A wonderful film. Its apparent simplicity invites reticence, as though to speak of it too directly would narrow the field of attention it sustains. Yet this simplicity--hands tracing color across the disjointed surfaces of model pieces with a paintbrush, each sequence belonging to a different boy and accompanied by a song with lyrics; the ensuing static images of completed models, each paired with a recorded speech drawn from its historical moment, moving from the prehistoric to the postindustrial--possesses its own severity. The trichotomy of signs appears almost diagrammatically: the painted fragments as icons, resembling that which they evoke; the fixed images of finished models as indices, tied to their referents through the fact of having been made; the voice, law-like and conventional, as symbol. Rather than multiplying images, the film partitions them, arranging perception itself into categories--an austere exercise in how representation distinguishes itself from the world it seeks to recall.But this clarity is never secure. Each layer of undercoat yields to a finished surface, yet the alternation between the two suspends any visible notion of progress. The gestures of painting imply a relation between foundation and finality, though the materials in one shot may not correspond to the object revealed in the next. What results is less continuity than correlation--the suggestion of process without its resolution. The painted fragments conjure diagrams of labor and accumulation, miniature infrastructures whose smooth surfaces belie the energies that sustain them. Factories, silos, and railroads dominate the frame’s negative space; the residue of political resistance withdraws, as though the historical voice could speak only in quotation. Between music and speech, motion and stasis, a fissure opens where history contracts--not through juxtaposition, but through recurrence. From the opening image of the tyrannosaurus to the closing appearance of the eponymous bomb, the film’s diegesis gathers them into the same conceptual space: the child’s model as the nation’s archive. The film’s pedagogical surface conceals a more radical inquiry. Its didacticism functions not as instruction but as exposure. It can be argued that every cinematic gesture, however minimal, bears the imprint of the system that produces it. To record, frame, or narrate is already to participate in ideology’s material reproduction. Benning’s reduction of form--his stripping away of conventional devices of plot, character, and development--does not release the image from ideology; it instead reveals the mechanisms by which ideology organizes perception. His models, like cinema itself, are replicas that naturalize their referents through labor rendered invisible. The children’s brushstrokes allegorically articulate representation’s complicity: the act of painting as the act of reproducing belief.In this sense, Little Boy performs a materialist critique at the level of the signifier. Each image discloses its own conditions of construction, the conjunction of labor, production, and play through which ideology reproduces itself. What we see is not history in miniature, but the miniature as ideology--the compression of time, violence, and innocence into a consumable form. The bomb persists as toy, its destructive force displaced into plastic endurance. To perceive this is to confront ideology in its most banal state: stabilized, aestheticized, and endlessly repeatable. If the film seems more stimulating to analyze than to view, that imbalance belongs to its logic. Its austerity is not asceticism but precision. Through the oscillation between brushstroke and monument, between representation and belief, Little Boy locates the persistence of ideology itself--the continual repainting of America, piece by piece, until the model stands whole and complete. Yet even in its completion, the model resists closure. The icon still gestures toward resemblance, the index remains bound to its trace, the symbol reasserts its law: each relation unsettles the illusion of immutability. What appears finished continues to signify, an invitation to reenter the circuit of painting, building, and naming--to confront, once more, the uneasy continuity between the world and its representation.---10/4/2025*V* and I had plans to watch Little Boy at the NYFF. I had also told them that we might see the film with other friends attending the screening, or at least greet them before or after. We first planned to meet at a nearby Korean restaurant, The Jin--a casual spot leaning toward the modern, hip side of Korean culture, unlike the more traditional spots one could come across in the enclaves of Northern Jersey, Flushing, or Murray Hill. It felt closer to what one might expect in Manhattan’s Ktown, though its hours were shorter than typical for the neighborhood. As I waited, leaning against the rail outside, a group of three approached me. I explained that I didn’t work there. Eventually, *V* arrived, and we ordered our own dishes while sharing an appetizer, catching up on the past few weeks.Since we didn’t have