Stalker (1979), dir. Andrei Tarkovsky


Andrei Tarkovsky is a director like few others. Ivan’s Childhood (1962) is a film of stunning images, placed within the final days of World War II; Andrei Rublev (1966) is a testament to scale and ideas; Solaris (1972) delves into the depths of memory and consciousness. Tarkovsky was in constant negotiation with censors over what his films could represent. Stalker was troubled from the start: shot on experimental Kodak 5247 stock, the initial print manifested an unwatchable dark green tint, leaving unending debate about whether it was accidental or sabotage. Tarkovsky reconceived, altering the character of Stalker and elaborating the film into a longer two-part epic under cinematographer Alexander Knyazhinsky.

Although the basis is the Strugatskys’ Roadside Picnic (1972), Tarkovsky wasn’t interested in a literal adaptation. As Mark Le Fanu writes, Roadside Picnic is “hard-boiled” science fiction rife with “slang and violence”, but underneath its dystopian vision is “a humanistic belief […] in the sacredness of the family unit”. Tarkovsky saw science fiction as a set of ““comic book” trappings and vulgar commercialism”, but the Zone is a descent into mystery, embodying a shifting state of reality. Stalker opens with an aura of documentary and the literary, grounded within science fiction and our own world, using a quote from Nobel Prize winner Professor Wallace as an epigraph.

What was it? A meteorite that fell to Earth? Or a visitation from outer space?

From the opening, Tarkovsky confronts us with uncertainty: no troops returned from this “miracle of miracles”. As Geoff Dyer highlights in his illuminating deconstruction and memoir on his own relationship with the film, Zona: A Book about a Film about a Journey to a Room (2012:5), this opening caption was added at the bequest of Mosfilm, situating the film within a small bourgeois country that wasn’t the USSR. The epigraph is never detrimental, nor should it be ignored, but essential to our perception. We learn Porcupine has come to the Zone as a Stalker before, never to return; skeletons are just another part of the landscape. But as Tarkovsky stresses in Sculpting in Time, “the Zone doesn’t symbolise anything”; the Zone is life itself (1986:200).

Filming around abandoned power plants and chemical factories around the River Jägala in Tallinn, Estonia, Tarkovsky scouted locations in Tajikistan, whilst considering Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Ukraine and Crimea as possible alternatives. Conditions were harsh, likely leading to the cancer and early death of many of the cast and crew, including Tarkovsky himself: mechanic Sergei Bessmertniy describes a dirty river of reddish flakes and foam where fish still lived, coming off of “waste of pulp and paper”.

Stalker’s opening might present a sense of normality, presented in monochrome that is what Dyer describes as “muddy sepia of sleep that is like a dream of death” (2012:131), filmed in colour and printed in black and white, aesthetically unappealing yet perfect to mood. Tarkovsky intersects monochrome and colour throughout his work: Andrei Rublev closes in colour within the present, icons surviving storms and passing centuries, whilst Solaris set meeting scenes in monochrome through a televised window; Mirror (1975) uses similar techniques. In the opening shot, Tarkovsky forms a recurring tableau at the bar, rarely moving the camera. We move through a bedroom door with a sense of unreality, motion seemingly impossible as a frame forms around; we slowly pan across a girl in bed and objects upon a table, following routines of getting dressed. Our spaces are shipyards, not anywhere else.

Tarkovsky forms a recurring tableau of Writer, Professor and Stalker at the bar

Industrial and natural landscapes are both abandoned and untouched. Telegraph poles are embedded within the Zone’s landscape, grass sprouting up. Power plants and stone houses lay in the distance, buried by mist. Van Eyck’s icon of St John the Baptist lies submerged in water, a marker of human presence and faith. Writer lays down in the overgrowth, moss around him, a conscious vessel beside the life of nature itself. A lone dog walks through water, both in dream and reality. In seemingly endless sand dunes, a bird moves past, eerily looped as Tarkovsky repeats the footage, the bird disappearing from existence. In the fields, a dust storm moves upwards. In one incredible shot, Tarkovsky pans across the edge of a ridge into the black abyss of the water, before emerging again upon the other side. In a pool of water, the encircled surface shimmers. Moving inside a tunnel, stalagmites and stalactites line the circular roof, the Writer a lone figure.

