Solaris
I must admit that, when I realized that in reviewing Andrei Tarkovsky’s “Solaris,” I was completing my critical time with the great director’s films, I was saddened. Ever since I watched my first film of his, 1979’s “Stalker,” back in 1997, Tarkovsky’s work has meant a great deal to me as a fan of film, and as an individual. His explorations of the mysteries of humanity, and our neverending quest towards a higher level of spirituality, have etched themselves indelibly into my mind, and had a profound effect on my own journey through life.
Even though “Solaris” is, arguably, his most accessible film, it’s also been one of my least favorite of his over the years; I’ve had very little interest in rewatching it over the years. However, in rewatching all of Tarkovsky’s films for these reviews, his deepest artistic intents have shown through, and my opinions of even those films that were toughest to watch on first pass (“Ivan’s Childhood,” “The Sacrifice”) have only increased as I’ve become more familiar with his aesthetic interests (not only in watching his films, but in reading his book Sculpting in Time). Would the same happen with “Solaris?”
The film is based on a novel by the Polish writer, Stanislaw Lem. However, the film has always been considered as Tarkovsky’s answer to Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey,” which he found cold and sterile. He does have a point, but I think even Tarkovsky must have admired Kubrick’s audacity of vision, and how he refused to bow to conventional storytelling, and challenge the ways humans expand their thinking of the universe; after all, the only reason to answer someone else’s questions is because you have your own, creating a dialogue. That this particular dialogue takes place between films (and I would consider Tarkosvky’s other science fiction film, “Stalker,” as part of the conversation, as well, since it also has much in common with “2001”) means that anyone in the world can take part in it, like Steven Spielberg did when he filmed Kubrick’s “unfinished” sci-fi movie, “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” and Steven Soderbergh and James Cameron did when they did their own version of “Solaris” in 2002.
Onto the substance of the film itself, though. The film begins with a scene taking place at a country home between Kelvin (Donatas Banionis), a psychologist, and a cosmonaut, Burton (Vladislav Dvorzketsky). Burton has come back to Earth after spending many months on a Russian space station circling the planet of Solaris. He refuses to make missions exploring the planet’s oceanic surface after he has a troubling encounter searching for another cosmonaut who has disappeared. Kelvin is asked to make a trip to investigate the happenings on the space station, where he finds one crew member dead, and two more who have isolated themselves, troubled by the events that have taken place. It isn’t long before Kelvin is confronted by some troubling things, as well; namely, a vision of his dead wife, Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk). If that weren’t disturbing enough, though, this vision is very real, in every way, except that it lacks Hari’s memories beyond what Kelvin knew about her. The only thing about Hari this visitor, or “Guest,” as the film calls it, does not know, that Kelvin does, is that the real Hari killed herself. See Hari again, and being able to communicate with her again, awakens the grief Kelvin has felt since her death in a truly profound way, as we see him try to understand what is going on, as well as make peace with himself over the way things ended with Hari.
As with many of Tarkovsky’s films, “Solaris” is long; none of that relatively brisk 95 minutes for “Ivan’s Childhood” or 106 minutes for “The Mirror” here. “Solaris,” at 165 minutes, is a full-blown epic, in every sense of the word. However, like his criminally underrated “Stalker,” it’s focus is profoundly intimate. Although the film has stunning sights and evocative sounds– like every other Tarkovsky film, you hardly need dialogue to be completely transfixed by the film –the personal story is what matters. This is one of the most unique love stories in cinematic history, and not just because it actually explores the notions of love itself, whether we love the person, or just our idea of the person. This is about the nature of relationships in general, and of about our ideas about reality. The dialogue by Tarkovsky and Fridrikh Gorenshtein is very dry, and sometimes pretentiously philosophical, but is spoken with feeling and fascination by the cast, who give us an emotional anchor Kubrick lacked in “2001,” but Tarkovsky deemed essential in every film he made.
There’s also a spiritual aspect to the film, which is what ultimately places it firmly in the framework of Tarkovsky’s filmmography. What the director is ultimately exploring, which I didn’t realize until I was watching the scene where Kelvin, “Hari,” Snaut (Yuri Yarvet), and Sartorius (Anatoly Solonitsyn) gather together in a study on the space station, is the idea of what happens to the soul when we die, and do the memories of those we leave behind contribute to our prolonged, spiritual survival? Hari, as she is when she comes to Kelvin, is a reflection of Kelvin’s memories of her, but as the film progresses, and she spends more time with Kelvin, she seems to learn, to grow, and to become more…real, even if the science considered by Sartorius says otherwise. Every time one Hari dies, whether it’s Kelvin’s initial attempt to rid himself of this Guest, or her later attempts, mirroring her real-life counterpart, after she is told of the real Hari’s fate, she is resurrected, in the same way our dearly departed loved ones seem to return, or live, when we think about them. What ultimately assures “Hari’s” destruction is her lack of that most important thing we’ve been given from God…free will. The more aware she becomes, the more obvious it is that she will never be human, but will be forced to play out the same scenario over and again…unless Kelvin can stop it. This leads to a conclusion that throws everything we thought we knew about the film out the window, and try to uncover the truth of not only what Kelvin has experienced, but what we’ve experienced in Tarkovsky’s probing film.
So, now that I’ve seen it again, have my feelings about “Solaris” changed? Yes. Like Tarkovsky’s other films, we are rewarded from returning to them, contemplating them, and not only experiencing them with with our minds, but letting them enter our hearts, and challenge our ideas of not only what cinema is capable of, but about how we live our lives. If these are the last words I’m to write about Tarkovsky’s cinema (probably not, but in case they are), I can’t think of a more fitting way to end my time as a film critic with his movies.