tickets in advance, we had planned to wait in standby for a couple of hours. But when the line appeared empty, we decided to walk around. *V* suggested visiting Kinokuniya, which excited me, though I noted there might not be enough time if we had to return for standby. Instead, we walked toward Columbus Circle to browse some shops--a place that held significance because we had attended the same pro-Palestinian protest that ended there, lending the walk a circular resonance that recalled shared drives and interests. But almost immediately after we started walking, I bumped into *N*.For a split second, our eyes met, and I hesitated to call out her name. Another instant passed, and I felt compelled: “*S*!” She turned, surprised, with an awkward smile. She mentioned needing to head to a screening and said, “See you around,” before continuing. I called again, and she turned once more--close enough to see her eyes and awkward smile, yet distant enough for it to feel painful. I apologized for the pauses, struggling to articulate what I wanted to say amidst old memories, dreams, wounds, and doubts. I asked if we could talk at some point. She shook her head, holding the same awkward smile. "No... I have to go."The encounter flooded me with recollections: our last meeting six months ago, the unresolved argument, her ending the relationship via text, the erosion of friendships with *C* and *K*, and the despair of losing people closest to me. I resented myself for calling her *S* instead of *N*, recalling the sting of a past email interaction where she had reduced what we shared into formalities. Despite her preference for *S*, the use of our Korean names had once endeared us to each other--yet here I was, participating in a dynamic reduced to something stranger than strangers.During our brief exchange, I tried to explain my ambivalence. I had anticipated seeing her, yet I was torn between wanting to reconnect and giving her space. The ambivalence was compounded by resentment over her betrayal and my enduring care. Even in that fleeting moment, seeing her eyes and smile struck me deeply. Soon, *N* disappeared into the NYFF crowd. I was left alone, momentarily aware that the nearby halal cart owner had witnessed the encounter. *V* returned, explaining they had left us space, and offered water to help me process what happened. As we walked, I shared my lingering ambivalence: the fear that my resentments might surface, her past fear that I could hurt her, and my own need to prove I was not what she had feared. Yet if *N* had been with *P*, I can’t say whether resentment would have resurfaced or remained contained. When *V* offered to check on their own whether *N* had been waiting in line for the same theater we were headed to, I suggested we go together instead. Later, I told them why--partly because I wanted to see if she was watching another film with *P*. I still can’t fully grasp what happened six months ago, or what unfolded during those six months--how I had been, in effect, replaced by *P*. We didn't see her, yet the prior encounter left me paralyzed by returning memories and wounds. I reflected on the unfairness: despite betrayal, I remained open to reconciliation, whereas *N*, *C*, and *K* had discarded what we had built together.Eventually, we returned to standby for the Little Boy screening. *E* arrived, and I spent the remaining wait discussing films with him, joined by his acquaintances and strangers drawn into the conversation. It was strange how interconnected these Letterboxd cinephile circles could be. *V* stayed mostly silent, experiencing stomach pain, though I appreciated their openness to watching works like those of Oshima and Benning. Sitting between *V* and *E*, I noticed *T* in the same row and waved. The ambivalence from my encounter with *N* shaped how I engaged with the film, prompting reflections on what it means to be a “little boy”--to remain a perpetual learner, grappling with experiences and memory. I thought of my younger self: would he be proud of who I’ve become? Before the screening, *V* had remarked that I seemed like a good person, but I was unsure, weighed down by reactions to *N*’s actions six months prior. I realized that, despite despair, my younger self would not be disappointed--perhaps he would even offer comfort.After the screening came the Q&A with Benning. He was sarcastic, personable, and engaging. The session was long but energizing, with *E* asking a thoughtful question about the music in the film. Once it ended, *V*, *E*, his acquaintances, and I chatted briefly outside the theater. I introduced *V* to *T*, who was with her friends, before we headed to my car. We parked and took a nighttime walk through their neighborhood, then returned to their apartment, where they prepared apple cider for a fundraiser. I sat nearby, watching the process unfold, their cats weaving playfully between us.During this whole time after the screening, we talked extensively about relationships, both romantic and platonic, though some conversations lingered more than others. *V* knew that *N* and I had been open during the