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In the film’s cyclicality, Tarkovsky returns to the opening setting. A girl, Monkey, reads a book as though reading the film as fable and parable. Shot in colour, the landscape is made more haunting: she walks by in side profile, snow falling. The family walks by with the dog as we glimpse a power plant in the distance. This could be the same family living in Chernobyl in 1986: the power plant behind them, unsuspecting of its power, another everyday family that became victims.

John A. Riley reads Stalker’s landscapes through the lens of hauntology, extrapolating upon Jacques Derrida’s theory of communism after the fall of the Berlin Wall in Spectres of Marx (1993). In his essay Hauntology, Ruins, and the Failure of the Future in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker (Journal of Film & Video 69(1)), Riley writes that hauntology is both “a way of conceptualizing our repressed past” and a way to understand “our obsession with failed futures” (2017:19). For Riley, the film’s industrial ruins are “a trace of the economic stagnation” under Brezhnev, acting as a “monument to failure” (2017:21). As Dyer points out, the hydroelectric power plant within the film by the Jägala River had been blown up by the retreating Red Army during World War II (2012:61).

Tarkovsky’s use of the frame allows for an interesting relationship with the viewer. Writer looks out as though speaking to us. He sits upon a cylinder, turning to us in Shakesperean soliloquy; Tarkovsky’s cinematic stage becomes theatrical. He speaks in monologues, embodying his literary identity and confessing his deepest, darkest feelings. Stalker’s wife recites verses of Apocalypse, looking directly at us; Monkey recites Fyodor Tyutchev. As Dyer writes, Tarkovsky contravenes Roland Barthes’ edict that “it is forbidden for an actor to look at the camera” in cinema (2012:33), but Tarkovsky’s demolishing of the fourth wall allows for intimacy questioning the constraints of cinema itself. As rain falls, Tarkovsky pans out into the darkness, engulfing our protagonists as he finds another frame to act as border, making use of industrial landscapes.

Stalker never feels like political commentary; Tarkovsky achieves timelessness extending beyond everyday politics. But there are some suggestions. In the opening act, set against barbed wire, we feel a sense of power through armed guards. For Dyer, “Stalker is not a film about the Gulag, but the absent and unmentioned Gulag is constantly suggested” (2012:17). Le Fanu draws a direct line between Stalker and his films directed in European exile, Nostalgia (1983) and The Sacrifice (1986), drawing upon Tarkovsky’s personal diaries: as Tarkovsky dreamt of imprisonment, he envisioned a “Cold War fantasy of breaking through barriers”.

Tarkovsky saw cinema as literary, drawing upon a prehistory of Renaissance art and Baroque music that acknowledges minds and innovators before him; Tarkovsky is one voice. As he describes in Sculpting in Time, even in structure he wanted to “observe [Aristotle’s] three unities of time, space and action”, each frame flowing into each other. (1986:193) Le Fanu argues Tarkovsky’s literary habits were “imperceptibly feeding ideas into one another”, reading The Idiot (1869) and The Death of Ivan Ilych (1986) and working on a stage adaptation of Hamlet (1977). The concept of Stalker might seem the beginning of a joke: three men walk into a bar. But Tarkovsky uses the archetypes of Writer and Professor, guided by Stalker, to craft an allegory delving within the realms of consciousness. Stalker’s characters act as philosophical interlocutors, conveying ideas as they move through a landscape. As Pedro Blas Gonzalez writes, Tarkovsky’s axioms of knowledge achieve “with cinema what Plato accomplished in philosophical discourse”.

Through Writer, Tarkovsky channels his own insecurities and feelings as a director, resonating with all aspiring artists and creatives out there. For all creative people, there is the question of legacy. Writer questions the purpose of writing itself and importance of reception, and whether his words will be remembered a hundred years from now. He detests writing as “torture” and “a painful, shameful occupation”, yet continues onwards with his craft, something I identify with strongly. As Tarkovsky comments in Sculpting in Time, “artists work at their professions not for the sake of telling someone about something, but as an assertion of their will to serve people”; but no artist can freely create, but is “created by his time and the people amongst whom he lives.” (1986:181) Both the Writer and Professor embody a certain spiritual dimension: the Writer conveys words of meaning; the Professor must seek truth within the world. Framing his characters in side profile, Tarkovsky encourages an exploration within the mind itself.


