Blockbusters seem faster and more furious than ever, and not just because producers are desperate to slipstream the success of Vin Diesel’s tyre-screeching franchise. Even as baseline running times have sailed past two hours, the majority of would-be tentpole movies seem resolutely anti-downtime, charging through their story beats in flurries of frantic editing and punch-drunk action.
In a year of aggravating assaults such as the fantasy mish-mash tosh of King Arthur, the heavy-metal headache of a fifth Transformers film and Kingsman’s caffeinated, cartwheeling sequel, the languid pace of Blade Runner 2049 stands out like 2001’s monolith: a mesmerising reminder of cinema’s capacity to instil awe. At one point it is revealed how the latest replicants are “born”, splurging from suspended sacs filled with amniotic fluid. Denis Villeneuve and his cinematographer Roger Deakins seem to have agreed on a similarly immersive approach, practically drowning viewers in visual immensity.
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