final months of our relationship--a decision grounded in trust--but they weren’t familiar with *N*’s history with *A* prior to *N* knowing me. When I mentioned that her involvement with *A* had been with a man already in a committed relationship, *V* hesitated, prefacing an apology in case they overstepped. Even so, as soon as I shared the detail, I also realized the continuity of *N*’s romantic memories in ways I hadn’t fully grasped before: infidelity was part of the picture, though I hadn’t deeply engaged with it because of my own empathetic stance toward people navigating such entanglements. That empathy had been part of the reason I was open to forgiving *N*, though that openness was deeply fractured during our last in-person conversation, when I learned far more about the circumstances and the cruelty embedded in her choices. And yet, despite all this, I still wait for the possibility of reconciliation, even as part of me resents that she has closed that door--an acknowledgement that I may never be part of her life again.Sometime before our relationship became open, *N* apologized for the way she repeatedly made comments about another man in front of me and others, which had made me uncomfortable because of how she carried herself while doing it. In that moment--what she called a “fucked up” way--she said she better understood *A*’s perspective, why he had developed feelings for her despite being committed. I had asked if she would consider reconnecting with *A* as a means of reconciliation; she refused. I couldn’t help but feel a measure of pity for *A*, particularly because *N* had decided to remove herself from his life even after acknowledging his perspective. It had taken her over four years to arrive at this understanding. I wonder if the same would happen for me. Even then, the ambivalence lingers: she might continue refusing to speak to me even if she fully recognizes how cruel, painful, and devastating her actions were; part of me thinks she already does, and that her refusal may in part stem from guilt. Though I am also guilty of my own mistakes; that is partly why I still want to reconcile.I shared with *V* that part of the ambivalence I felt about being open stemmed from *N*’s previous relationship. From the start of ours, we had discussed openness, but for various reasons we stayed monogamous. Only later, as our relationship had developed and certain circumstances arose, I asked if she’d be comfortable opening it. She had asked to open her previous relationship to explore her sexuality, and he had refused. My consent to openness was shaped partly by fear: had we never opened our relationship, I worried she might have eventually left me. Now that she has--and effectively replaced me with *P*--I am unsure how to process those choices--not to deny the authenticity of my interest in openness, but to question whether the outcome was inevitable. I recognized my own mistakes: words and actions that, though reactive to profound betrayal, caused irreparable harm. I still hold that my responses were the most human ones she could have expected, yet in the larger pattern, it hardly matters. I am left with a persistent resentment--despite the wounds I’ve carried, despite still being open to reconciliation.I told *V* that these experiences make me cautious, hesitant to trust new people, though *V* seemed to share similar patterns in past friendships. Perhaps that is part of why we connected so easily. I admitted feeling guilty about maintaining a sarcastic, jovial presence around *E*, his acquaintances, and *T*, as if it contradicted the transparency I strive for--though I had long accepted the multiplicity of faces one carries across public, private, and personal spheres. I also told *V* that another friend had once remarked that, after knowing me for some time and watching me banter and riff with others--lifting the mood around me--she sensed a deep undercurrent of melancholy beneath it all. I thanked her for noticing, because while that cheerful side is part of me, the melancholy runs through the core of who I am. She was the third person to recognize it without me saying a word--*N* was another--and I think that insight is part of why our relationship had grown so deeply. Back then, I felt a rare combination of happiness and confidence, in both what I could do and what we could do together. Now, I’m not so sure. I think the little boy I once was wouldn’t be disappointed; he would probably offer a hug.The more time I spent with *V*, the more I felt some lightness returning, yet as soon as I started driving back, the memory of seeing *N* came rushing back. She stood there, radiant in the setting sun, crystallizing the ambivalence I had carried: despite the accumulation of resentment and the swings of emotion, seeing her again, even for a moment, was the happiest I had felt in months, even as the sadness lingered. I remembered one of her happiest recollections of us: a Chinatown evening, Fall 2022. We had stopped on a street corner, and I held her in a warm, wholehearted hug. I had wanted to give her that same hug when I saw her today.
