"Seasons" is by no means the sort of cinema disgruntled with regular seeing faculties, resolved on leaking out a world inscrutable with naked eye, on sectioning elementary motion or sewing up chimeras. Piavoli's sober style says "Snow is white" when snow is white & "Grapes, women, waterfalls are ripe" when they irradiate most plenty, but the result is untangling Pavesian poetry, not a lecture on correspondence truth.
How could Piavoli, in so few footage, sequence the 4 seasons with such "natural" articulation, with such fluid form? Capabilities of a narrator of the world, whose spaces and different times are continued in film limited spatiality and temporality. Sometimes it seems that the perceptual poesis of Margaret Tait comes in and involves, with its serenity, "the movement of things".A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.