Andrei Tarkovsky: Elements of Cinema

Andrei Tarkovsky Elements of Cinema ROBERT BIRD

'A major contribution to the literature on the filmmaker. Robert Bird is thorough!} familiar with Russian sources unavailable to Fnglish readers and he has a remarkable sensirivit) ro the nuances

of cinematic construction. His writing is lucid and consistently illuminates Tarkovksy's c.,,, 111 tlu•J,fi• of Andrei Arsenievich (1999) and the major inrerI'll II\\ ""·'>' h) �Lwoj Zizek and Fredric Jameson, who have written \1111111�1) o( the way T:trkovsky's 'camera tracks the moments in which IIH dl·mem' '>peak', which allows it ro probe 'the truth of mosses'. I or .J.lme�on, however, the elemental character of Tarkovsky's cinema nnpile'> .1 l:tck of ophisrication and a naive belief in the objectivity of rhe cinematic image: ' 11'

I

•

The deepest contradiction in Tarkovsky is [ ...] that offered by a v:tlorization of nature without human technology achieved by rhe highest technology of the photographic apparatus itself. No reflexiv­ ity acknowledges this second hidden presence, rhus threatening to transform Tarkovskian nature-mysticism into the sheerest ideology.• Could it be that Tarkovsky's desire was ro chase the genie of spiriru:1liry back into the bottle of modernity by using the most modern of the :trts, and that, purporrin� to capture the objective Aow of time, his trademark long-takes merely showcase the virtuosity of the filmmaker? The problem with jameson's charge is nor so much that it ignores the conspicuou ly meracinematic passages in Tarkovsky's Mirror, where the prologue begins with a TV set and ends with rhe shadow of a boom microphone, and •.vhere the documentary sequences foreground rhe figure of the cameraman. or is the problem that Jameson ignores the self­ referential ' AT' monogram throughout Stalker and rhe episode where rhe Stalker's wife directly addresses the camera. The problem is that Tarkovsky' entire cinematic project was aimed precisely at exploring the cinematic apparatus and inve tigaring irs impact upon human experi­ ence- as much sensory as intellectual and spiritual. Tarkovsky's 'mysti­ cism' can only be assessed through his technique; his cinema of rhe elements requires consideration of the clements of his cinema. Vadim lu ov, the cameraman for Tarkovsky's first four films, has remarked that, in modernity generally and in cinema in particular, 'scientific and tech­ nical progres has for the first rime touched upon the sphere of rhc spi rirua I activi ry of humanity' .3 Ta rkovsky was acutely conscious of his precedents, believing that in cinema 'there is nothing more ro invent and accumulate: the earth has already been divided from the warers'.4 This nor only means that technology has spiritual significance, but also that henceforth spirirualmarrers must be seen in the light of technology. 12 I i111 roducrion

llu" I believe it possible both ro rake seriously the spiritual claims made 1•11 h h.tlf of Tarkovsky's films and to analyse these films on rigorous aes­ ll�t ••� �o.rueria; anything les would be ro do them a grave injustice. I he power of Tarkovsky's films lies not in their capture of the mys­ ' '' d pre�ence of narure or Russia or what have you, bur in tbe way they 111 •ke the clements of cinema inro conditions of the new, achieved in the �pc�o.t.Hor through the creen's mediation. As early as 1962., Tarkovsky h 1d ,t.ned his inrenrion ro base his work on the problem of 'the relarionlup hcrwecn spectator and arrisr',s thereby implying that he would nor .llll"lllpt to portray the 'e:trrh' and the 'nation' as essenrialized landscape 111 human m:tss bur preci ely as a Aar screen that facilitates encounters. l1ue, carl)' on he viewed this relationship in rather didactic terms, calling upon the cinema indusrry to rake up 'the development of spectators' .ll''lhctic raste' in order to create 'the most advanced cinema in rhe world' and fulfil 'the aesthetic tasks set before the art of cinema by the < nmmuni t P:uty'.6 More typically, however, Tarkovsky gave a purely .lc,rheric accounr of rhe problem: 'Cinema must nor explain but act upon llw spectator's feelings, so that the awakened emotion might give an nnpul!lc ro thought.'7 Slavoj Ziick has written thar 'Tarkovsky's cinemalic texture undermines his own explicit ideological projecr',8 but I .ll'g,uc rhar Tarkovsky's only real project was precisely the creation of this cinematic texture. As filmmaker Aleksei German has said, Tarkovsky was nor a 'grear thinker' but a 'great practitioner'.9 Nor was Tarkovsky a political or philosophical filmmaker. He made little overt comment on the Soviet system; his loudest may well have been the poster of Stalin which is Aeeringly glimpsed in Mirror as the camera pans obliquely through a printing plant. Instead, rhe earth was for him the set of spatial and ocial constraints that condition temporal existence and irs capture on film. His films arc a crucible of ideology and of the entire social imag­ marr, which incinerate upon re-entering the time of human life and the indeterminate space of the human body. I argue that Tarkovsky never lost ighr of the fact that he showed the world nor as it is, bur as it appears when distorted by refractive media, as if through a film of water. The fourth narural element, air, is most closely linked ro the ineffable atmos­ phere of hum:m life in rime, but this, I argue, is preciselr a sustaining condition that always remains beyond direct representation. Late in life Tarkovsky described himself as 'a poet rather than a cinematographer', yer in rhe same breath rejected the 'so-called "poetic cinema" where everything is deliberately made incomprehensible' (ST y

