3+ The crispy, strange, enmeshing magic of a Woodman film. Black trees inflexible like dug up sleep-gelled roots or shodō on a scroll. In winter life descends with Proserpine, its grains flow down the arboreal clepsydrae to bloom and fragrate underneath. Here above the frozen eggshell we're unaware we're underworld's underworld, underground's hibernal, ghost-ridden Subterraneum sprung from a Конст. Калинович etching.