A Visual Scene

This is the first scene of a movie. The scene is almost entirely visual and I was once told it would be a good exercise to write a scene like this. I also tried to keep out as much interiority as possible. Let me know what you think in comments and let me know if you know what movie its from too. 

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     A gaping expanse of dirt and dying plants focuses down on a large hole in the ground. It's quiet, with only the whine of an injured animal ringing our over a small wood structure set up over the large, black hole.

In the hole, he picks away at the rock, digging deeper. The small dark lights up around the point of the pick with each strike. The dust from the rock fills the air. He breaks the rocks like he is digging a grave, he breaks them with purpose. He digs with that purpose for hours.

     The man stops digging only to sharpen the blunt point of the pick. He drags the sharpening tool across the pick like he has a thousand times before. He has always been sharpening this pick, tempering it against the rocks and making his way.
     The man spends his nights next to a fire, underneath an unending sheet of stars. He keeps the fire going while he is awake. If he is lucky, it will keep its warmth through the night.
     In the hole, the man picks at the walls with a rhythm. But his rhythm quickly breaks today. The rock caves easy to his pick as it moves faster against the wall. He slips a stick of dynamite into the space he has made. His tools in a bucket and rigged to be pulled back to the surface, he lights he fuse.
     Out of the hole, he pulls himself up onto the I beam reaching across the top of the hole and hops back onto the surface. The rope attached to the bucket runs up out of the hole and down a small decline outside the hole. He grabs it, wrapping it around his right arm and pulls.
     All of his weight into the rope gets the bucket off the ground a bit, the bucket wobbles, and falls back to the floor of the pit. He gets the rope a bit tighter around his arm and pulls again. The small flame is running along the fuse, getting closer to the dynamite while he pulls. The weight of the bucket keeps him from being able to return it to the surface.
     The pop is sudden but muted by the depth of the hole. Dust rises like the smoke from a locomotive.
     Moving back to the hole, he eases himself back onto the ladder leading down. His hands clamber down the rungs. He grabs each one as he lowers himself into the hole. About twenty feet from the bottom, one of these rungs slips out from the ladder, sending him quickly to the bottom.
     He wakes with a hard, long breath. The air rushes back into him through the rock and the dust. He pulls himself up to sit against one of the walls of the pit. He digs through some of the rubble from the blast. The rock shimmers a bit, even through the dust and dirt covering it.
     “There she is.” He spits the rock and wipes at it, “There she is.”
     He tucks the rock into his shirt. The rope holding the stubborn bucket hangs down like a noose from the small bit of light above. He grabs it, pulling himself up. His leg is broken. He pulls himself up on the rope and leverages his weight against the wall to reach the ladder.
     The climb out of the hole is long, but he is able to manage up the remaining rungs of the ladder with the rock tight against his chest. He tumbles out onto the bright sand upon reaching the top. The air is fresh. An animal cries out and echos around the canyon.