Thirty-seven
years before the publication of the Ted Chiang novella that would be adapted as
The Arrival, polish author Stanisław
Lem had already grappled with the challenges of human communication with
radically dissimilar life forms. However, some of those themes of his novel
were overshadowed by a more fundamental examination of what it means to be
human in Andrei Tarkovsky’s classic cinematic adaptation. Easily one of the
most important science fiction films of all time, Tarkovsky’s Solaris (trailer here) returns to New York theaters this Friday, freshly restored
by Mosfilm from the original negative.
Kris
Kelvin sounds cold. In fact, he has been emotional unavailable to those closest
to him, resulting in the tremendous guilt he bears. As Solaris opens, he is spending what could well be his final day on
Earth, essentially saying farewell to his elderly parents. He will soon leave for
the space station orbiting planet Solaris. Communications with the crew have
been garbled, so Kelvin is to assess their condition and determine whether the
mission can continue.
It
is pretty clear the Earthbound authorities would prefer to pull the plug. Ever
since space pilot Henri Berton gave an outlandish report of an attempted rescue
mission in the planet’s atmosphere, the reputation of so-called Solaristics has
suffered in scientific circles. Kelvin’s initial meetings with the two surviving
crew members do little to reassure him. Much to his disappointment, his friend
Dr. Gibarian committed suicide shortly before his arrival, but he left Kelvin a
cryptic video warning.
The
space psychologist will soon understand what his old friend meant when he comes
face-to-face with his dead wife Hari. She is not a hallucination. She is a
physical manifestation generated by “The Ocean,” the sentient atmospheric storm
on Solaris the space station scientists roused with their X-Ray probes. Clearly,
the Ocean is responding with what the crew somewhat euphemistically call “guests,”
but it is unclear whether the intent is hostile or benign.
Those
who saw the original American release of Solaris
were probably baffled, because a good half-hour was chopped out. Granted,
there are some long, meditative Tarkovskian stretches, but viewers really need
to go through them to get into the film’s headspace. It is still the most
commercial of Tarkovsky’s films (an almost laughable distinction), but viewers
who buckle in and commit to it, should have no trouble following along.
Somewhat
intended as a response to Kubrick’s 2001:
A Space Odyssey, Solaris is one
of the few films that can match its cosmic scope. Yet, Tarkovsky deliberately
de-emphasized special visual effects, instead presenting a cluttered,
human-scale vision of the future. Few films have managed to develop the Tarkovsky’s
themes (and Lem’s) any further, but its shadow looms over every subsequent
first contact movies.
Viewers
should also appreciate the ensemble’s fine performances, once they acclimate to
Tarkovsky’s reserved aesthetic. As Kelvin, Lithuanian Donatas Banionis looks
like an existential crisis personified. You can practically see the waves of
guilt radiating out from him. Natalya Bondarchuk gives one of the great science
fiction performances in movie history as the new Hari, who has apparently
inherited the old Hari’s neuroses and develops peculiar new ones as she becomes
cognizant of her true origins. However, it is Estonian Jüri Järvet who steals scene
after scene as the station’s roguish but compassionate cyberneticist.