SOLARIS
There Are No Answers, Only Choices
Some say it’s cold and empty, others say it’s pretentious or boring. It was unfavourably compared to the novel (Stanislaw Lem, 1961) and to Andrei Tarkovsky’s revered 1972 film, and even those who liked it weren’t entirely convinced. The box office pull of George Clooney wasn’t enough, and people stayed away in droves, but Steven Soderbergh’s Solaris might be a misunderstood masterwork.
Well, ‘masterwork’ may be an exaggeration, but Solaris is better than the critical consensus suggests. Soderbergh set the bar high by tackling this film. There were many—myself included—who balked at the idea of a Hollywood remake, particularly with James “Titanic” Cameron as producer, and given that one's appreciation of any film is largely determined by what one brings to it, it’s no surprise that some would find the film hard to like. But Soderbergh's version is successful on its own terms, an intelligent and effective cinematic meditation on grief and reconciliation that is ultimately very moving.
In aesthetic terms alone, the film is impressive. The images are hallucinatory and the layering of realities and timeframes (memory and dream; past and present; the real and the imagined) is skilfully handled. The acting is largely restrained, and even Jeremy Davies's penchant for psychotic mannerisms is put to great ambiguous effect. Only the character of Gordon could be said to typify a Hollywood stereotype, but even that has a valid function in the scheme of things, and is perfectly nailed by Viola Davis. I sympathise with viewers who were irritated by the “vanity” of actors George Clooney and Natascha McElhone, but Hollywood movies are nothing if not effective mechanisms for seduction, mesmerising the world with the propaganda of boundless exceptionalism.
Soderbergh’s Solaris explores themes similar to those in Tarkovsky's film—ideas about sacrifice, redemption, truth, reality—and while the influence of Tarkovsky is apparent (along with Kubrick, Resnais, Marker), Soderbergh has his own philosophical and aesthetic points to make, revisiting the temporal displacement and fragmentation evident in his earlier work but on another level entirely. From the first frame it's apparent that Solaris is going to be… well, not a typical Hollywood product.
The film opens with a melancholic shot of rain on a windowpane, the first of a number of subtle nods to Tarkovsky (renowned for his use of the elements, but particularly rain), and an indication of Soderbergh’s art-film intentions—contemplative and elliptical.
The next shot is of the central character, clinical psychologist Dr. Chris Kelvin (George Clooney), sitting on his bed. Kelvin is emotionally dead. Living with the suicide of his wife Rheya (McElhone), he merely exists. In voice-over we hear Rheya saying, “Chris, what is it? I love you so much. Don’t you love me any-more?” These words are delivered with emotional detachment, but the flat intonation has a purpose that will soon become apparent.
The next few shots depict Kelvin’s emotional isolation, a man merely existing. While fixing dinner one evening, he cuts his finger. This scene will be repeated near the end of the film to illuminate one the central themes. Kelvin is then visited by men from a company operating a space station orbiting the planet Solaris, who show him a video message from his close friend and colleague, Galbarian. Ostensibly a plea for assistance, the message is a cryptic invitation for Kelvin to experience Solaris for himself. “I think you need it,” Galbarian says. We then learn that security forces were sent to the planet but disappeared, implying that the planet Solaris is an alien intelligence that functions much like The Zone in Stalker—only allowing the most desperate souls to come close. The company men ask him to accept a mission to go to the planet in a final bid to rescue the stranded crew. He agrees, ostensibly for the sake of the crew, but also—as it transpires—to find refuge for his stranded soul.
As Kelvin’s pod docks with the space station, we hear for the first time (a good seven minutes into the film) a segment of Cliff Martinez’s beautiful score, which perfectly complements the rhythm, feeling and tone of the film. The first shot aboard the space station is of Kelvin standing with his back to the camera and head turned as if aware of an unseen presence—another Tarkovskian quote. He notices blood on the floor, ladders and ceiling, and soon discovers Galbarian in a body bag. He sees a young boy on the level above and runs after him, but he seems to vanish. He then encounters Snow (brilliantly played by Jeremy Davies), who doesn’t recognise Kelvin at first, but when he does it feels like a guess. Snow shrugs it off, but the impression is that he—or this facsimile of Snow—doesn’t actually know who Kelvin is. When asked about the boy, Snow says that it’s Galbarian’s son. When Kelvin asks him what’s happening, Snow says, “I could tell you what’s happening, but that wouldn’t tell you what’s happening.” The line is delivered with barely veiled condescension.
Kelvin then talks to Gordon, the only "living" crew member aboard. She has isolated herself in her room with her “visitor”, something Solaris conjured up especially for her. After Kelvin asks her what’s happening, she says, “Until it starts happening to you there’s no point discussing it.” He learns that each crew member has their own “visitor”. The planet Solaris appears to be a mysterious consciousness that “creates” life-like manifestations from an individual's subconscious, presumably a form of defence that "disarms" a potential enemy by preoccupying them with manifestations of their long-buried guilt-ridden past. It’s a metaphor for the religious promise of forgiveness, reconciliation and redemption.
As he prepares for sleep, he listens to another of Galbarian’s video messages. “We don’t want other worlds,” Galbarian says, “we want mirrors.” This is another nod to Tarkovsky, but it’s also one of a number of comments in the film that refers to the nature of cinema. It's also a comment on humanity—our perpetual fascination with ourselves.
As Kelvin settles into sleep, Solaris enters his subconscious, capturing him in his dreams—another allusion to cinema. Soderbergh uses Kelvin’s dream as a montage to reveal his and Rheya’s backstory. They met at a party, at which Galbarian tells Kelvin about their ongoing study of the planet Solaris, which seems to be reacting as if it knows it’s being watched. As he says this, Rheya walks across the room as if she knows she is being watched. As Kelvin goes up to talk to her, she appears like a mirage, a formless shape that slowly comes into focus as he enters her orbit. It’s a visual rhyme for how Rheya will “take shape” as Kelvin’s “visitor” on Solaris, becoming “more real” as he engages with her, but it’s also a visual metaphor the mirrors the dream-like, phantom-like character of memory.
