Solaris (Tarkovsky, 1972)

Having previously seen and very much liked the 2002 Soderbergh remake of the same name, I was curious to watch the original, hopeful it wouldn't diminish my appreciation of the remake. Which it did, illuminating Soderbergh's film as an accomplished, throbbing little nothing of a film - it's existence perhaps best justified by establishing just how great Tarkovsky's masterpiece was by comparison (Although it did provide the world with one of Cliff Martinez's very best and most seductive soundtracks. Swoon).

Plot summary: Russian psychologist Kris Kalvin heads to space-station by sentient planet, which scans his brain and creates a corporeal though indestructible recreation of Kalvin's long-dead suicidal wife. Hilarious hi-jinks (read: slow, heart-breaking discussions of the situation) ensue; George Clooney's bottom is mercifully absent throughout.

The film, then, is an unsettling {especially the last few frames, which wigged me out more than any cinematic denouement since the last few scene of Kaufmann's Invasion of the Body Snatchers), moving exploration of love - specifically the limitations of love, illuminating how when we love, we necessarily love our idea of that person, rather than the person itself. This is, in the words of Sick Boy, beautifully-fucking-illustrated, as the woman who appears on the space station only has as much knowledge of herself as Kris Kalvin had of his dead wife. If the most common problem with Sci-Fi can be argued to be the way it renders character subordinate to speculation (and that's a big 'if' - I am not saying this is definitively the case, but I would argue it is easy to cite many, many examples within the Sci-Fi genre of characters being ciphers to events), Solaris stands as a stark rebuke to that argument - it is difficult to think of many films more moored in human emotion. The character's actions seem to be consequences of their feelings, rather than machinations designed to serve the plot or theme.

What struck me most about the film was how its slow, meditative takes (sections such as Burton driving on the highway run for minutes, without any notable action occurring) were utterly entrancing and seductive, rather than irritating. Ebert notes these passages in Tarkovsky films allow the audience respite to consider the philosophical implications of what has occurred before, and I am inclined to agree.

The ponderous length and the long-takes, seductive as they are, stuck in my head because there is something ineffable in film when these go right. When executed well, as done here, (Malick springs to mind as a similar successful example) slow, steady, action-light shots encourage an almost hypnotic involvement with the film - in the past I've likened it to giving the mind a bath. When done poorly (as I would argue is the case in Werckmeister Harmonies, or fucking fuckity-fucken Uzak) they are maddening and woefully pretentious. But I'll be a monkey's uncle if I can directly pinpoint what separates the successful examples from the failures.

To sum up: Solaris, brillo-pads wee flick. 3 hours of ponderous Russian filmic goodness.