quatloos
Joined Jul 2001
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quatloos's rating
`Solaris' could have been much better had it stayed closer to the intent of Stanislaw Lem's original novel. In Lem's novel, Solaris is a planet totally covered by a gelatinous sea that may or may not exhibit sentience. Humanity puts a station into orbit around the planet to study this colloidal ocean, this strange blob that may or may not be an alien life form. Strange things begin to happen. Geometric shapes appear and disappear in space for no discernable reason, followed by purposeless contraptions, and finally by physical manifestations of people from the scientist's own pasts. The reasons for all this are never determined, and never CAN be determined. Solaris, then, represents the human subconscious, which is not amenable to logic, analysis, or definitive `explanations.' The subconscious generates impulses, dreams, and creative variations for no `purpose' other than to express. To approach the subconscious with mere logic is like asking why circles are round: they just are. Yet man (Western man especially) will not hear of this, for he fancies himself a rational being. He likes to think that his logic dominates his instincts, a delusion that distorts his reason and causes him untold suffering. He insists that he can use the surface of his mind to delve into its own depths, which is like trying to understand a computer program while being controlled by the program itself. Result: one goes in circles that are fraught with obsession, tyranny, and hypocrisy. The surface of the mind can only deal in dualities, in definite things, in hard edges and sharp corners, in actuality. By contrast, the subconscious is the realm of formless, vague, and dynamic potential. It is as amorphous as the strange ocean that covers the planet Solaris.
Such was the intent of Len's novel. The film itself comes closest to this point when a character remarks that, `We don't want other worlds, we just want mirrors.' This concept is pursued further in the film when Chris Kelvin, a psychologist who is sent to the station (George Clooney) grapples with how he related to his dead wife, who suddenly appears to him out of nowhere. Kelvin gradually realizes that he had mostly been in love with a mirror of himself. It dawns on him that he was married not to a person but to his projection, just as the physical manifestation of his wife on the space station is a `projection' from the planet Solaris. Kelvin's failure to understand this about himself while his wife was still alive on earth is made all the more poignant by the fact that he is a psychologist -- someone who supposedly appreciates the vagaries of mind. Indeed, it is his very talent at seeing into the human mind that thwarts his wife's attempts to communicate with him as a conscious being with her own profound feelings. After all, as a psychologist, it's Kelvin's `job' to dissect, analyze, and `figure out,' not to submit to another in the interests of intimacy, even though Kelvin craves intimacy as much as any other human.
Meanwhile, regarding art direction, technical details are de-emphasized, which supports the story's message that human technology can never lead to an understanding of a truly alien thing. This is a refreshing change from tedious attempts by special effects people to show off their computer skills. The space suits, however, are unforgivably hokey. They look like silver overalls worn by oil derrick workers, not something that provides raw life support in the most hostile environment there is: space.
Among the film's more fundamental problems is its apparent attempt to satisfy today's demand that a storyline must revolve around a `love interest.' With just a few more minutes of running time, a few more lines of dialogue, and a few more hints at the overall meaning of the planet Solaris, the movie would have retained what it has, including the `love interest,' while also including themes that are more clearly universal and profound.
The film's biggest flaw, however, is wrapped in its primary strength, which is its over-reliance on mood and ambience. At first glance this may seem a refreshing change. Today, Hollywood rarely budges from hackneyed storytelling formulae because moviegoers turn up their noses when presented with anything too fresh and original, anything that is too much of what they ask for. Nonetheless, a director must balance mood with plot. He must counter-foil ambience with action. He should start with a forceful story, pithy dialogue, and purposeful action, and intersperse these with scenes that have no plot, dialogue, or action at all--just photography accompanied by memorable music that fleshes out the story's `feel' and `spirit.' `Solaris,' however, is nothing BUT `feeling' and `spirit,' a pastiche of glances, gestures, and snapshot scenes that occasionally approach brilliance, but, taken as a whole, demand more than they return. Thus, `Solaris' loses its balance. This is why some people walk out of the theatre before the film ends. They appreciate that there may just be a profound message somewhere in it but, weary of its nebulousness, they resign themselves to asking friends what THAT was all about. Most of their friends will shrug their shoulders, and even when one of those friends offers a useful interpretation, the moviegoer thinks, `Oh. I see. Whatever.'
