We don't need other worlds. We need a mirror.

SOLARIS (1972)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

My first experience with Solaris was bogged down a bit by a minor issue regarding Tarkovsky’s decision to open the story on Earth – detailing psychologist Kris Kelvin’s (Donatas Banionis) nostalgic saunter around his childhood home before embarking on a journey into space – instead of following the novel, which jumps directly into the meat of the plot and focuses entirely on the titular planet. It wasn’t until I revisited Tarkovsky’s sci-fi epic that I came to fully appreciate Kelvin’s lengthy farewell and was able to better evaluate the environmental effects of both Earth and Solaris, and their impact on Kelvin’s psyche.

With that said, heed this: Solaris requires revisiting. Unquestionably. However, it’s amusing to note that, while I sit here advising my readers (now that’s amusing) to watch this film twice for better elucidation, the film itself actually berates man’s quest for understanding. Contradictory, yes, but as a drunken Dr. Snaut declares in the film, “we shouldn’t write off what we don’t understand.”

The actual meat I referred to earlier, which the novel knives right into, finds Kelvin on board an unkempt space station orbiting the eerie, oceanic planet of Solaris. It can be said that this is where the action, or lack thereof, really kicks off, however – after my revisit – I found that Tarkovsky’s prologue really lays the groundwork for the plot, adding proper insight into what exactly occurs on this mysterious planet and the effects it has on those who seek to understand it. After a leisure stroll in his backyard, Kelvin is met with words of caution from Henri Burton (Vladislav Dvorzhetsky), a former space pilot who witnessed peculiar sightings on the surface of Solaris. His testimony – including video of his findings; cloudy, fogged images – raised several eyebrows and was dismissed on grounds of absurdity, mere hallucinatory effects. Kelvin also dismisses the astronaut’s claims, follows through with his mission on Solaris – which is essentially to prod the planet with radiation beams and see if it flinches – and inevitably discovers “hallucinations” of his own, later confirmed to be quite real by the amicable Dr. Snaut (Jüri Järvet) and the standoffish Dr. Sartorius (Anatoli Solonitsyn). The doctors refer to these figures as “guests”, and Kelvin’s "guest" happens to be his dead wife, Hari (Natalya Bondarchuk).

Solaris is embedded underneath a mound of themes, but only two really jut their heads out: fear and knowledge, and the motif of fear adds disturbing weight. Once we find ourselves hovering in Solaris’ atmosphere, we pick up on an unearthly silence that heavily denotes the bizarre events ahead. Tarkovsky cleverly enforces a sort of vacant cinematography – cold long-takes, little dialogue – allowing the audience to absorb the same hollowness Kelvin experiences on board. Eduard Artemyev’s score, sparsely, but effectively employed, also serves as a fulcrum for Tarkovsky’s fear motif. Adding to my fanaticism, and maybe even sadistic amusement, is how fear virtually depletes the astute psychologist’s morale gauge; here’s a shrink questioning his own sanity, buckling under layers upon layers of trepidation. It’s a fascinating reminder that, regardless of our sharp intellect and advanced technology, we remain a vulnerable race. He later comes to treat “guest” Hari as humanely as possible after learning that his own thoughts and memories are what created her, via the enigmatic oceans of Solaris, which is never thoroughly explained, and perhaps doesn’t need to be.

Fear seamlessly ties into knowledge, naturally and inescapably. Dr. Snaut reveals himself as a firm advocate of anti-exploration toward the end of the film, stating that, as humans, “we are in a ridiculous predicament of man pursuing a goal that he fears and that he really does not need.” The juxtaposition of Snaut’s practical mindset against Sartorius’ zealous, analytical mindset is vital. At one point, Snaut sardonically refers to Sartorius as “Faust, seeking a remedy against immortality.” A reverse Faust, Sartorius is determined to approach ultimate truth, attaining some form of zenith, while Snaut only seeks introspection, and holds the opinion that a race incapable of understanding themselves has no business analyzing alien life-forms. Solaris symbolizes a dead end of sorts, a barrier Sartorius’ divine intelligence is unable to penetrate. Attempts at understanding the planet’s phenomena prove futile, and that frightens Sartorius to the core. Snaut reminds us, “the happiest people are those who aren’t interested in cursed questions.”

Solaris’ set design is beyond words; the undulating stillness of those eerie long-takes in the station’s interiors and the debris-cluttered corridors immediately set the film’s tone. Picking back up on the comparison of Earth and Solaris, Tarkovsky juxtaposes the two by displaying Kelvin’s childhood home as dreamy, vibrant with life, opposed to the cold, austere space station in order to imply the emotional transition Kelvin makes. Scrap-ridden and desolate as the station may appear, a couple of rooms have been furnished with refined taste. Several works by the Old Masters not only reside in the station, but also subtly give away the film’s ending. We can only infer that Pieter Bruegel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus foreshadows Kelvin’s descent to one of Solaris' newly formed islands, while Kelvin and his father practically mirror Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son during their bittersweet reunion. Touché, Tarkovsky.

Solaris, slow-paced and rightfully so, is one for the ages, a film every cinephile should add to their queue. Calling it thought-provoking would be an injustice. Haunting, visceral, it’s one of those rare diamonds in the rough of Hollywood kitsch I’d love to see more of.

9/10