In 1971, Stanley Kubrick's rebellious masterpiece A Clockwork Orange exploded onto the scene. The juxtaposition of classical music with violence left a lasting impression. Whether it was Beethoven's Ode to Joy, The Thieving Magpie, or Pomp and Circumstance, or even the protagonist humming Singin' in the Rain during acts of violence, the film presented a disturbing psychological portrait of violence and a fierce critique of mainstream culture in a uniquely bizarre and sarcastic manner.
This absurdity, without a doubt, became a timeless cinematic classic.
In 2003, Gus Van Sant imbued Für Elise with a similarly twisted quality, birthing violence within a serene and gentle atmosphere. While lacking the perverse edge of A Clockwork Orange, it vividly depicted an underlying terror, a tension so thick that viewers could barely continue watching.
Coincidentally, the protagonist of A Clockwork Orange was named Alex, and the culprit in Elephant was also named Alex. Is this a mere coincidence?
To some extent, the real terror of Elephant lies in the youth of Alex and Eric.
Two high school students.
Gus, in a provocative stance, chose to showcase the bloodshed wrought by these minors. This kind of depiction is rare in cinematic history and undoubtedly crossed some boundaries. Although the film avoids direct portrayals of gory bloodshed, opting instead for indirect shots, the moment the trigger is pulled, the effect is undeniable.
This, indeed, is a provocation.
Without question, this wasn't the Gus who made Good Will Hunting or My Own Private Idaho. This was a Gus who, in a subversive fashion, obliterated the entire Lumière Hall.
And then, the movie ended.
The big screen went dark. This was a simple, ordinary moment, yet the unexpected darkness instilled a sense of dread and despair.
There was no need to close your eyes to imagine the despair of Nathan and his girlfriend.
But they would never know the ending. Did Alex pull the trigger?
That fear gripped your heart, causing your entire body to curl up, trembling.
Thankfully, it was just a fleeting moment.
Click.
The lights slowly came up, their soft glow neither bright nor harsh, yet their warmth felt like sunlight on your skin. Thoughts rushed in like a tidal wave, and a sense of relief filled your chest as you began to breathe deeply again.
And then.
Finally, the line between reality and fiction reasserted itself, grounding your soul back in the Lumière Hall.
Exchanging glances, looking around, everyone seemed overwhelmed, unable to contain the flood of emotions stirring within them.
They stood and applauded.
It wasn't until you stood that you realized your knees were weak and trembling, nearly buckling beneath you.
But because of that, after hurriedly regaining your balance and concealing your awkwardness, you clapped even harder, pouring every ounce of strength into it.
From confusion, doubt, and dislike to curiosity, focus, and finally shock, this was an indescribable, unbelievable viewing experience; but undoubtedly, it was one you would never forget.
This is the power of cinema.
The collision of palms didn't bring pain but instead served as a release for the storm raging inside your mind, each clap carrying the force of those swirling emotions.
Then, you became part of the storm that overtook the Lumière Hall.
Clap, clap, clap.
The sound grew louder and louder, and in no time, it broke free of any restraints, transforming into an all-encompassing storm sweeping through the room.
No exceptions.
From the first floor to the second, from left wing to right, from the front row to the back, every single person stood and clapped.
No one escaped this whirlwind. No one.
Alex and Eric were so startled they nearly fell out of their seats. Struggling to maintain their composure, they turned to the audience in disbelief, then looked to Anson for guidance.
Even Anson was stunned by the scene before him.
It wasn't that Anson hadn't experienced thunderous applause at a premiere before—he had, more than once—but this was different, completely different.
There were no whistles, no cheers, no shouts, just pure applause.
The eyes of the audience, filled with passion and emotion, looked toward the screen. Without words, you could feel their deep love for the film.
To be precise, words would have been inadequate. Nothing could match the thunderous applause that conveyed their emotions in such a pure and fiery way, igniting the Lumière Hall.
Simple, yet crazy.
For the first time, Anson could feel the heartbeat of this town, pulsing for cinema.
And for the first time, Anson was grateful to be a part of this film—not because of his performance or his role, but because of the film itself.
Tonight's real star should be the director, the creator of this masterpiece. Anson finally understood why French cinema always places such importance on directors, elevating them to a crucial position.
In Hollywood, movies are commodities. From concept to budget, everything revolves around market potential, sales, and profits, so producers are typically in charge, much like product managers.
In Europe, film is an art form. Instead of focusing on market reactions, the emphasis is on creation, imagination, personal reflection, and innovation. Hence, directors are at the core.
Of course, this isn't absolute. Hollywood values artistic expression, and Europe cares about market returns. But the priorities are different, not only for producers and directors but also for audiences, leading to distinct cinematic cultures.
Right now, that difference was clear.
Cannes had shown Anson another side of cinema.
It can be commercial, mainstream, and popular, but it can also be artistic, personal, and wild. This is why cinema is called the seventh art.
More importantly, cinema should be about stories, characters, and life, just as much as it's about actors, directors, and creation.
That's why superhero movies are often compared to theme parks—not because of their commercial nature, but because they lack real human experiences. The characters never face true danger, and their relationships lack genuine emotion. How can audiences emotionally invest in endless planet-saving scenarios with no real stakes?
At the Cannes Film Festival, Anson had never felt this truth more clearly.
Now, this moment belonged to Gus.
Though everything was new to Anson, and it was his first time, he knew what to do.
He stood, turned, and looked at Gus.
Then, he applauded.
Clap, clap, clap!
Anson clapped with all his might, pouring every emotion into it, celebrating and honoring Gus. It was as simple as that.
Alex and Eric, unsure of what to do, followed Anson's lead and stood, clapping along.
The room roared.