Solaris (1972)

Andrei Tarkovsky is not an easy director to watch. Having seen only one of his later films, Stalker, I knew what I was getting into with Solaris: long tracking shots, sparse, mainly philosophical dialogue, and an extremely slow, meditative pace. I had mixed feelings about Stalker, but now I realize that was probably due to the fact that my roommates were talking in the background for much of the film, and I was distracted. To fully appreciate Tarkovsky’s films, one must be completely immersed as much of the beauty extends from the minimalist music and hypnotic camerawork.

Solaris is often called the Soviet answer to 2001: A Space Odyssey and it is easy to see why. Both films concern themselves with the future of mankind and the logical extension of man into the cosmos, and are stylistically similar. However, while 2001 is mostly about technological advancement and the idea of humans conquering space, Solaris is much more personal, focusing on the human psyche.

The plot concerns a psychologist, Kris, who is departing for a space station orbiting a planet called Solaris to investigate the inhabitant’s supposed madness. Before departing, he is shown a video of man who has become deeply disturbed by what he saw when his ship descended into the planet’s ocean. Upon arriving at the station, he finds it to be eerily desolate and deserted. He discovers that one of the three inhabitants has committed suicide for unknown reasons. One of the strongest aspects of the film was the depiction of the events inside the space station. There is a mysterious, creepy aura as the plot slowly unfolds, and a constant feeling of anxiety as the true nature of Solaris is revealed.

The ocean of Solaris is a consciousness of its own that has the ability to read the inhabitant’s minds and build a physical being based on the images. The shots of the pulsating ocean itself look incredibly advanced for their time, and are really unnerving. Eventually, Solaris causes Kris’s dead wife to reappear on the ship, and he attempts to kill her twice to no avail. One of the other inhabitants remarks that Kris should be glad that someone significant from his past has appeared, rather than something that is just a figment of his imagination, which would be pretty terrifying. Kris came to the station to investigate the others, but eventually he is overtaken by his own emotions as he deals with his wife, who in reality is just composed of neutrinos. Tarkovsky is excellent at depicting Kris’s psychological trauma and Bach’s minimalist score is perfect. The final shot of the film is incredibly thought provoking and shocking.

Some may accuse Solaris of being a boring film, and it is true that you need to be a patient person or in the right mood to watch it, but it is incredibly rewarding in the end. It addresses big themes such as loneliness, isolation, and man’s place in the Universe (best summed up by the quote “We have no ambition to conquer any cosmos. We just want to extend Earth up to the Cosmos's borders. We don't want any more worlds. Only a mirror to see our own in. We try so hard to make contact, but we're doomed to failure. We look ridiculous pursuing a goal we fear and that we really don't need. Man needs man!”).

9/10