As the montage continues, we see their relationship develop. We hear an excerpt from a Dylan Thomas poem, “Though lovers be lost, love shall not, and death shall have no dominion.” It’s a key to how Soderbergh would like us to read the film. The montage is richly cinematic, conveying (with help from Martinez’s excellent music) a palpable sadness. This sense of sadness is very much at the heart of the film, the pain of irretrievable loss, existential separation, and grief so deep that solace can only be found in death.
Half dreaming, Kelvin awakes to find Rheya beside him, a living, breathing replica of his deceased wife. She appears, once again, as an out of focus shape, a ghostly apparition. Kelvin jumps out of bed in a panic. “Chris, what is it? I love you so much. Don’t you love me anymore?” Solaris puts Kelvin’s memory of the real Rheya’s words into Rheya2’s mouth, spoken with the emotionless delivery of an automaton. Knowing that Rheya2 is a “visitor”, Kelvin sends her into space in a pod. “Will she come back?” he asks Snow. “Do you want her to?” Snow perceptively replies. After a second memory-filled night’s sleep, Kelvin wakes to find Rheya3 beside him. This time he follows his feelings.
As he spends time with her, Rheya3 begins to “remember” more of the Rheya and Kelvin’s past. She recalls the pregnancy, the abortion, the arguments, and gradually realises that she is not the real Rheya, but a construct based on Kelvin’s memories. It’s an interesting revelation: a memory is only a memory, so one’s recollection of a lost loved one will always be sketchy, never the real thing, and the less one remembers the more the loved one fades. We remember the past as best we can, or as we re-imagine or misremember it. Denial is a powerful ally for those who can’t accept the past. Solaris is about a person looking for release from something he can’t undo, striving to be free of unbearable guilt and grief.
The next time Kelvin wakes, Galbarian is beside him. “She’s not your wife,” he says, “that boy isn't my son. They’re part of Solaris.” “What does Solaris want?” asks Kelvin. ‘Why do you think it has to it ‘want’ anything?” says Galbarian, “There are no answers, only choices.” All of the conversations with Galbarian have philosophical overtones, an indication that Soderbergh wants his Solaris to be viewed as a thought-piece, not merely an entertainment.
But by this stage Kelvin is in too deep. He’s willing to commit to Rheya3 at all cost. Rheya3 knows she’s a replica, and knows that Kelvin’s love for her will prevent him from returning to Earth. She recalls Gordon talking about generating enough energy to “dissolve” visitors, so she asks Gordon to 'evaporate' her to ensure Kelvin’s return home.
Gordon and Kelvin prepare to leave in a craft called ‘Athena’ (the Greek god of wisdom, art, and intellect), but Kelvin hesitates in the doorway. He remembers life on Earth without Rheya, a loveless and pointless living death. “I was wrong about everything,” he says. He shuts the door to the Athena and sends Gordon back to Earth without him, a metaphor for rejecting the Worldliness of Athena and embracing “Eternal Life” with Rheya. Suddenly Kelvin is back in his kitchen preparing dinner. He cuts his finger again, but this time it heals immediately. He senses that something has changed, something profound.
As the space station plummets towards Solaris, Galbarian’s boy appears, his arm outstretched much like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel image of God reaching out to humankind. Kelvin clasps it firmly, desperately. He finds himself back in the kitchen again, but this time with Rheya. “Am I alive or dead,” he asks. “We don’t have to think like that anymore,” she says, “Everything is forgiven.”
Whether Soderbergh’s Solaris compares with Tarkovsky's richly poetic existential epic is a matter of personal taste, but frankly, it’s irrelevant. Like its predecessor, Soderbergh’s version has enough respect for the viewer not to tell them what to think or how to respond, which might (in part) account for why it failed to connect with a general audience. The criticism that the film is cold and empty is curious given that ‘emptiness’ is central to what the film is about, so it's only natural that it would be reflected in the aesthetics of the film. Setting a film in space automatically evokes chilly emptiness, which perfectly befits a meditation on spiritual despair.
Although primarily about loss and grief, the film could be read as the suicide fantasy of its emotionally disturbed central character. The opening scene shows Kelvin sitting alone and depressed in his apartment. This scene is returned to near the end of the film, suggesting a circle in which everything between might have been a sort of suicide fantasy, in which the space station crashing into Solaris could be Kelvin's death framed within that fantasy. While such a reading is speculative, the film nevertheless works as a compelling study of a broken individual finding love and forgiveness.
Solaris can also (and easily) be read as a Christian allegory: Kelvin (humankind) seeks release from guilt (original sin); Solaris (a mysterious unknowable force) intercedes by sending Rheya (a sacrificial Christ figure, her name means ‘Goddess’); with the help of Gordon (representing a worldly agenda), Rheya seeks to transmute Kelvin’s brokenness (the spiritual condition of humanity) through a Sacrificial Act of Unconditional Love (Redemption through Grace).
Is it a coincidence that the space station resembles a Russian Crucifix? If the planet can be read as a God-like entity, the cross-like shape of the space station mirrors the Christian idea that access to God is via the "Sacrifice of the Cross". In this sense, Rheya’s repetitive suicides reflect the classic religious symbolism of Eternal Sacrifice. But it’s also an effective metaphor for the power of human love and forgiveness. We may fall short of Unconditional Love, but in aspiring to it we might get a glimpse of the answer to the Unanswerable Question.