imroducrion

I

13

In 1.1� I, 1 he prcv�1lcnce of atmosphere over space, story or image ,1, ,ttl) ·"�m 1 .1 1c� · 1:11·kovsky with the rubric of poetic cinema, a concept dt.ll 111111 ""'�'\ 10 cnio>' wid�:: currency despite its inherent vagueness. It '' 1 fliiiiiiOII 10 \l'C poetic cinema as a distinct genre, which displays a 'l.thk ''' uct ure and performs a specific social function (i.e., that of elite Ulll'lll.1). l lowcvcr, theorists of poetic cinema have frequently defined it ,1\ 1 he very esse11ce of rhe cinematic medium. The coiners of the term in 1 he e:Jrl)' 1920s, French critics Louis Delluc and jean Epstein, regarded poetic or 'pure' cinema as that which captured the flow of life, as i f rhe bobbins of film partook of an eternally continuous flow of images. Cinema w:�s the closest marerial approximation w Plato's concept of time as a 'moving image of eternity'. Practically, pure cinema could mean any number of things. In Epstein's 1928 film The J-ail of the House of Usher the poetic qu11lity can be attributed to everything from the supernatural narrative to rhe incorporation of poetry (from Poe's story). lr is curious, though, that Epstein - like Ta rkovsky after him - showed a particular fascination with the natural flows of water, fire and wind. One sees here such peculiarly 'Tarkovskian' features as the currains blow­ ing into a room, as if admitting an alien presence, or a picture frame filling with fire. Yet i f these shots reflect a startling belief in the power of cinema ro channel fundamental forces of human reality and thereby transform the human world, rhey also measure this mystical aspiration against the representational limits of the medium. The tension between the intimation of metaphysical presence and consciousness of irs mechanical representation is what Delluc and Epstein termed photogenie - the peculiar power of the world on-screen. Early Russian film theorists responded warmly ro the concept of 'poetic cinema'. In addition ro defining i t in terms of medium specificity, however, the Russians demonstrated a marked tendency to link poetic cinema to a particular treatment of narrative. The idea of a qualitatively different kind of cinema plot appeared as early as t9.1.3 in a private letter of the young Boris Pasternak, who remarked: 'cinema perverts the core of rhe drama because it is called upon to express what is true in it, its sur­ rounding plasma. Let it photograph nor tales, but the atmospheres of tales.''0 This statement was echoed in 1928 by critic Viktor Shklovsky, who commented that the filmmakers Grigorii Kozintsev and Leonid Trauberg (known as rhe Facrory of the Eccentric Actor, or FEKS) 'film the air around their subject'. ' ' Not contenr with such breezily metaphorical descriptions, Boris Eikhenbaum suggested that the unique province of J J 1)