Tarkovsky bears comparison to a director like Terrence Malick: spirituality becomes indivisible from both the person and the work, permeating not only philosophical discussions of meaning but natural landscapes. Ivan’s Childhood ends with a child upon a beach, a heavenly calm beyond the chaos of war; Andrei Rublev examines the life of an icon painter; Solaris seeks God within the infinity of the cosmos and memory itself. Tarkovsky elaborates upon the theological hints within Roadside Picnic, using the Stalker as what Gonzalez describes as “a kind of Prometheus that disperses cosmic secrets to man”, but “cannot guarantee the moral and spiritual integrity of those who enter with him.” In the Room, the bomb becomes a test of faith to whether it is activated or not. The supernatural powers of Monkey are a display of the powers of miracle and belief, moving the cups in front of her with a clatter, reportedly inspired by Russian telekinetic psychic Ninel Sergeyevna Kulagina. In the BFI piece, Vladimir Sharun comments that Tarkovsky both believed in miracles and “the existence of flying saucers”, “all harmoniously combined with his faith in God.”

Stalker asks us the meaning of music itself: not connected to reality and devoid of association, yet transcendent within itself. Stalker’s use of music is intermittent, as is dialogue. But Stalker is built through its music and soundscapes. As Tarkovsky writes in Sculpting in Time, music creates a “necessary distortion of the visual material in the audience’s perception” to “prompt the emotions of the audience in a particular direction”, acting not just as an “appendage” but as “an essential element of the realisation of the concept as a whole.” (1986:158) Having previously worked with Eduard Artemyev on Solaris and Mirror, Artemyev’s synthesised musique concrete score combines Oriental and Eastern influences, including an Azerbaijani tar and flute. Stalker confronts us with the intensity of the vibrations of a passing train, shaking the world around us; Stalker’s sounds are visceral to our very core.

Solaris (1972), dir. Andrei Tarkovsky


Solaris is a different beast to Andrei Rublev (1966). Rublev is steeped within the Soviet historical epic, mythologising certain values on historical figures in the tradition of Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible (1944). Yet it diverged from that tradition radically, imbued with Tarkovsky’s signature long takes and philosophy. One can draw some parallels – Tarkovsky’s close attention to small detail, with a painting of a snowy winter by a river recalling the modern day remnants of the Medieval artwork of Rublev; a picnic, shot in extreme close-up, ruined by the rain.

Its world feels like 1972, living and breathing within a world of modernist architecture. Giant, widescreen TV sets (with a Skype-esque set-up that feels familiar to 2001) are in theory modern, yet appear dated today. The widescreen serves more of a purpose than feeling futuristic, though: it matches the frame of the film itself. A scene in which the family crowd around the television set doesn’t resort to artifice through computer generated overscan lines. It’s fully immersive; it’s a window. We move from one world to the monochrome scenes of the meeting, and through another window as footage is projected to the men in the room. Yet even the lens flare feels far too J.J. Abrams to have been used in 1972.

Russia’s contributions to the Space Race can often be overlooked; released in 1972, Solaris came after the Americans had landed the first man on the moon, and in some ways, can act as a counterpart to 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). More than 20 years before the ISS became a reality, the concept of a space station itself feels modern, devoid of the incredible journey of travelling to the moon (or beyond). Travelling to space is no longer fantastical, but it’s been adapted to; it’s just another part of everyday life. There are no scenes of any intensive training programme. No impressive lift-off. Tim Peake receives massive TV and social media coverage as a national hero, yet there is no celebration of Russia’s heroes here.

On the outside, the bland white walls of the space station are run-of-the-mill. Yet the internal life reveals a different story. Tarkovsky concerns himself with individuality – what sets one man apart from a couple of other billion people. One man across a lonely ocean; one man in a lonely universe; one man living in his own house as its own island. Space is a frontier for us where we can scarcely comprehend the knowledge we are bombarded with within the vastness; the same goes for outer space. It might as well be a nautical voyage – more often than not, the rooms in the space station feel like cabins in a ship.

