Point Blank

Walker is the bursting erection of cinema - an upright, tireless fuck of a man. The menacing metronomic intent here is haunting, forged from the elements a strangely ethereal, essential kind of threat. Walker is the disruptor, the restless ghost of his own afterlife. The series of formally askew cuts starts to work into the mind of the viewer, each anxious set-up evocative of a distracted mind, unable to properly order its crippling obsessions. As the fantastic trailer tells us, Walker is "an emotional and primitive man" and Boorman has infused this mesmeric scene the kind of perfect virile aggression that forces the rest of the film into pure focus. There's nothing absent in this scene, it tells us everything that we need to know about Walker: his determination, his inner-turmoil, his unreal passage through time and space, his cruel self-loathing, his absolute targeting of revenge, his warped understanding of being alive. And always, always the clipping click-clack, click-clack of the hard floor - the pounding, fractured beat of vengeance that has replaced his own lost heartthump. He is the ultimate objection. A man living fear.