r4

I inrroducrion

tlw Llnema was a distinct narrative temporality, 'as if, after reading a 1111\d, you have dreamt it'.'� In the best works of early Soviet cinema, such ,,, l'udovkin's Mother ( 1 926) and Dovzhenko's early films Arsenal ( 1 929) 111d Farth ( 1930), critic Adrian Piotrovsky saw the rise of an 'emotional 1 J I H: m a and a 'lyrical' cinema, dominated by the close-up and long 1.1kc.11 Perhaps more important than any particular technique, however, ''the way that these films shifted the cenrre of the film's meaningfulness It om rhc srory to the viewer's creative reconstruction of it. Alexander B. 1 kshy saw poetic cinema as rejecting the model of representation and ll'VC:lling instead the modes in which we present the world ro each orher.'4 'In general', Shklovsky agreed, 'the point is not the structure of the mon­ '·'l!,C, bur the method of the artist's attitude towards nature, in the type of .111enrion which he teaches rhe viewer.' •s The concept of narrative thus reconciles the two major conceprual11 .1tions of poetic cinema - as a discrete genre (among many) and as the purest manifestation of the cinemaric medium - by focusing attention on cinema's u e of temporal form to cultivate modes of attending ro rhe world. The idea of poetic cinema owed much ro Henri Bergson's philoso­ phy of rime, though Bergson himself rejected cinema because of irs inher­ ent need to convert the seamless flow of lived rime into a sequence of frozen instants. This distinction - between the illusion of continuity and rhe actual discontinuity of the cinema apparatus- has replayed itself over and over in the hisrory of cinema aesthetics. A new beginning has been marked by the work of Gilles Deleuze, who, by rejecting the simplistic bipolarity of conrinuiry/disconrinuiry and reality/representation, captures the complex interaction of image and world as a constituent element of rime itself. Deleuze's analysis of the rime-image is of particular impor­ tance for understanding Tarkovsky, who consistently defined the basic clement of his cinema as rime. However, I believe that the resolution of this dilemma- and the peculiar temporality of Tarkovsky's works - can be formulated most precisely in the broader aesthetic framework of narrative. The cinematic apparatus merely internalizes the fundamental tension within all aesthetic work, that between continuous progression (suspense) and the isolated image (suspension) that interrupts and ulti­ mately ends the narrative flow. If cinema is rhus bound continually to conremplare irs paradoxical nature, as at once continuity and disconti­ nuity, simultaneous presence and a layering of memory, then poetic cinema is rbar which addresses this dilemma in the most direct and ele­ mental manner. '

.

inrroducrion I 15

Th�: clcm�:nral character of poeric cinema must nor be confused wirh

llll ll', of potentiality within rime, which cinema intensi fies in human

192.7 Cl>�ay 'The Fundamentals of Cinema' lurii Tynianov

nplricnce. In Tarkovsky it is rhc clements of cinema that enable rhe

naivcq•. In hi�

dtmcnts of nature ro be.

compare� rhe ri!>e of cinema art to rhe development of writing our of

c,,,·en rhe conscrvari m of many of Tarkovsky's public staremenrs

�chemaric totemic drawings. Just a rhe poorly drawn fur and head of a

'helped the drawing to turn into a sign', so also 'rhc "poverty" of cinema, ir flarnes and colourlcssness, ha,•e become positive mean�,

thour art. especiall)' later in life, ir is no surpri e rhat critics have recipro-

genuine rc!>ource!> of arr'.'h The flar screen allow

space', for in.,r.tncc in fade-out!> ro Aa hbacks, which contravene the m,Hc­

.1 rule, more exciting and rewarding respon e have been provided by trtt'>t�. from Chri �larker and Alck andr okurov in their cinematic

rialit)' of bodie while uggesring the ceasele s commerce between bodie!>

hon1.1ges, and Toru Takemir u and Franmet l i{e and David Bate'!> Zo11e (2.001), a series of photographs taken in I ..wnia, where Stalker wa� shot. For imtancOmatic experience. In examining this idea I shall focus on ·uch major fc:uurcs of Tarkovsk>r's cinema as the crossing of human ga7cs in the space of rhe screen; rhe sometimes violent sublima­ tion of rhe imagt: as it is transformed into temporal experience; rhe usc of cinematic narrative ro culrivarc new types of arrenrion in rhe viewer; and rhe !>tudy of atmospheres as conditions of experience. In sum, rh�: clements or cinc111:1 arc inscparnblc from th:.ic fllm is projected :tt a slow rare of rwo instead of the normal 2.4 frame� per econd. According ro new-media theorist Mark Hansen, the sul>pcnsion of Hitchcock's narrative ' trips the work of representa­ tional "content" ( . . . 1 such that whatever it is that cnn be said to con­ ..urure rhe content of the work can be generated only in and through the newer'!> corporeal, affective experience, as a qunsi-nutonomous cre­ anon'.'0 Hansen argues rhac, by withholding representation and render­ mg the spectator's body as the compositional centre, recent video art

captures the way rhar the surface of Tarkovsky's screen u es subrle varia­ tion in texture and colour ro puzzle our vision and elicit from us a more assertive po:.rure of viewing. Given the inreresr of so many arrists in Tarkovsky's work, it is ironic that Solaris, a film about unsuccessful copies, has been the only Tarkovsky film ro suffer a Hollywood remake, at the hands of Steven Soderbergh in 2002. T�ukovsky purists were understandably bemused; even Stani taw Lem, rhe author of the original novel and Tarkovsky's nemesis, allegedly acknowledged Tarkovsky's pre-eminence. Yet, while

redefines the very nature of the image, which 'now demarcates the very process through which the body [ . . . 1 gives form or in-forms informa­ tion'.>• While Hansen insists rhar this is a distinct quality of the new digital media, Tarkovsky's films demonstrate its applicability also co

