Kamakshi

The opening credits are a lurid mixture of reds and yellows on a black background, the English in a font that's reminiscent of badly translated action movies, vertically presented, nigh illegible. It creates a very specific sense of time and place but not one that's recognisable, like a newspaper dated for the 41st of Brutus. Over the top we hear a woman and a man in heated conversation, but that too is not a clue, strong language, raised voices, a specific moment shorn of context.

What follows is a landscape - a clay pot falls, unheeded, from the back of a cart, drily smashing on the baked surface of the road. A woman, a girl, a recalcitrant horse. A hole, or a space now-filled where a hole will be. What time is it? What is time? Is it time?

There are moments crisp and stark and captivating - heptagonal tokens drawn from a hiding place, a boat that is at once upright and rendered inverted by the water stored in its unsunk hull, a gnawing and clawing at the earth, the sudden return of colour.

Those questions again - what time is it? What is time? Is it time? Is it worth your time? To that last one, and others, perhaps. Executed crisply it raises more questions than it should consider answering, and in the creation of mystery achieves something intriguing, not quite fabulous.