"Solaris" and "Solaris"
Two brilliant directors take on Stanislaw Lem


Tarkovsky or Soderbergh? That's the question I was asking myself last night while settling into bed for a good night's sleep, the perfect end to a lazy holiday weekend.

Monday afternoon, while Liza was earning holiday pay at Borders, I sat on my porch and read "The Dogs of Riga" until it got too cold, did some laundry and watched my two latest Netflix acquisitions, Andrei Tarkovsky's 1972 film "Solaris" (based on the Stanislaw Lem science ficion novel) and Steven Soderbergh's own 2002 version of "Solaris". I enjoyed them both a great deal, and although the purist in me hates to admit it...I have to say that the more recent version was more interesting to me.

This isn't altogether surprising; after all, Soderbergh is a brilliant, fascinating, unique director. In my opinion, the Coen Brothers are the only contemporary filmmakers who are in the same league (and, if you ask me, they've been slipping a bit lately). Soderbergh's "Out of Sight" and "Traffic" are among my favorite films of the last ten years. So if anyone's going to do a remake, why not bring in the best of the best?

Tarkovsky is a director (I should say "was" -- he died in 1986) of whom I've heard great things, but have never seen anything from until yesterday. His groundbreaking "Andrei Rublev" is considered one of the finest Soviet films ever made, mired in controversy due to Cold War-era restrictions and sitting on the proverbial shelf from 1966 until its release in 1971. Anyone who gathers accolades, controversy and DVD releases from Criterion deserves my attention.

So I watched the 1972 film. The cinematography is lush, bright, and manages to convey brilliantly both the beauty of nature (in its initial scenes) and the cold, clinical settings of outer space. An obvious comparison can be made between this film and "2001: a Space Odyssey" (which Tarkovsky reportedly hated for its "coldness"), and like Kubrick, Tarkovsky revels in long, ponderous shots that take their time, allowing the viewer to soak in the settings. Call him the Anti-Tarantino.

Like the novel, the 1972 version of "Solaris" (and its 2002 counterpart) concerns a space station orbiting the planet Solaris, whose astronauts have been cosmically freaked out by strange goings-on. Psychologist Kris Kelvin is sent to the space station to check things out. There's a lot of exposition -- a bit too much, in my opinion -- prior to Kelvin's blast-off. When he arrives, Kelvin finds that the two remaining crew members (not counting the one who committed suicide) are being visited by characters from their past. Kelvin is apparently not immune to these bizarre events...his long-dead wife appears as well.

The story is an interesting one, and Tarkovsky makes a lot of noise about love, loss, and our existence in general. I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the film, but it almost seemed too idiosyncratic for its own good. It's hard for me to put this in context with the rest of Tarkovsky's work since I haven't seen any of it yet. The shortcomings of this otherwise satisfactory film make me want to explore more of his work ("Andrei Rublev" is on my Netflix cue).



Soderbergh admits that his film is not a remake of Tarkovsky's, but rather another interpretation of Lem's novel. Fair enough. Almost from the beginning, it seems as if it's on a different wavelength as the 1972 film. Kelvin (played excellently here by George Clooney) is shown in the opening scenes as dark, depressed and moody (his wife committed suicide several years prior), but is told of the failed Solaris mission and is whisked off almost immediately. There he finds -- like in the original film -- freaked-out crew members, their long-dead friends and family, and -- of course -- his long-dead wife.

Unlike Tarkovsky's version, Soderbergh chooses to focus on Kelvin's attempt to hang on to this apparition that poses as his wife, in an attempt to repair the broken relationship and make amends (he feels responsible for her suicide). He's deluded, of course; his wife is dead and is no longer real. While concentrating on the relationship may illicit groans from purists and give the film "chick flick" appeal, there's really nothing wrongheaded with taking this approach. It gives the science fiction genre a humanistic element sorely lacking in an age of robots and special effects. Beneath the hum of space station machinery, there lurks a cerebral, caring film.

I wholeheartedly recommend both versions of "Solaris," while leaning a bit more on the 2002 version. But keep in mind that these are not whiz-bang special effects-laden movies. If you're willing to sit back and enjoy an interesting story that takes its time and looks great (and also sounds great - the modern-sounding score in Soderbergh's version is brilliant), you're in for a nice ride. Two of them, in fact.