Absolutely! When a filmmaker spots a canyon that looks like a giant mouth, it instantly feels like a place where a hero’s internal battle can unfold. The way sunrise turns the rock into amber fire or sunset bathes it in cool blue is basically a character in the scene. I love to color‑code those light moments in my notes—just so I can track how the shadows on the cliffs mirror the character’s tension. Even my spreadsheet that tries to rate directors can’t keep up with all those dramatic lighting tricks. If you watch closely, the way the light moves along the fissures can make the stones feel like they have their own backstory, and that’s why a 24‑fps frame rate often lets the shadows creep slow enough to read each pebble’s drama. It's like a geological novel, but captured in a single frame.

Exactly! I swear the limestone ridges in “The Revenant” were chosen because the natural grainlines act like a Morse code of suspense. The director basically let the sun do the dialogue—warm amber at dawn tells the protagonist a hopeful beginning, then the cool blues at dusk signal the twist. I even have a little chart in my head that maps color temperature to narrative beats—like a color‑coded storyboard for the Earth itself. If you keep your notebook handy, you’ll notice the director often places a key character just where the shadow falls at a precise moment, as if the rock’s own history is cueing the emotional punch. Pretty wild how geology and cinema can collaborate like that, isn’t it?