the value of Tarkovsky's films seems inseparable from their unrepcatable virtuosic performance, even Solaris-2 responds creatively enough to be thought-provoking. In fact, the very idea of remaking Solaris reminds us that Tarkovsky's 'original' is also a kind of copy of Lem's novel, which in turn is concerned precisely with the srarus of clones vis-a-vis their human prototype. Like 'Hari-2' (as Kris dubs her), Solaris-2 is a deriva­ tive product chat borrows irs inrelligence from an 'original' and is sub­ jeer co the imperfection:. of the distracted copyist; just as Hari-2.'s dress apes deraib of rhe original design without understanding their function­ ality, such as the laces wirh no ends, so do echoes of Tarkovsky's film surface randomly in Soderbergh's remake (bur without formal acknow­ ledgement in rhe credits). Like Kris with l lari, the sympathetic viewer tries to guard Sodcrbergh's film against the shame of being exposed as an empty Aow of neutrinos. Suspended between the crossed gazes of the Ocean and of Kris, llari-2 is positioned as a human subject and begins ro respond accordingly; similarly, a film depends on the quality of the gazes that r8

I i Ill roJucrion

I rl

, lu

rh lntroducrion

I

19

works in older media where the suspension of narrative flow makes the specraror (or reader) the centre of composition. To my mind, the key dis­ tinction between Tarkovsky and Gordon is not so much the medium itself (i.e., film vs digital video), but that Tarkovsky retains the pretence of narrative continuity within rhe bounds of an autonomous work, whereas Gordon presupposes the viewer's familiarity with Hitchcock's classic of suspense. However, rhe underlying relationship between suspense and suspension in the two artists (and, more broadly, in poetic cinema and contemporary video art} differs only in degree, not in kind. Tarkovsky's treatment of the image is exemplified by the character of Foma, rhe unsuccessful apprentice icon-painter in Andrei Rublev. As I have argued in my book on Andrei Rublev, Foma is a poor icon-painter nor only for his indolence and empty ambition, but even more for his tendency ro imagine. 'You're endlessly making things up', Andrei scolds. I f we attribute the scenes of flying and rhe Russian Calvary ro his imagin­ ation, we see thar Andrei's comment touches on the heart of hi's own dilemma as icon-painter - and of Ta rkovsky's as the author of the film: how can one convert the world into an image without reducing it to one's own fantasies? Unlike Foma, Andrei is receptive; he observes and analyses before setting brush ro surface. Though representation is not per se a pious or passive enterprise, ir does involve detaching one's vision from one's own mental images, verifying the image with time. l n this T sec a distinct parallel between Tarkovsky's films and Mark Wallinger's remarkable installation Via Dolorosa (2002), a video projection of excerpts from Franco Zeffirelli's film jesus of Nazareth (1.977) with a large central porrion of the screen blacked out. Unlike Malevich's Black Square, which it overrly references, Via Dolorosa retains the promise of representation even as it denies the viewer easy visual gratification, thereby dramatizing the role of narrative (whether inherent or external to the work) in filling in the em pry spaces in the representation. This is just one more suggestive example of how Tarkovsky's films continue to func­ tion creatively within rhe world of modern art and can continue ro make crucial contributions to contemporary aesthetic theor)' The foregoing provides a preview of some of my speculative claims, but first and foremost this book is intended ro serve as an hisrorical and inter­ pretive guide ro the seven major films and numerous other projects of Andrei Tarkovsky. The following chapters deal with each major work in rough!)' chronological order, beginning with his student works and 20