`Solaris' will flop commercially, but time will be kind to it. It is like a small coral atoll that breaks out on the surface of an ocean. At first, people scorn the atoll, step on it, and dump trash on it. Then, as the water around it sinks-i.e., as today's awful movies continue to become even more awful-the atoll becomes an island, and finally a mountain that towers over the sinking sea. This does not mean that `Solaris' will one day become a `cult classic,' or any kind of `classic' based on its intrinsic qualities. It means that the film will eventually be somewhat more appreciated in the context of its time. Viewed from this angle, I salute the director for at least trying to do something different in a way that's constructive, rather than adolescent, vulgar, or gratuitous.
Such was the intent of Len's novel. The film itself comes closest to this point when a character remarks that, `We don't want other worlds, we just want mirrors.' This concept is pursued further in the film when Chris Kelvin, a psychologist who is sent to the station (George Clooney) grapples with how he related to his dead wife, who suddenly appears to him out of nowhere. Kelvin gradually realizes that he had mostly been in love with a mirror of himself. It dawns on him that he was married not to a person but to his projection, just as the physical manifestation of his wife on the space station is a `projection' from the planet Solaris. Kelvin's failure to understand this about himself while his wife was still alive on earth is made all the more poignant by the fact that he is a psychologist -- someone who supposedly appreciates the vagaries of mind. Indeed, it is his very talent at seeing into the human mind that thwarts his wife's attempts to communicate with him as a conscious being with her own profound feelings. After all, as a psychologist, it's Kelvin's `job' to dissect, analyze, and `figure out,' not to submit to another in the interests of intimacy, even though Kelvin craves intimacy as much as any other human.
Meanwhile, regarding art direction, technical details are de-emphasized, which supports the story's message that human technology can never lead to an understanding of a truly alien thing. This is a refreshing change from tedious attempts by special effects people to show off their computer skills. The space suits, however, are unforgivably hokey. They look like silver overalls worn by oil derrick workers, not something that provides raw life support in the most hostile environment there is: space.
Among the film's more fundamental problems is its apparent attempt to satisfy today's demand that a storyline must revolve around a `love interest.' With just a few more minutes of running time, a few more lines of dialogue, and a few more hints at the overall meaning of the planet Solaris, the movie would have retained what it has, including the `love interest,' while also including themes that are more clearly universal and profound.
The film's biggest flaw, however, is wrapped in its primary strength, which is its over-reliance on mood and ambience. At first glance this may seem a refreshing change. Today, Hollywood rarely budges from hackneyed storytelling formulae because moviegoers turn up their noses when presented with anything too fresh and original, anything that is too much of what they ask for. Nonetheless, a director must balance mood with plot. He must counter-foil ambience with action. He should start with a forceful story, pithy dialogue, and purposeful action, and intersperse these with scenes that have no plot, dialogue, or action at all--just photography accompanied by memorable music that fleshes out the story's `feel' and `spirit.' `Solaris,' however, is nothing BUT `feeling' and `spirit,' a pastiche of glances, gestures, and snapshot scenes that occasionally approach brilliance, but, taken as a whole, demand more than they return. Thus, `Solaris' loses its balance. This is why some people walk out of the theatre before the film ends. They appreciate that there may just be a profound message somewhere in it but, weary of its nebulousness, they resign themselves to asking friends what THAT was all about. Most of their friends will shrug their shoulders, and even when one of those friends offers a useful interpretation, the moviegoer thinks, `Oh. I see. Whatever.'
`Solaris' will flop commercially, but time will be kind to it. It is like a small coral atoll that breaks out on the surface of an ocean. At first, people scorn the atoll, step on it, and dump trash on it. Then, as the water around it sinks-i.e., as today's awful movies continue to become even more awful-the atoll becomes an island, and finally a mountain that towers over the sinking sea. This does not mean that `Solaris' will one day become a `cult classic,' or any kind of `classic' based on its intrinsic qualities. It means that the film will eventually be somewhat more appreciated in the context of its time. Viewed from this angle, I salute the director for at least trying to do something different in a way that's constructive, rather than adolescent, vulgar, or gratuitous.
