With charity stomped into the stitches of his fleece, Fahey takes on two young apprentices for this filmic endeavour. A.J., a rather cute science major, provides a great function by doing the minor technical tasks that are but a besmirchment on Fahey’s ‘to do’ list. Philip, a strip joint enthusiast, radiates the requisite stupidity to allow for long disclosures about what all these chemistry symbols might signify in the right lighting. Together they form a smooth pavement of comic relief for Fahey to walk on, assuaging excessive tensions as the group traverses a five-inch thick ledge in subfreezing temperatures. They also act as a welcome counterpart to the token Evil Corporate Guy, a man who cares not how many cars are being blown away outside by large CGI bubbles.

“No warning. No time. No escape,” reads the DVD cover of Absolute Zero, to which I’d like to add: “But plenty of Fahey.” There it is, the crux of the film, and perhaps the crux also of life: three negations, in turn negated by the presence of Fahey. This is not merely some sordid analogy, far from it. It’s truly indicative of Fahey’s omniscience that he can mollify the fiery palpitations of a treble No, not simply disarming them of their pain-inducing facilities, but also transmogrifying them into something altogether better. By assimilating the negations, Fahey is able to remind us that we are but a speck of dust floating down his corneas, his stature standing proud as the fulcrum of existence, doing so once again through the profound tonalities of his cinematic sculptures.