A facade of home is rebuilt in space: a wood panelled library, covered with ancient books. Bedrooms seep with personality – Renaissance art, ceramic heads and so on. Even the very conceit of suicide in space feels like a noir murder mystery, not a philosophical sci-fi film. Or the idea of having a body transported home to Earth, dismissed as preposterous, is a concern at home, transporting a body from the deceased’s lived city to their hometown. The facade is confronted when we see an illusion of the house we were introduced to in the beginning of the film – the house, the real but constructed place that defines our identity.

Hari is herself a manifestation of memory. She is but a hollow shell of a past, learning how to be human from Kris, with the express intention of pleasing Kris. It has an interesting modern analogue, through explorations of AIs in Ex Machina (2014) and Jonathan Luna’s comic series Alex + Ada (2013-15). The internet, as a graveyard of inactive profiles, changes this concept of resurrection. Such as the late David Carr’s Twitter profile a few months ago, which was hacked by a ‘sexbot’, leading to upset amongst his followers until it could be restored. Or the much publicised breach of the Canadian dating site Ashely Madison’s personal information last year: a thoroughly interesting analysis by Gizmodo found that the site relied upon bots feeding off the data of inactive profiles, becoming in effect self-cannibalising. In this film, the hollow shell is human memory – but human memory has taken on a new form in our modern age.

Every culture lives on stories of quests for immortality, or the Faust myth. But the art that pervades the film is another kind of immortality. It can survive storms (as we see in Andrei Rublev), yet humans can drown. It can become a part of the vacuum of space, yet humans need spacesuits. It’s a form of afterlife that lives on for centuries, if millennia: but Hari is vulnernable – as she gains more humanity, she gains the ability to almost suffocate on oxygen, perceived to be dead. Kris’ memory of her death a decade ago will disappear with his death.

Art, as a preservation of memory, to build a memory, is based on memory. The painting of the icy river draws parallel to the home movie of the snow back home. But it’s a hollow shell, just as Hari is, complete with embellishments, not representing human experience as humans experience it.

Kino Eye (1924), dir. Dziga Vertov

Much of Kino Eye can feel like either film editing 101 (Vertov putting his theory of ‘kino eye’ into practice) to contemporary viewers, or only of interest to Soviet scholars, where the sequences of the Young Leninists and the environment become invaluable sources. In one sequence, we see the Young Leninists preaching about Lenin, a worker of the people and handing out posters and magazines, as a toddler looks on in bemusement. There’s a real sense of how the ideology was communicated: during the first reel, we are told to avoid the flea-infested produce of street sellers, playing a woman’s journey in rewind back to the co-operative.

There are some interesting sequences, but to a modern viewer Vertov acts as the 7 year old mucking around with the rewind button, or as the 13 year old experimenting with Premiere Pro for the first time. Many of the sequences foreshadow what Vertov would use as subjects again in Man with a Movie Camera: a street performer, trams in a busy street, women jumping off platforms into the ocean, and a sequence of the drunkards, drug addicts and the homeless waking up on the street, intercut against the funeral procession of a man looked on by family. Vertov also uses animation to particularly strong effect – a flyer about tuberculosis comes to life; the transition between reels is guided by animated handwriting, fashioning itself before our eyes.

Yet there’s also a lot of fun to be had. The wonder of an elderly Chinese magician to an onlooking crowd. An elephant in the streets of Moscow, deciding instead to sleep. A naked man in the sanatorium, pretending to be dead whilst professing himself to be Jesus Christ. It’s in these scenes around the sanatorium that the film delivers its best moments, including the quote of the film:

Bread is my God.

The reverse speed footage is perhaps the most visually impressive here, as we see bread return to the bakery, and freshly slaughtered meat be given life again as a cow, thus proving that I need to motivate myself more to commit myself to vegetarianism because this is both thought provoking and gross.

There’s some strong editing, such as in the second reel, where the Young Leninists salute the flag; shots cut between each other within 1 or 2 seconds at most, as the camera plays close detail to the faces of each of the boys. During the fifth reel, the Young Leninists watch over a pair at a table at a restaurant from above, throwing flyers down to them as they talk about how vodka and cigarettes is basically going to kill them. It becomes almost first person footage, framed by the edge of the lens (the kino eye).