Fisher Stevens slowly skitching down a steam-blanketed alley & grabbing a floppy disk is a highlight of 90s cinema

& it’s all still skipping out into the chromatic

An exercise in loose interpretation that I couldn't turn away from, the static flecks & uncertain cycles of this film flow with an ease of attention. Light is slow to shift through layers of colour & the film's snowy 'corruption', though it does so with an ambigious grace that gestures toward half-remembered starscapes & the lamps of a highway pitstop without discordance. To be honest, I found it more comforting than felt intended, as it never quite touches on the dread of slow corruption or fading memory that the rising movements of its drone soundtrack suggest.