Air turned into poetry. Such a well done atmosphere here, every shot feels carved in silence. The fog, the fabric, the flicker of a candle, all moving with this impossible precision that never feels staged. The story hides in gestures, in glances and the Distance between space, the whole thing feels like a memory that is slipping through your fingers. You're not guided through anything here, you're placed inside it. You're left to breathe in the rhythm of a dying dynasty. For a film called the assassin the violence is sparse but when it's there it hits like thunder because everything is so still. The camera just watches, it doesn't chase. Every movement choreographed against its nature. Less a martial arts film than it is a meditation dressed as one, a world where restraint says far more than action ever could. Caught somewhere between the atmosphere of Wong Kar Wai and Park Chan Wook's precision lays this film.
Air turned into poetry. Such a well done atmosphere here, every shot feels carved in silence. The fog, the fabric, the flicker of a candle, all moving with this impossible precision that never feels staged. The story hides in gestures, in glances and the Distance between space, the whole thing feels like a memory that is slipping through your fingers. You're not guided through anything here, you're placed inside it. You're left to breathe in the rhythm of a dying dynasty. For a film called the assassin the violence is sparse but when it's there it hits like thunder because everything is so still. The camera just watches, it doesn't chase. Every movement choreographed against its nature. Less a martial arts film than it is a meditation dressed as one, a world where restraint says far more than action ever could. Caught somewhere between the atmosphere of Wong Kar Wai and Park Chan Wook's precision lays this film.
