A Hidden Visual Splendour

9.5/10 stars – “Solaris/Солярис”

One of the most ridiculous things about western science fiction has always been the essential relatability of the “aliens”. The aliens are not only often physically similar but even when they’re bug-eyes, they speak English and think much as we do. Biologically, this makes no sense whatsoever.

You will find none of this pap in Solaris, in-fact it is difficult to conceive of how the films plural alien could be any less human. The “alien” are an ocean, actually, on a distant planet called Solaris, which not only doesn’t speak English, but seems to have no language at all and to act in apparently random or at least highly incomprehensible ways.

Shortly before embarking on photography for his 1972 science fiction film, Solaris film-maker Andrei Tarkovsky had opportunity to see Stanley Kubrick’s famous 2001: A Space Odyssey, being a man of impeccable taste, he hated it.

People often, therefore, compare 2001 and Solaris even styling the latter as the “Soviet-2001”. This is quite unfair, the film stands on its own and to view it through the lens of a totally different film-maker, operating with different goals is to beg misunderstanding.

In spite of its science-fiction weirdness, and the truly alien alien, Solaris focuses on empathetic people and cognizable human emotions and downplays hard science-fiction themes in favor of more useful, but no less non-traditional techniques.

Solaris, though is not a quick paced thriller by any means. It is not only long by modern standards—two and a half hours—but the pace is very slow. Tarkovsky takes his time setting things up, filling us in on past events introducing characters, driving aimlessly about Tokyo (seriously). This is not a film for the PlayStation generation, no little degree of heed is indicated.

We start with a man, Kris Kelvin, visiting his Father’s dacha, the day before he is due to blast off to inquire into the situation aboard Solaris Station. The idyllic scenes of nature are a violent contrast to the later, grubby futurism of Solaris Station and it’s equally disheveled crew.

Naturalism and Scientism are violently contrasted

The emphasis on natural beauty over techno-wizardry and dazzlingly artificed special effects is the hidden visual splendour of Solaris that so many western critics missed upon the films first release here. This is partially a result of the unwise decision by the U.S. distributors to play up the film as a Soviet answer to 2001, a film perhaps over-reliant upon dazzlingly artificed special effects and techno-wizardry.

The viewers ability to enjoy the film will be indicated by his tolerance of the prolonged exposition. Indeed, a large part of the introduction is taken up with the arrival of retired space-pilot, Burton, who proceeds to screen a surprisingly long film of himself as a younger man.

This film fills us in on past events and introduces the key idea of Solaris, that the oceans of the titular planet have a mysterious ability to influence the minds of human beings, and that the ways that it do so tend to be unsettling or overtly grotesque ways. Whether Solaris is trying to communicate, trying to defend itself against a perceived threat or doing something else entirely, is always unclear.

The viewer must pay careful attention as there are so many little details that are very important, indeed a second viewing of this film is needed to fully appreciate the skillful workmanship. The intricate symbolism and iconography of the film is at times rather breathtaking

The space-station itself, of course, is where the real action takes place. Tarkovsky beautifully gets us into Kelvin’s head, allowing us to feel his frustration and confusion by intentionally frustrating and confusing us. The first few scenes on the station are rather disorienting and weird. What is going on here? we, and Kelvin, are thinking.

Kelvin arrives to a seemingly abandoned station, only two cosmonauts remain, his friend Gibarian has already committed suicide and the remaining crew-members are in terrible shape. In addition, Kelvin catches glimpses of other people, people who cannot possibly be present.

“Hallo? Anyone Home?”

The first scientist, Snaut, is in complete psychological wreckage, seemingly terrified of an unexplained, half-seen person lying in a hammock in his quarters. The information Snaut provides is incoherent and unhelpful. Sartorious is little better, he reads a laundry-list of Kelvin’s supposed faults to him, makes a number of miscellaneous remarks, is openly rude, and also has an unexplained, and rather gruesome, visitor.

Snaut’s warning to not lose his cool if he sees something unusual is hardly reassuring and Kelvin barricades himself into his room to watch a video-taped suicide-note from Gibarian. This message is confusing as equally as everything else.

This is one of many scenes shot in black and white, in an otherwise color film. This is very jarring to those not used to the technique and although it works well in this scene, in others… it seems highly random.

Kelvin awakes, in brilliant color, to find that his dead wife is sitting in his room and reacts rather badly to this singularly alarming event, now Kelvin has his own visitor and the film really begins to take off.

Natalya Bondarchuk as Hari

The drama of Solaris arises from the dynamics relating to the interaction between the “visitors” and the cosmonauts, and each other. While we are shown very little of Snaut’s and Sartorious’s visitors, much is to be inferred and it is quite clear that these apparitions have been psychologically and morally (and perhaps physically?) harmful to them, Snaut in particular.

The symbolism and story also becomes increasingly allusive, and occasionally dense, as the film progresses, with several very difficult scenes which consist of nothing except close-ups of paintings and views of engravings from books. The narrative also unexpectedly dashes off down the seemingly irrelevant rabbit-trail of “celebrating”, rather haphazardly, Snaut’s birthday. The birthday thread is not as random as it seems, of course, but this is, again, not a development conceived with the PlayStation generation in mind, its importance is not immediately clear.

Although he starts out as a nearly emotionless, robotic man (and treats the new Hari accordingly), Kelvin warms to her, although he remains unnerved by the power of the planet to delve into his past this way. Kelvin harbours much grief and guilt from the past events that led to the original Hari’s death, he also clearly had an unhealthy relationship with his mother, whom had hated Hari.

Quite important is the fact that Hari knows no more about the original Hari than Kelvin does. She is not, strictly, Hari but a person who incorporates the essense of Kelvin’s perception of Hari.

