În ziua de 4 aprilie 1932 s-a născut Andrei Tarkovski, regizor, printre altele, al filmelor Andrei Rubliov, Oglinda, și Călăuza.
Azi, când în artă e atât de multă lipsă de credinţă, mă întorc des la Tarkovski pentru a găsi inspiraţie. "Trebuie să simţi că depinzi în sensul cel mai bun de Creator. Dacă nu simţi, eşti pierdut, nu eşti nicăieri. Imaginile adevărate apar când meşteşugul tău se identifică cu rugăciunea către Cel de Sus. E ca un dar". În plin regim comunist, el şi-a trăit vocaţia de cineast cu religiozitate. Filmele sale emană o energie spirituală incontestabilă. "Spiritualitatea creează adevăratele opere de artă şi îi naşte pe artişti. Dacă nu se simte nevoia de spiritualitate, societatea nu va avea nici artă". (Andrei Șerban, Despre doi artişti, regizorii exilaţi ai Rusiei... (I) - Andrei Tarkovski)
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Andrei Tarkovsky - dialog despre Science-Fiction:
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50 years ago, Andrei Tarkovsky made the most disturbing sci-fi movie ever:
Slow and unsettling, this classic work of Soviet sci-fi will make you reconsider how we relate to each other.
Science fiction can predict or inspire mankind’s future. But the great Soviet filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky had no such aspirations for his adaptation of the equally great Polish novelist Stanisław Lem’s 1961 masterpiece Solaris; he just needed work. His previous movie, Andrei Rublev, played briefly in 1966 before censors shelved it until 1971, and his script for what ultimately became 1975’s The Mirror failed to gain traction in-between. A story as cerebral as Solaris hardly screams potboiler, but 10 million tickets sold can’t be wrong.
Whether or not Tarkovsky cared about how the human race might live in the decades to come, and whether he had any interest in where our technological advancements might take us, Solaris, like any thoroughly-considered science fiction narrative, does make one loose prognostication about our unspecified hereafter. No matter how far we go as a species, life is hard, people are lonely, and nothing can beat the comfort of the bubbles we make for ourselves.
Whether or not Tarkovsky cared about how the human race might live in the decades to come, and whether he had any interest in where our technological advancements might take us, Solaris, like any thoroughly-considered science fiction narrative, does make one loose prognostication about our unspecified hereafter. No matter how far we go as a species, life is hard, people are lonely, and nothing can beat the comfort of the bubbles we make for ourselves.
The future, being unwritten, is easily imagined in sci-fi as bright, optimistic, and rich with possibility. Solaris thumbs its nose at this in two ways. First, the future the film presents to its audience is a workaday disappointment: The space station where two of its three acts take place has, per Tarkovsky, co-writer Fridrikh Gorenshtein’s screenplay, and Lem’s book, existed for decades, and the mission for which the station is a staging ground has produced bupkis. Nothing about Solaris’ context translates as futuristic, because Tarkovsky and Lem both treat spacefaring as trivial.
Second, technology in the film reads like a scrap heap patchwork that’s been peppered with dust for good measure. What does pass as futuristic in Solaris is such a discouraging industrial jumble that our present, though less developed as concerns the cosmos, feels preferable by comparison. Other high-minded sci-fi of the 1960s and ‘70s conceive of the future with clean and elegant construction: THX-1138, for instance, which came out in 1971, and of course 2001: A Space Odyssey. Tarkovsky pictures our future as worn-down and disheveled, a place we’ve yet to arrive at but that is somehow already in need of ample TLC. In Solaris, hope isn’t found in the future. It’s lost.
A bummer aesthetic, certainly, but a necessary one, because Solaris is a movie of anti-hope. Tarkovsky’s characters are stuck in their melancholy, held back by regret and remorse. Key science fiction tropes — space, technology, alien life — are used to confront these grim emotions with dour philosophical scrutiny. When psychologist Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis) is assigned the task of evaluating the health and well-being of the crew aboard a rickety space station orbiting the planet Solaris, a swirling, oceanic world apparently barren of life, he finds himself questioning his own life in short order..
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6 motive pentru a-l re-descoperi pe Tarkovski:
Andrei Tarkovsky: A Poet In the Cinema (1983) ENGL SUBS
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"Oglinda" - secventa aparitiei "elementului subtil" - min 5'05''
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