Boorman's filmmaking is so willfully versatile that it indeed comes off odd in early viewings. Associative cutting clashes with immersive longshots, montage-ellipsis against discrete movements, and some of the strangest ADR ever recorded glueing sequences in wholes. The pacing doubly so; we skim across history through moments, but also engage in critical movements of plot, as if the rulebooks of narrative plotting have been jettisoned in favor of a fealty to the ideas within. It's almost amusing how clunky some…
"I always wondered to what extent the artist aims to depict the reality of a scene. Painters capture only one frame of reality and nothing before or after it." - Kiarostami
Each "frame" its own treatise on the possibility of the image; its discrete image, those of its centering moments, and the larger canvas of cinema, Kiarostami flowing motifs through the frames that creates a whole surprisingly diverse in the tones contained: unease, rapture, meditative peace, even humor. Composited layers…
"How will we make it?"
"Maybe we shouldn't."
Fire and ice, blue and red, flares and snow. Carpenter fine tunes the formalism of his previous films to something absolute, pure (before branching outwards). The film has no fat, every shot creating atmosphere, building dread, sustaining an unbearable tension between bodies and the spaces they inhabit (as well as other bodies). In daylight, the Antarctic expanse is forbidding, rigid, sharp, but when night falls it becomes an abyss. Figures, rendered silhouettes…
The way Coogler judges how long to hold on faces for a first date, or edit footage of Apollo at Adonis' most (physically) desperate moment, or have Stallone react to a photo of him and his real son; it's all of an intimately felt emotional register, quiet but also triumphant like the preceding franchise. A small (therefore big) miracle of story and people craft in Hollywood's most souless age. Fought back tears throughout.