I inrroducrion

ulmi nating with his staging of Mussorgsky's opera Boris Codunov and Ill., linal film Sacrifice. As far as possible I have tried to take each film on its own terms, happily ignoring, for instance, the old canard that Tarkovsky 'o1w.:how disfavoured his third-born feature film Solaris. At various times hi.' was viciously critical of Ivan 's Childhood and Andrei Rublev, but they .m: no lesser films for it. Unfortunately, by adopting a moralizing and often ,df-important tone, in his printed texts (especially the late compilation \wlpting in. Time) , Tarkovsky unwittingly comributed to the tendency of uucrprering his films as woolly mystical fables. Tarkovsky's reflections on h1s craft sound suspiciously like a negation of the cinematic, a legacy that h.1� been further ingrained by his closest disciple in Russia, Aleksandr )okurov. Certainly Tarkovsky's essays and interviews over rhe years are uwaluable supplements ro his films. His insistence on rime as the central c�regory in his films seems to me both correct and productive. However, my inclinarion throughour has been nor ro read Tarkovsky's films through his statements, but ro read his statements through his films. The organization of the book also reflects my underlying argument, 1 har the meaning and significance of Tarkovsky's films are accessible only through their direct apprehension as art works. I rake as my guides the four traditional elements of matter, each of which is approached through disLincr elements of cinema that conditioned Tarkovsky's work, from 'l>ystem' and 'imaginary' to 'screen', 'image', 'story', and 'shot'. Along the way I shall consider and clarify Tarkovsky's thought in rhe broader context of film theory, especially in the final chapter on 'atmosphere', a profoundly problematic concept bur an almost inescapable term of refer­ ence in discussions of poetic cinema. I begin with the first primal element, earth. I n the final episode of Andrei Rublev, Boriska discovers the right clay when he slides down a muddy slope in torrential rain. This clay forms the mould in which rhe bell is forged as a thing of beauty and a clarion of hope. Following the ana logy, it mighr seem that earth is the element in Tarkovsky's film that is most susceptible ro being a holder for symbolic meanings. After all, earth surrounds and supports the home, which one abandons only for shameful reasons (Stalker, Nostalghia, Sacrifice), to which one returns barefoot so as to sense each step of approximation (Mirror). Earth is the nation, Russia, and - at least in Solaris - the planet. These are all retrograde concepts, perhaps, but nor only in the sense that they appeal to an earlier time. They also have come to obscure what they represent and must be renewed in a fresh experience of earth itself. �

inrroducrion I 2 1

Earth is far more than a ve sci for nostalgia. Eanh dominates Tarkovsky's There Will Be No Leave Today ( 1958), in which a store of unexploded bombs is discovered beneath a town that has only reccnrly been reconstructed after World War 11. The very ea nh that has hosted and preserved rhc scarred town has become irs secret enemy. Aware thar detonation might Aarten the town, effectively reprising rhe effects of rhe war, a group of young oldiers excavate the bombs wirh loving attention, cradling rhem like newborns as they carry them out of rhe pit and rhen transport them by truck to a desolate gully. Tarkovsky himself played rhe soldier who lights rhe fuse, scoring rhe earth with craters and filling the air with smoke and dust. Earth is a vulnerable ground constantly covered, bartered and hurnr hy rhe other elements. The rrue marrcr of Tarkovsky's films, carrh is a necessary counterpoint to the catastrophic events - Aoods, storms, conAagrarions - rhar really interest him. Earrh, for me, denorcs rhe spatial conditions for Tarkovsky's depictions of humlln interiority. Earth is rhc system within which Ta rkovsky worked, rhe locations where his films unfolded, and rhe screen on which rhey are projcered. Fire is more broadly rhc clement of thought for Tarkovsky, who was at hellrt a committed iconoclast and bibliomachisr. Tarkovsky's films presenr a continuum of images rhar render rhe world visible while, at the very same rime, obscuring its material reality beneath the representation. By his own admission, Tarkovsky intended for his carefully crafted images ro burn up in rhe viewer ro acrivare ever-new meanings and senses (ST 89). The de igns we ee arc merely rhc medium reacting to rhc invisible pre cnce of a fire rhar is nor - and cannor be- represented. Ar the end of Andrei Rubliiv ir is when rhc coals srop glowing thar rhe icons appear. Thus fire comprises the words, stories and imaginary rhat do nor so much signify a presence as outline a poig nant possibility. Water is rhc universal clement of arr, for it reflects and refracts light around the objects ir covers, removing them from everyday use while intensifying our visual contacr with them. Tarkovsky's fascination wirh rhe di:tphanou clement of water was in evidence as early as Steamroller and Violin, where he repeatedly studies rhe effect of people and things passing through puddles and tracking water onto dry pavement, as if painting in water on the earth. Over rime, the ubiquity of water in Tarkovsky's films accrued baptismal connotations, as witness rhc fish thar swim in rhc submerged world of Stalker. However, as in rhe other cases, water is first and foremost a medium of representation; indeed, ir 1.2.

I

int roduclio11

the very basis of aesthetics, as a medium that transforms the world 1nLo image. These chapters rhus examine central features in Tarkovsky's .u�srheric presentation of material and ideological reality: rhe sensorium, tunc and the shot. Which leaves the clement of air, ro which Tarkovsky dedicated his final film, Sacrifice. As wind, air is an uncontrollable Aow like fire and water, destructive of human dwellings and human order. I n Stalker it is the most palpable trace of rhc :tlicn presence. Yet wind is also what is 1111 ed mosr in rhc sp:tcccrafr orbiting the planer Solaris; the cosmo­ n:tur attach paper strips ro the vents ro simulate rhe rustle of leaves in .1 breeze. Similar- in an as yet indefinable w:ty - is the concept of cine­ marie :trmosphcre, :ts rhm which both makes the film human and opens it up to the endlcs and inhospit:thlc Aows of nature. Atmosphere is the clemcnr of T:trkovsky's creative world that bridges his anistic and theo­ retical registers of discomsc. It is my ultimate task to define and account for rhis elusive clement that anim�ltcs rhc image without ever becoming visible. •�

