply in contrast to the bright festive world, of which we see almost nothing; Likewise, it does not measure against the complexity of the perspectives that have become complex, the analytical exploration of the flawed lines through which reality (the autobiographical, self-representation) flows into art. On the contrary, it is measured by the lack of resistance through which this film projects itself in its future of only one hour. The point is not that it becomes possible for life to become art; It's not that what's on the right and left of the cinema, to the right and left of the red carpets and to the premiere celebrations, itself becomes a movie theater. The point is that only this becoming becomes without resistance, which needs no explanation, that cinema is an infinitely elastic thing in which nothing could be so secondary that it did not become the principal. Hardly anywhere else does the film's elasticity convince as much as Hong's. The letter - as Claire once said - was not such a difficult thing. Anyone can produce, write, film poetry.