More than thirty years ago, Taonan Village in the Guanzhong Plain lay quietly on the bank of the Lianhua River, like a stone polished and moistened by time. In this small village with hundreds of households, the tofu shop is fragrant and the rice dumpling stalls are steaming. Life is long and smooth. But in this picture of a prosperous countryside, there are two incompatible traces, the foolish woman Aiqin, and another "poor person" Li Lan.
At the age of seven, Aiqin suffered a high fever that destroyed her sanity. At the age of fourteen, she slipped and fell into the water. Her parents were eager to save her, but they both drowned. From then on, she became a "smelly and arrogant" sight in the village: leaning on the stick that her mother used to fasten the window, she straightened her back and stood in front of people's homes during meals to beg for food. Until one day, she suddenly put on a bright red sweater, and her belly gradually swelled, becoming a mystery that the whole village could not figure out.
Li Lan was originally the son of the "most capable young man" in the village. When he was thirteen years old, his father went out to sell wood and never returned. The boy's world collapsed from then on, including fists, tobacco, alcohol, and game arcades. Finally, a madness attack biting his mother's calf ended the family undercurrent. That night, my grandfather committed suicide under the old honey locust tree, and my mother disappeared into the morning mist. From then on, Li Lan became a shadow by the river, staring at the flowing water in a daze, scratching the long-vanished TV set on the ground with stones.
These are two idiots who were crushed by fate, and occasionally meet and collide in the same time and space. When the Aegean disappeared in the heavy rain, and when Li Lan finally disappeared, the Lotus River still flowed quietly, but no one mentioned the red sweater anymore, and no one remembered the joys and sorrows that were crushed into dust by time.
Intention: Through the fate of two "idiots", we can see the forgotten lives under the torrent of the times: they are like ink drops falling on rice paper. Although the traces are faint, they have truly hurt.