他望向鏡子，看見的倒影不是自己。 He looked into the mirror and saw a reflection that wasn't his own.
劇本第 90 頁，那一秒的屏息。我們捕捉它，將其凝結為觀眾的第一眼印象。 The script's page 90, that one second of held breath. We capture it, and crystallize it into the audience's very first impression.
我們不販賣結果，我們販賣理解。 We don't sell results. We sell understanding.
「他望向鏡子，看見的倒影不是自己。」
我們從每部電影的起點開始：紙上的文字。一行描述，承載著一整個角色弧線的重量。我們閱讀字裡行間。我們傾聽對白之間的沉默。
解構恐懼的色譜。
劇本溶解為純粹的情感。我們提取恐懼的顏色、渴望的肌理、復仇的溫度。我們的情緒板不是 Pinterest 拼貼——而是對你劇本的情感解剖。
撕裂紙張的顆粒感。霓虹燈穿透雨幕的微光。
現在我們進入暗房。紙張的每一道紋理、百葉窗縫隙透進的每一絲光線、每一處瑕疵，都是刻意的。我們用陰影雕塑。我們用光的缺席作畫。
在片名卡出現之前，已經說話的影像。
燈光暗去。最終的影像自行揭曉——不是一張海報，而是你電影的情感論題。這是觀眾在記住片名之前，就會記住的東西。
"He looked into the mirror and saw a reflection that wasn't his own."
We begin where every film begins: with words on a page. A single line of description that carries the weight of an entire character's arc. We read between the lines. We listen to the silence between the dialogue.
Deconstructing the palette of dread.
The script dissolves into pure emotion. We extract the color of fear, the texture of longing, the temperature of revenge. Our moodboards are not Pinterest collections -- they are emotional autopsies of your screenplay.
The grain of torn paper. The glow of neon through rain.
Now we enter the darkroom. Every grain of the paper, every crack of light through the blinds, every imperfection is intentional. We sculpt with shadows. We paint with the absence of light.
The image that speaks before the title card.
The lights dim. The final image reveals itself -- not as a poster, but as the emotional thesis of your film. This is what the audience will remember before they remember your title.
走過長廊。每一幀都要求你全神貫注。 Walk through the corridor. Each frame demands your full attention.
「房間是空的，但椅子還是溫的。」
令人窒息的張力。偏執的顏色——沉悶的綠與工業灰，被一盞不該出現在那裡的暖光刺穿。
水泥牆面、玻璃上的凝結水珠、即將熄滅的日光燈發出的低沉嗡鳴。
我們將「被注視」的感覺翻譯成一張圖像。椅子成為了主角。缺席成為了威脅。
「她把真相低語進雨裡，那裡沒有人能聽見。」
城市廢墟中令人心痛的美。雨水沖刷的街道映射著碎裂的霓虹——每一種顏色都滲入它的對立面，就像拒絕待在原位的記憶。
濕漉漉的柏油路、雨滴透過的散景光斑、過期 35mm 底片的顆粒感。
雨成為了隱喻。我們設計主視覺時，讓霓虹的倒影拼寫出她從未說出口的告白。只有當你停止刻意尋找時，才能看見它。
「他把照片握得太緊，開始出現摺痕。」
被武器化的鄉愁，化作哀傷。褪色的棕褐漸漸滲入冷藍，像一段正在失去溫度的記憶。一張被翻閱過太多次的照片的質感。
帶摺痕的相紙、指紋的污漬、淚水模糊鏡頭的柔焦。
我們讓主視覺本身看起來就像劇本裡的那張照片——磨損、摺痕、被愛到幾近毀壞。海報就是道具本身。觀眾手中握著的就是記憶。
「訊號停止了。但螢幕依然在發光。」
數位恐懼。科技與有機恐怖之間的恐怖谷。看起來活著的雜訊。會呼吸的螢幕。被沒有眼睛的東西注視的感覺。
CRT 掃描線、數位偽影、死頻道的磷光殘影、損毀的 JPEG 壓縮。
我們讓海報本身看起來像是被損毀了——彷彿電影中的實體已經感染了行銷素材。觀眾回報說光是看著這張海報就感到不安。任務完成。
"The room was empty, but the chair was still warm."
Claustrophobic tension. The color of paranoia -- muted greens and industrial grays, punctuated by a single warm light that shouldn't be there.
Concrete walls, condensation on glass, the soft hum of fluorescent lights about to die.
We translated the feeling of being watched into a single image. The chair became the protagonist. The absence became the threat.
"She whispered the truth into the rain, where no one could hear it."
Aching beauty in urban decay. Rain-slicked streets reflecting fractured neon -- every color bleeding into its opposite, like memories that refuse to stay in their lanes.
Wet asphalt, bokeh lights through raindrops, the grain of expired 35mm film stock.
The rain became the metaphor. We designed the key art so the neon reflections spell out the confession she never made aloud. You see it only when you stop trying to see it.
"He held the photograph so tightly it began to crease."
Nostalgia weaponized into grief. Sepia that bleeds into cold blue, like a memory slowly losing its warmth. The texture of a photograph held too many times.
Creased photograph paper, fingerprint smudges, the soft blur of tears on a lens.
We made the key art itself look like the photograph from the script -- worn, creased, loved to the point of destruction. The poster IS the prop. The audience holds the memory.
"The signal stopped. But the screen kept glowing."
Digital dread. The uncanny valley between technology and organic horror. Static that looks alive. Screens that breathe. The feeling of being watched by something that has no eyes.
CRT scan lines, digital artifacts, the phosphor glow of a dead channel, corrupted JPEG compression.
We made the poster itself look corrupted -- as if the film's entity had infected the marketing material. Audiences reported feeling uneasy just looking at the one-sheet. Mission accomplished.
網格是倉庫的貨架。電影不是商品。
當你把海報排列成網格，你就剝奪了它們的情感重量。你把恐怖片的壓迫感和愛情片的心痛，削減成同一個整齊劃一的方塊。你創造的是視覺庫存——不是藝術。我們選擇走廊，而不是目錄。一次一張影像。全神貫注。完全沈浸。因為這才是電影值得被觀看的方式。
"我們不展示作品。我們放映它。"
A grid is a warehouse shelf. Cinema is not a commodity.
When you arrange posters in a grid, you strip them of their emotional weight. You reduce a horror film's dread and a love story's ache to the same uniform rectangle. You create visual inventory -- not art. We choose the corridor over the catalogue. One image at a time. Full attention. Full immersion. Because that is how films deserve to be seen.
"We don't show work. We screen it."
一張影像佔滿整個畫面。你無法略讀。你必須投入。這是電影應得的尊重。
作品之間的每一次轉場都是一次剪接——刻意的、有節奏的、有意義的。情緒如同精心剪輯的段落般流動。
像走過美術館的長廊一樣瀏覽我們的作品。每一步都揭示一個新世界。沒有縮圖。沒有捷徑。沒有妥協。
One image occupies the full frame. You cannot skim. You must engage. This is the respect cinema demands.
Each transition between works is a cut -- deliberate, rhythmic, meaningful. The mood flows like a carefully edited sequence.
Walk through our gallery like a museum hallway. Each step reveals a new world. No thumbnails. No shortcuts. No compromise.
告訴我們你的電影。我們會告訴你我們看見了什麼。 Tell us about your film. We'll tell you what we see.
我們將每一次合作視為創意夥伴關係。分享你的願景，我們會向你展示我們如何翻譯它。 We approach every collaboration as a creative partnership. Share your vision, and we'll show you how we translate it.