In The Molly Maguires: the opening shot, a deeply zoomed picture of the sun, then has the camera slowly pan and reverse zoom so that the monolithic, artificially looming buildings of the mine suddenly barge into the frame, and the camera continues to move, scanning the apparatus of the mine until the composition rests on the tingling, twanging, taut wire suspended down in the pit, the machine link to both the coal and the men inside, to get them out. From heaven to hell in a single pan of space, a horrible indication of things to come.
In Politist, Adjectiv: that long, long shot of our detective sitting in the waiting room of his captain's office while the captain reads over his report, and we watch the secretary type and type. It goes on forever and is tragic and hilarious, and devilishly patient and detailed.
In Ne change rien: Balibar being taught how to sing. Her mouth agape, ready to sing but not singing yet; the instructor's constant interruptions, the inability to really get into a song and instead focus on minute, tripping details that will make up the whole, beautiful thing which we never hear in the film.
In Yuki & Nina: Yuki (Noë Sampy), of course.
In Like You Know It All: the way our hero lights his cigarettes, fingers clutched tight around his lighter like a fist.
In Mother: I can't spoil the marvelous final shot, so instead let's say the kinetic, and narratively random first reel of the film, full of unmotivated car accidents, golf course ambushes, and police confrontations. Bong couldn't be a more thrilling director to watch.
In Kinatay: The feeling—though not the reality—of watching dawn slowly break in real time in this dark, dark film's final moments. Could there be anything more beautiful and fundamental to cinema than watching light?