| First let’s dispel a misconception.
Director Steven Soderbergh’s Solaris is not so much a remake of renowned Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1972 sci-fi classic of the same name as it is a re-adaptation of Polish science fiction writer Stanislaw Lem’s novel, upon which both films are based.
Still, the rumours are flying and comparisons are bound to be made. Soderbergh’s remake machine has led some critics to wonder whether the director is simply out of original story ideas – he’s previously directed new takes on the Rat Pack heist flick Ocean’s Eleven, the British miniseries Traffik and Robert Siodmak’s noir classic Criss Cross, while his company, Section Eight, has churned out Americanized versions of foreign titles Insomnia and Big Deal on Madonna Street.
But cinephiles who assume that Soderbergh has blasphemed by meddling with one of Tarkovsky’s masterpieces will just have to eat crow.
Tarkovsky obviously got to Solaris first, but Soderbergh’s film is not only leaner than the Russian master’s (100 minutes as opposed to 167), it’s also – dare I say it? –more cinematic. Gasp. Splutter. I can hear the Tarkovsky fan club’s lynch mob gathering behind me, but the fact remains that Soderbergh’s version is more visually appealing (he’s made beautiful images with producer James Cameron’s money), more unconventionally edited and even more poetic.
Yes, that’s right – poetic. It’s been a while since Soderbergh thoroughly indulged his philosophical side. Full Frontal, released earlier this year, was a spirited step back in the direction of the intelligent playfulness of his 1996 film Schizopolis, but Solaris goes one further and delivers a meditative reflection on essentialist philosophy.
What is it to be human? Does our consciousness of our own mortality make us different from other beings? Does memory shape our identity? If it does, and our memories are subjective at best, are we who we think we are?
These are just a few of the questions that Solaris raises. The story follows Chris Kelvin (George Clooney), a psychologist who responds to a distress call from a friend working on a space station orbiting the planet Solaris, here imagined as a gorgeous, gaseous purple body – no doubt intentionally reminiscent of neurological mapping images, further highlighting the film’s focus on the mind.
No sooner does Kelvin arrive at the space station than he realizes that most of the people on board are dead. The two remaining crew members (played by Jeremy Davies and Viola Davis) seem highly paranoid. Kelvin’s task is not only to find out why, but also to determine whether the project they’re working on can be salvaged.
Kelvin quickly discovers that he, too, is susceptible to the kinds of delusions that seem to have afflicted the crew. A bigger problem for him is that these "delusions" primarily involve the genuine physical manifestation of people from each person’s past. It seems that the planet, Solaris, is somehow attempting to communicate with the humans by way of their memories.
It’s a classic sci-fi set-up, but Solaris refuses cliché resolutions to Kelvin’s problems. Instead, with meditative flashbacks and dream sequences, Soderbergh takes an entirely cinematic approach to stream-of-consciousness narrative. His Solaris is an intimate foray into the human mind, where love, guilt and denial cloud our judgments, making it difficult to act in our own best interests – or even to know what our own best interests might be.
Best of all, the film’s methodical pace allows us time to think about the ideas it proposes. Soderbergh forces few interpretations on his audience – he simply asks a lot of questions and, to paraphrase one of the characters, Solaris offers no answers, only choices. |