i\ nore on technical marrers. I have taken rhe libt::rty of translating rhe titles

of Tarkovsky's films and orhcr works as rhey srrike my car in the Russian. This nor only involves rhe choice of /tlfli/S Childhood over the nonsen­ sical bur deeply ingrained My Name is Ivan, and of Time of Travel instead of rhe incorrect Travel in Time, but also rhe elision of rhe definite article from the films Steamroller nnd Violin, Mirror and Sacrifice. When nor drawing direct comparisons, I have used rhe ride Andrei Rublev for borh exranr versions of rhe film, despite my preference for the 1966 ''ersion that actually bears rhe ririe The Passion According to Andrei. While I have consulted as much of the documentary and secondary lit­ erature as possible, including unpublished archival holdings, I have tried throughout ro avoid duplicating material that is otherwise available in English. I eire exisring translations when available, although for the sake of accuracy and consistency I have provided my own translations of Tarkovsky's rexrs. I n light of rhc vast number of different editions my references ro Tarkovsky's diaries provide only the date of the relevant notanon. .

imroducrion I

2.3

ear

1 The System

,,. ,, I I, olm)

When the door opens in rhe first shot of Steamroller and Violin one 'l'll!.cs rhe curtain going up on Andrei Tarkovsky's career in cinema. ( )ut of this door will proceed an entire line of characters, from the t11cdieval icon-painter Andrei Rublcv to rhe post-apocalyptic visionaries l>omcnico and Alexander. It will open onto native landscapes and alien worlds, onro scenes of medieval desolation and post-historical apoca1> psc, and onto rhe innermost recesses of conscience. Yet, for the momcnr, rhe open door reveals only a chubby little schoolboy named \asha with a violin case and music folder, who awkwardly and renta­ l ivcly emerges into the familiar, if hostile courtyard of a Stalin-era block of Aars. Tarkovsk>r's seven major films have achieved such exclusive status in \oviet cinema that i r is easy ro ignore rhe degree ro which he, like little Sa ha, was at home in the very system that threatened and ultimately rejected him. There was, of course, no other way for him to pursue his vocation in the USSR, where everything from the total number of releases to each studio's supply of film-srock was stipulated in the yearly plan issued by rhe government, whose monopoly on film production was exer­ cised through rhe State Committee for Cinema Affairs (Goskino). While Tarkovsky's relationship with the authorities was never easy, his travails taught him how to use the system for his own ends. In years when numerous major films were banned outright, ro be released only with the onset of perestroika in the mid-1 98os, all of Tarkovsky's films were approved for domestic and foreign release and were reviewed in the Soviet press. Moreover, while Tarkovsky was at times inconvenient for the system, he was irs greatest international star throughout the 196os and '7os, an invaluable advertisement for Soviet art and the source of scarce

hard-currency earnings. In shorr, Tarkovsky and the system found ir within their mun1al interest ro achieve an accommodation, however tense and uncomfortable. The full sror)' of this fragile peace reaches epic proportions, especially in the years of Andrei Rublev and Mirror, which were both completed and released to international acclaim despite entrenched opposition within the Soviet bureaucracy. However, its main lineaments can be recogn ized already with Ta rkovsky's first steps in film, at a rime when he was unknown beyond rhe narrowly professional com­ mun ity, and when his high self-estimation had not yet been marched by comparable achievements and was certainly not shared unconditionally, even by his closest reachers and colleagues. Andrei Tarkovsky wa born on 4 April 1932. near Iurevets on the River Volga to the cast of Moscow, into a prominent family of intellectuals. His father, Arsenii Tarkovsky, was a respected but somewhat margin::tl poet who became a war hero in World War 1 1 . Arscnii Tarkovsky left his family soon after Andrei's birth, and rhe future director grew up in a household consisting of his mother Mariia Vishniakova and his sister Marina. He began his university studies at a n institute for Asian languages, but soon left and, after a term spent on a geological expedition, enrolled i n 1955 at VGIK, the main Soviet cinema institute, i n Moscow. Little i n Tarkov ky's previous life had suggested film directing as a vocarion, and he did nor approach his course of study as a maverick with firm preconceptions. Tarkovsky's education at VGIK formed him as a dis­ tinctly Soviet filmmaker in the academic tradition established by Sergei Eisenstein. In a 1966 interview, noting the careful orchestration of shot structure in his fir r feature-length film, Ivan's Childhood, Tarkovsky characterized it as 'a typical VGIK film, thought up i n rhe srudenr dor­ mitor>''·' Claiming rhat he had become a director only after Ivan's Childhood, he declared that, above all, 'studying at VGIK solidly con­

