An article I wrote for the La Trobe University magazine, Rabelais. Published in the 2013 second edition.
Solaris
By Olivia
Maria Hărşan
The infamous race to space affair between the Soviet Union
and the United States not only provoked the launching of rockets at the height
of Cold War tensions, but also the boom of the sci-fi genre within novels,
comic books, television series and films. It was during this time, that cultural
theories belonging to philosophical and literary thought were increasing at a
rate equivalent to scientific advancements.
Eight years prior to what has become the most remembered space
expedition, the Apollo 11 moon landing of 1969, the Polish writer, Stanislaw
Lem published a multifaceted novel called Solaris
(1961). The story has since inspired three adaptations, all of which, according
to Lem, fail to delve entirely into the essence of the realm of Solaris as depicted
in the book. It is rare that an author will give their blessing to a visual interpretation
of their writing, as though they opt to completely disregard the reality that a
film could never manifest as a direct copy – word for word and image for image
– of a book. Nevertheless, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris (1972) is a remarkable accomplishment, maybe not so much as
an interpretation of the text, but certainly notable for its artistic aesthetics
and philosophical undertones.
The plot follows the mental degeneration of a group of
scientists while aboard the space station Solaris. The psychologist, Dr. Kris
Kelvin, is asked to regain order on board after a series of strange occurrences
are reported. Kelvin arrives to a state of chaos – objects scattered across the
corridors while the scientists demonstrate odd behaviour, responding vaguely to
Kelvin’s inquiries. What is at the centre of the madness is the morbid
appearance of Kelvin’s deceased wife, Hari. Throughout the film, the existence
of Hari as an entity that relies on Kelvin’s presence to survive is examined
and weighed according to the principles of human supremacy. The remaining two
scientists, Dr. Snaut and Dr. Sartorius assess Hari’s lack of worth as a
reproduction while Kelvin strives to defend his wife. The story of Solaris thus establishes the notion of existential crisis – the questioning of
the meaning of life and its value via the backstory of Kelvin’s tragic loss.
The richness of Tarkovsky’s symbolic representation is often
discussed in reference to his oeuvre. Solaris,
like most if not all of his films, is comprised of conceptual elements, which
ultimately warps the viewer’s perception. For instance, during the beginning of
Kelvin’s hallucinations, a woman dressed in a negligee drifts across the rooms
of the spaceship, her bracelet jingling as she walks. She leads Kelvin to the dead body of his
friend, Gibarian and then disappears. The bell-like sound of her bracelet is
reminiscent of a thurible (a metal censer in which incense is burned during
religious services). Tarkovsky continues the religious allegory by placing an Orthodox
icon on the mantelpiece in Kelvin’s room. Tarkovsky thus formulates a mix
between science and religion, distorting the line between organic, logical
evidence and manufactured beliefs.
Religion becomes juxtaposed with references to
existentialism and the underlying theme of science. At one point, Kelvin engages
in philosophical conversation with the two other inhabitants of the spaceship,
the sceptical, Dr. Snaut and the more contemplative Dr. Sartorius. The camera follows the characters as they
move around the library debating whether or not Kelvin’s wife, Hari, is human
or a duplicate. At this point, Hari begins to cry revealing an obvious signal
of her ability to feel and respond emotionally. It is in this scene that
Tarkovsky has presented eloquently the connection between reality, as we know
it, and extra-terrestrial existence –an idea explored from two perspectives, of
philosophy and of science.
Apart from the striking visual qualities, Solaris employs an impressive soundtrack
that deserves its own extensive analysis. The film begins in the serene
countryside and cuts to a futuristic metropolis as it tracks a video call
between Kelvin’s father and an old friend. The sound here fluctuates between
the peaceful diegetic sounds of a rural landscape to the transgressive noise of
an industrial city tunnel. Later, the eerie presence of Hari is placed against
an ominous score reminiscent of an unnerving psychological thriller – something
that extends to the unconventional filming techniques. Panoramas, invasive
zooming, unusual angles and other experimental frames frequent the film,
effectively supporting the psychological mind-warping factor and recalling the
essence of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining
(1980).
The film concludes in a somewhat ambiguous fashion. Kelvin
returns back to earth but things are not as they seem. As he peers through the
window of his father’s house, he notices that it is raining inside and yet his
father seems oblivious to the matter. Perhaps Kelvin hoped that it was all a
dream – the expedition and Hari’s death – only to find out the inevitable.
Whether Solaris is predominantly
about the impossible interaction between humans and non-humans or an effort to
rationalize the meaning of reincarnation through a science vs. philosophy
paradigm, it is ultimately a story about a man learning to accept the untimely death
of his wife.
