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Our Quartermaster kicks at the doors above and like a hundred sweating rats, the crew climb from their hammocks and onto their feet and face the day’s work. I climb up also, with stiff limbs and a dull ache in the bones of my chest, and haul Peter to his feet. He cannot die there, on the floor. He cannot die like this, not yet.
Here, subtlety is nowhere to be found. If there is even the faintest hint of tension, the sky erupts. Rain, thunder, lightning. Again and again. And again. Any symbolism that might have emerged naturally is instead bludgeoned into the viewer. The film doesn’t trust you to notice meaning; it insists on screaming it at you.
I remember being eighteen or nineteen years old, alone in my room, awake until the early hours of the morning, poring over video after video of debris and smoke and people falling from the sky and different angles of collisions and flames and collapsing buildings