The film explores the history of Kelvin’s relationship with the original Hari; Hari’s difficulties adjusting to suddenly being brought into existence; and her increasing autonomy from the “mind” in Solaris’s oceans, and from Kelvin; the relationships of Snaut and Sartorius, to each other and to Kelvin; and their attitudes towards Hari and their own “visitors”. All the while surrounded by images and icons that bring memories of The Earth to us, although we are far from it… circling a strange oceanic world.

This is the crux of the film, it’s not about aliens, or technology, or huge explosions. Instead, Solaris is a human drama, with elements of betrayal, loss, grief and redemption; with themes of environmentalism, the cost of scientific progress and nostalgia for The Earth. Rather than focus on the planet that we cannot understand, the visual language of the film is saturated with references to, reminders of Earth—the planet that defines us. Solaris is arguably not a science-fiction film.

The film ends on a quiet note, with much of Kelvin’s personal problems only partially resolved (in contradiction of the optimistic happily-ever-after endings Socialist Realism indicated). The ending is highly symbolic, with the obscurant references to paintings continuing, unabated

(L) a frame from the ending. (R) Rembrandt’s “The Return of the Prodigal Son” … Ah…

Tarkovsky is fond of odd edits and other developments designed to confuse and disorient us (and the characters). For example, immediately after a breathtakingly beautiful levitation scene, in which Hari and Kelvin glide serenely though the Library, surrounded by reminders of Earth, the single most shocking plot twist of the film occurs.

In spite of the jumps and jolts, the shooting is mostly of an intricately organic, naturalistic style which allows us to feel as if we were present in ways that few films do. The hand-held camera-work and the long cuts that can last for three to five minutes are as technically impressive as they are effective.

Tarkovsky breaks the naturalism of the photography near the end, as various techniques, such as extreme lens flares¹, multiple exposures, characters directly staring into the camera and hallucinatory mothers and Haris, moving in ways that defy normal spatiality are all used to show us Kelvin’s later fever.

These techniques are very effective, making the audience explicitly aware of the camera is a bold and dangerous move that not just any director could pull off. However, the visual language and aesthetics of these scenes (in particular a bizarre dissolve), are so alien to the way Hollywood makes films that it may very well prove an impediment to western viewers.

The film is not perfect and there are some minor complaints. The pointless joy-ride through Tokyo is a simply terrible, a waste of time an of film-stock. At first I thought I must have missed something in this scene, but nothing at all, whatsoever happens.

UPDATE: There is some reason to believe that Burton is a Tarkovsky self-insert. In his (Burton's) film of himself as a younger man, detailed below, he attempts to show a film of events alluded to in the film within-the-film. The film-within-the-film-within-the-film is blank. Tarkovsky had (some) trouble with the Soviet film censors and this scene may express his frustration with this. In this interpretation, Burton's interrogators become the censors. Burton/Tarkovsky tries to explain all kinds of wondrous things to them which they don't understand, and when they see the film of these wondrous things it is blank because they are ignorant and unable to understand Tarkovsky/Burton's art.

If we continue with the interpretation that Burton is Tarkovsky, then Burton's driving randomly through the city with no direction could be Tarkovsky's self-talk about his own ideas. One possible metainterpretation of this is that Tarkovsky is saying that he is unsure where he is going, or fumbling things out as he goes along.

(This scene appears to have been shot as a result of Tarkovsky wanting to go off and see Japan, in his diary he wrote of “The Exhibition” [worlds fair], which was occurring contemporaneously with filming. It is also suggested that the subjects of a communist state, with all its attendant backwardness and impoverishment would have been far more impressed with 1970’s Tokyo than we are.)

There are also difficulties with a later scene which suffers from excessive teleological and epistemological speculations and a ludicrous, inappropriate zoom to a gargantuan and off-putting close-up of Kelvin’s ear. One U.S. reviewer ridiculed the “philosophy as thick as a cloud of ozone”, when Solaris was first made available in the U.S. doubtless this was what he was referring to. The zoom to the ear defies all possible analysis.

The film uses the recurring technique of exposition by documentary film. Characters repeatedly view pre-recorded films of past events, Burton brings one to fill Kelvin (and conveniently, us) in on what’s happening to Solaris station, Hari and Kelvin watch a home video of Kelvin as a younger man, Gibarian records one as his suicide note. This is carried to the point of being slightly silly when Burton’s film shows the showing of a film, not to mention that Burton’s film is perhaps a little over-long, even Burton feels the need to fast-forward through part of it.

Tarkovsky was one of a very few directors who, in spite of a very limited oeuvre created a distinctive world, His works have a justifiable reputation for being very "difficult". They are in-fact some of the most difficult films ever made, the most persistent complaint about this director is undoubtedly his tendency to drown in his own erudition. Solaris is a very good introduction, narrativistically and cinematically and stylistically to the directors's world. This is in part because his sui-generis methodology is not as fully realized in this film as in some of his later ones. While Solaris certainly should not be the viewer's first "foreign" film, (that should likely be Wild Strawberries) it probably should be his or her first Tarkovsky film.

Donatas Banionis as Kelvin

Note

A remake of Solaris was made by Steven Soderburgh in 2002, it was poorly received. I haven’t seen it and don’t intend to, this is not a review of that film, but of the Tarkovsky version. A made-for-USSR-TV 1968 movie also exists, but from the fragments that I have seen does not appear to be worth bothering with.

¹ It seems that violent lens flares are now fashionable, although I have not seen it and cannot verify this, I am told that the J.J. Abrams attempt at a Star Trek reboot suffers from blinding lens flares throughout… intentionally. That an effect which is normally undesireable and that some will always consider an error should be used as an instrument of audience annoyance is disturbing.

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