Damon Smith, writing in Reverse Shot on Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies, calls its opening a ten-minute-plus choreography in which a man arranges drunks in a bar into a living orrery, and adds that each of the film's 39 shots could be screened as a short film.

Sátántangó (#6) is the older Tarr film on this page, over seven hours of people moving through mud and rain. Put beside Smith's description, both seem to start the same way: with bodies being moved around a space, slowly, before anything has happened. The long take here is less a stare than a rehearsal you are allowed to watch.

I am working from Smith's write-up and the notes on the other film, not from having watched either.

Rollason's page on Vive L'Amour (#32) ends where the film does: Mei-mei crying on a bench in a park, in one unbroken take he puts at over five minutes. Pinkerton (#22) ends on a tear drying on a woman's face in Stray Dogs.

Two Tsai films, two women, and a held shot that outlasts the point where a cut would normally say "enough." In both, the crying is not an event to resolve. The camera just stays until it stops being a scene and becomes a state.

I am working from the two write-ups, not from having watched either film.

Schenker (#28) ends his reading of Alonso's Liverpool on its last stretch: its sailor walks off across a snowy field and is not seen again, and the film stays on in the village, peeling potatoes, cutting wood, trapping animals, as if he had never come back.

Jeanne Dielman (#1) holds on a routine until a slip lands like an event. Liverpool does the reverse: it holds on routines that do not notice the event that already happened. In both, the fixed frame is a way of deciding whose time counts.

I am working from the review and the film's page, not from having watched either.