In 1980 I read John Keel's book "The Mothman Prophecies," and when I first heard about this movie two years ago, I was excited. My letdown at the film was rather extreme. Confused, muddled, pointless and pretentious, this is not an example of effective storytelling. 99 percent of what was in the book was left out of the movie, yet, incredibly, John Keel himself said he LIKED this thing when he saw it at a premier. Poor Laura Linney's talents are wasted yet again.
The makers of this film sought, in part, to create a mature and intelligent blurring of the line between the "living" and the "dead." Unfortunately this formula has become trite, and this is what inevitably causes "The Others" to be compared with movies like "The Sixth Sense" (which I found equally predictable and disappointing). I had hoped for more originality, a new "Haunting of Hill House," perhaps, or "Turn Of The Screw." Alas, 20 minutes into the story, the ending of "The Others" was obvious. And its ending is depressing. Stories involving supernatural themes edify us most when they are uplifting as well as thought-provoking (e.g., "The Secret Garden"). If they are not uplifting, then they chronicle a descent into madness, and we already see too much of that in everyday life. A voyage through hell is only valuable when it is used to reveal the Light. This is especially true today, for as a society we are not bored and wish to be deliciously scared; instead we are stressed out and wish for some indication that peace and sanity are still possible. No such indication is provided by "The Others."
Regarding the movie's set decoration and camera work, these are passable but not on par with even so much as the recent "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." And the use of relentless white fog to suggest inter-worldly limbo has been around at least since 1944's "Between Two Worlds." No real originality there. Nonetheless, the trashier a summer-cinema season, the more elegant any alternative like "The Others" becomes by sheer comparison.
The main value of "The Others" lies in what it reveals about our culture's growing pessimism about virtually everything, including life after death. "Ghost" had a positive ending, but since its release in 1990, almost all stories involving supernatural topics (other than gratuitous horror flicks that entertain because they are hilariously awful) do not have characters going to Heaven, or even hell. There is no longer any Light, God, or Savior. The afterlife consists only of an endless, dreary, solitary limbo. The basic difference between this world and the next is that in the latter, we are each exposed as neurotic losers after all. Thus, movies with Satanic elements fail today because we have no divine elements to look forward to. Death only brings us eternal drabness and solitude. Even cinematic romances today mostly hinge on doomed love (e.g., "The English Patient," "Bridges Of Madison County," etc.) All we can do any more is hang on and grapple with our mounting anxieties. "The Others" might have used this reality as a springboard to suggest some fresh pathway to salvation. Instead, we have another example of political correctness applied to a supernatural theme, wherein we are asked why we and ghosts "can't just get along" in our mutually mirroring limbos. What a downer.
Regarding the movie's set decoration and camera work, these are passable but not on par with even so much as the recent "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." And the use of relentless white fog to suggest inter-worldly limbo has been around at least since 1944's "Between Two Worlds." No real originality there. Nonetheless, the trashier a summer-cinema season, the more elegant any alternative like "The Others" becomes by sheer comparison.
The main value of "The Others" lies in what it reveals about our culture's growing pessimism about virtually everything, including life after death. "Ghost" had a positive ending, but since its release in 1990, almost all stories involving supernatural topics (other than gratuitous horror flicks that entertain because they are hilariously awful) do not have characters going to Heaven, or even hell. There is no longer any Light, God, or Savior. The afterlife consists only of an endless, dreary, solitary limbo. The basic difference between this world and the next is that in the latter, we are each exposed as neurotic losers after all. Thus, movies with Satanic elements fail today because we have no divine elements to look forward to. Death only brings us eternal drabness and solitude. Even cinematic romances today mostly hinge on doomed love (e.g., "The English Patient," "Bridges Of Madison County," etc.) All we can do any more is hang on and grapple with our mounting anxieties. "The Others" might have used this reality as a springboard to suggest some fresh pathway to salvation. Instead, we have another example of political correctness applied to a supernatural theme, wherein we are asked why we and ghosts "can't just get along" in our mutually mirroring limbos. What a downer.