vinced me that you can't teach art'.• However, his srudenr films vividly illustrate the many benefits that Tarkovsky derived from his studies. For one thing, VGIK acquainted him with the very latesr in foreign film trends, such as Italian Nco-realism and rhe French New Wave. For another, one should not ignore the fertile creative environment fostered by Tarkovsky's classmates, from Andron Konchalovsky to Vasilii Shukshin and Orar losscliani, who would go on ro constitute an entire generation of young Soviet filmmakers. z.8 I c�nh

\Iter assisting JVI:trlen Khursiev on rhe film The Two Fedors in 1956, "l11d1 'r:trred Va ilii Shukshin, Tarkovsky and his future brother-in-law

\1, k,,mdr Gordon co-directed rhe short film The Killers in the same year, I 1 nlon Ernest Hemingway's short story and also featuring Shukshin. I I • J... dlers i in many respects a crude celebration of American film noir ""I J.III-agc culture, replete with blatant errors (from misspclt English 111 •ll lpttons ro dum y cuts) :tnd misjudgements (such as the' egro' cook 111 hi.H:kface). More accomplished is Tarkovsky's made-for-television 1111>\ 1c Ihere Will Be No Leave Todlly ( 1958), which made a deep impresu m on rhe denizen of VGIK and became a staple of commemorations of \\orld War 11.1 It tell of a detachment of young soldiers sent to remove a hur u:d each..: of explosives left over from the German occupation. \Vhile ll ltl.unmg firmly in the Soviet mould of narratives of patriotic heroism, it n\\nl ,, particular debt to Henri-Georges Clouzot's Wages of Fear ( 1953). I tkl· hrs rrench counterparts, Tarkovsky proved inclined to utilize classic ,1, \ 1ccs of suspense ro probe metaphysical resonances within a plain, 1111.1dorned picture of reali ty. Nonetheless, Tarkovsky n:mained within tlw mechanisms of rhe Soviet system ;1nd rhe world of the Soviet imaginary, I" " cvidenr from his collabornrion wirh Andron Konchalovsky and Oleg t >wt msk>' on a screenplay 'A nrarcric: Disranr Land', a heroic talc of cxplor­ lllllll in the spirit of Mikhail Kalarozov's The Unsenl Letter.� 13)' contrast with his early noir, Tarkovsky's first feature film

\ft'dmroller and Violin appears a quaint and harmless cinematic poem, prmocative only in irs unabashed innocence. It tells of the friendship hctwccn rhe young musician Sasha and a steamroller driver Sergei, who '·"c the lirrle boy and his fragile violin from rhe bullies who hang Hound Sasha's building in a Moscow rhar still bears the scars of war. l im rc\·erie is curtailed by the intervention of Sasha's morher, and Sasha " left to dream of a symphonic harmony between people and brighrly u1loured steamrollers in the renewed ciry cape. It is still patently amateur­ "h in ome regards; for instance, right at the beginning of the film one of the boy is playing keep-up with a ball, and when he clearly drops rhe ball he keeps kicking rhe air as if nothing had happened. If Tarkovsky had nor m.1de his other films, one would hardly be talking about Steamroller and Vwlin at all. Yet Steamroller and Violin is important not only as Tarkovsky's debut and the beginning of his collaboration wi rh co-scrcenwri ter 1\ndron Mikhalkov-Konchalovsky, c:1meraman Vadim lusov and com­ poser Viachesbv Ovchinnikov. In rhe first place, since ir was produced the S)'Stcm I

