This film opens with a beautiful scene: a speedboat, steered by a woman, races at high speed over the water. Behind it a water-skier, who suddenly crashes. The man wakes from a coma to discover that genealogists are looking for an individual whose identity matches his.
The fable: a young man - poet, scriptwriter and warrior - dies. How do you reconstruct the images in his brain? What do we see in our moment of death? Can the spirit understand the causes of death and clear a path for itself to another life? In what kind of form manifest these final images? Will they dazzle? A feast of lights? An invasion? As memories, hypotheses, assumptions? The magisterial expressiveness of Dharma Guns allows you to experience the impulses of optical nerves and synapses. F.J. Ossang has grafted the film onto the central nervous system, the very place where mental images are born. 'My eyes have drunk,' one hears in this worthy treatment of Antonin Artaud's expectations of cinema. Dharma Guns is constantly airborne, buzzing, pushing its way towards the isle of the dead. A masterpiece that slowly moves before our eyes, in the staggering slow-motion of certainty, into the company of Murnau's Nosferatu and Dreyer's Vampyr.
The fable: a young man - poet, scriptwriter and warrior - dies. How do you reconstruct the images in his brain? What do we see in our moment of death? Can the spirit understand the causes of death and clear a path for itself to another life? In what kind of form manifest these final images? Will they dazzle? A feast of lights? An invasion? As memories, hypotheses, assumptions? The magisterial expressiveness of Dharma Guns allows you to experience the impulses of optical nerves and synapses. F.J. Ossang has grafted the film onto the central nervous system, the very place where mental images are born. 'My eyes have drunk,' one hears in this worthy treatment of Antonin Artaud's expectations of cinema. Dharma Guns is constantly airborne, buzzing, pushing its way towards the isle of the dead. A masterpiece that slowly moves before our eyes, in the staggering slow-motion of certainty, into the company of Murnau's Nosferatu and Dreyer's Vampyr.