MY DEFENSE OF SOLARIS

I remember seeing a teaser trailer for 2002's Solaris: The 30-second spot showed an image of the purple planet with its computer-generated currents of twisting, turning energy, followed by the words “produced by James Cameron.” I remember scoffing aloud, and maybe even cursing at the screen. Solaris was a Serious Film directed by one of the world's greatest filmmakers, Andrei Tarkovsky, not to mention a very important and influential work of science fiction by Stanislaw Lem. Solaris seemed like the last movie that would need an American remake... seriously, what could be the point?

Years later, I'm still trying to figure out why this movie almost instantly found a place in my top 10 favorite movies and hasn't budged since. There are a few movies that I enjoy rewatching multiple times, some of which find a spot in my personal top 10 only to be bumped out later by a rediscovered or new movie which I've fallen in love with. The American Solaris directed by Steven Soderbergh, however, has crept into my top 10 for what seems to be a permanent spot. I could seriously be offered a bin of world film classics, many of which I would concede are more important movies than Solaris, and still would chuck them all to the curb if it meant I could just keep my DVD of Solaris.

“We don't want other worlds, we want mirrors.”

This movie is precise and minimalist on the surface. Nearly all the action (if you can call it that) takes place on a space station orbiting a distant planet Solaris, which has rendered the inhabitants of said space station insane by generating facsimiles of dead loved ones. The key point of the regenerated dead is that they have not been merely brought back to life, but are projections of how the living remembered them, and therefore are incomplete by nature. This film very carefully tackles the idea that we are not who we think we are, but exist only as an amalgam of how others perceive us. Soderbergh neatly brings this point home by filming long takes of dialog where the camera is not watching the person who's speaking, but rather the person he is speaking to. Thus the audience watches the reaction of someone who is watching the main character speak, adding another layer of distance and changing our perception of the dialog that is being spoken. Everything is a reflection in this movie; there is no pure and simple truth.

The Russian Solaris is an undisputed masterpiece with one of the greatest “shock” endings of all time. As an American, I found it difficult to sit through. Yes, I'm an American who was raised on art films and literature, but even I have problems sitting through austere, quiet Russian epics. There's something about the old Russian film aesthetic that seems particularly inaccessible to me. The films display an almost surgical lack of emotion, and move along at the pace of paint drying. As much as I love Tarkovsky's films, I've had to stop every single one halfway through for an “intermission,” apart from his transcendent film The Mirror (Zerkalo, 1975.) I had the same problem when reading the original novel by Stanislaw Lem. I admit that I don't speak Russian and am probably missing quite a bit in translation, but the novel was just so dry and cold that I constantly put it down, even though it was quite short.

I've spoken to many of my friends about Solaris, and very few of them are willing to watch it with me. I saw it in the theater with a good friend who also enjoyed it, and I know one other person who loves it. Everyone else's reaction ranges from boredom to disgust. My sister falls asleep every time I try to make her watch it. The movie currently registers a 65% on the Tomatometer (actually higher than I expected, I remember it being pretty universally panned.) Even George Clooney has made quips about the movie (it was not a box-office success, to put it kindly.) But there's something about this film that just brings me back to it over and over again; I watched it yesterday and could watch it tonight, and tomorrow...

For me, all the parts fit together. The casting is perfect, and the camerawork is simple and effective. Most of the actors are doing a deceptively incredible job, and layers of meaning seem to open up with each repetitive viewing. On my new 50” TV I realized how much the camera dwells on peoples' faces, and how their eyes light up with a liquid glow. In most movies these days you're lucky if the camera lingers on an actor's face for one second before cutting away; even supposed “indie” films have fallen prey to this trend. In Solaris there are many scenes where the camera stays fixed on one person for a minute or more. George Clooney and Natascha McElhone are incredibly emotive actors (and are unfortunately rarely utilized as such).

The flashbacks in the American version are a major departure from the novel and the Russian version, and really make the movie in my opinion. They provide an emotional accessibility lacking from the other interpretations, and as much as I'm not a romantic person by nature, I lose it during these brief interludes. They take place in a slightly bizarre, futuristic Chicago, where the weather is always dreary and rainy and everyone wears high, severe collars. The dreamy soundtrack by Cliff Martinez (formerly of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) is heavy on the marimba, strings, and horns, and is tonally perfect. Overall Solaris is a perfect example of good science fiction not being about explosions and action and weird aliens, but rather being an exploration of the unknown depths of the human soul.

All of the other actors are fabulous: Jeremy Davies plays another of his trademark quirky characters, but this time with a dark secret; Viola Davis is wonderful as the disturbed but logical scientist; John Cho stars as a blink-and-you'll-miss-him courier. There is a lot more to recommend about this movie, but I don't want to go into any more detail in the very rare chance that someone who hasn't seen either of the versions is reading this. I really feel that Solaris has something profound to say about life, human interaction, and how we perceive everything around us, and will resonate strongly with anyone who has been haunted by a loss. Many of us may regret our actions in the past, but if we could redo them, would we? Or should we?