29

a a student project under clo e up�:rvision, i t is one of Ta rkovsky's best-documented films. Moreover, it provides a kind of compendium of all the techniques he learned at VGIK, as well a a tentative departure from the e tabli hed patterns of Soviet film. Surprisingly, i t was Tarkovsk>''s subrle innovation in this seemingly harmless short film rhat inaugurated the adversarial tone that subsequenrly came to dominate his relationship with the Soviet cinema authorities. Unlikely as i t seems, Steamroller and Violin was hounded from pillar ro posr by vigilant aesrheric watchdogs and was lucky to have been released ar all. Tarkovsky's project for Steamroller and Violin was accepted in 1960 a his final srudenr work and was lared for production at the Fourth Artistic Unit 'Yourh' (lunost') of Mosfilm, which specialized in chil­ dren's films. lr was to be a short film in colour, which if approved would be senr ro general relea c. Tarkovsky's supervisor was Mikhail Romm, an accomplished director and sympnrheric rcncher who ar rhe rime was resting rhc boundaries of posr-Stalin liberalization wirh his film Nine Days of a Single Year ( 1961 ), which provided a rare glimpse inro rhe for­ hidden world of nuclear physics. In rhe Soviet film syswm, preliminary npprovnl and even production were ofren rhe easy parts of rhe process. Ench completed film was shown ar Mosfilm for rhe members of the Artistic Council, who then subjected the work to comprehensive critique and discussion. As at previous stages, everything was up for collective deci ion, from rhe screenplay to casring, and from the scenery ro rhe camera angles and editing; many of the comments were subjective and amounred ro perry sniping. Tarkovsky accepted collegial review as pro­ ductive in principle, willingly irring in on discussions of others' work. Invariably, though, Tarkovsky did not relish his colleagues' responses ro his films.s At a meeting of rhe arrisric council of rhe Fou rrh Creative Unit on 6 .January 1961 Steamroller and Violin was subjected to a withering critique. Screenplay editorS. Ia. Bakhmer'eva insisted that, given irs sub­ jeer marrer, there was a dearth of mu ic in the film: 'I am nor at all persuaded by A. Tarkovsky's claim rhar he likes rhe fact that the viewer leaves the picture feeling that there is nor enough music.'6 The film was criticized for irs slow pace and weak dialogue. For M. Kh. Kochncv there was in ufficienr humour and it failed ro reach 'correct language usag.c'.7 He concurred with N. L. Bysrrova rhat ir was nor a film for children. While annoying, such nip,gling criticisms were never going tO concern Tarkovsky roo much. More worrying was the consensus view 10

I c:mh

1h.1t Steamroller and Violin displayed profounc.l ideological flaws. The 1 trher inisrcr characters of the teacher and mother, both of whom seem 111 Jclight in thwarting Sasha's dreams, implied a distressingly dis­ ll"'J1l:crful view of authority. The film's mo t rabid criric was one T. V. \ I.n n:evn, who condemned rhe film ourrighr as 'inrellccrual-philosoph­ ll.ll'. For Marveeva, even Sasha 's render age constituted an ideologica I 1111�1ake: 'He !Sashn] is nor a pioneer, nor even a little Octobrire. As of H"l, rhe norms of the social collective exert no influence over him.'� The 111.1in bone of contention, however, was 'the theme of rich and poor': "·"hn appeared as a spoilt little rich kid, socially disrincr from the street �hildren and the worker Sergei. When pressed, Tarkovsky's critics referred h:'� to rhe narrnrive rhan to formal aspects such as shot angles and t Jn1ng. Bakhmcr'eva clarified: Often this shift in accenr occurs due ro lapses. The carved leg of rhe piano, shot in close-up, has made rhe room look like a rich salon. It is evident that some derails nnd perspectives which have surprised even rhc director arc responsible for re-interpreting rhis scene.Y It w,t� as if the story would be basically acceptable if only i t were tole.! traighr, without 'derails and perspectives'. This aesthetic critique ccrilr foreshadowed Tarkovsky's more serious problems to come, while l.tlling arrenrion ro rhe way that his directorial technique would shift rhe l'mpha is in his films from narrative representation ro visual presentation. The problem was summa rized by Kochnev, who alleged rhat the him was 'objectivist' since i t refrained from staring the 'nuthorial attitude to the depicted phenomenon'. '0 lusov was :macked for the same alleged 'objectivism': 'How can an experienced cameramnn [ . . . j pass through the entire film a a figure of silence. ( . . . ] You should have taken up a definite position', Kochnev rold lusov." It mny seem strange ro call h1�o'·'s camerawork a 'figure of silence' when nor one shot is free of con­ 'Picuous refocusing, signalling a switch of perspectives within the lr.1me. The lack of a unifying authorial perspective also rendered rhc n,trrative insufficienrly clear. M. D. Vol'pin complained about rhe dance of rhc steamrollers at rhe end of rhc film: 'Nor a single viewer will understand rhat ir is ISasha's] dream.'" M. E. Gindin bid rhe blame on f\likhail Romm for encouraging excessive expcrimcnt:Hion, which may be .tcceprablc in film school, bur is 'impossible in :1 work which is supposed rile sysrcm I

31

educate, entertain, and how instructive rhings'. •.l What seems ro be ar issue is neither 'objectivism' nor 'subjectivism', bur the very multi­ plicity of perspectives, none of which is privileged as authorial and, therefore, authoritative. The situation was exacerbated by Tarkovsky's prickly response ro the to

criticisms. The deputy head of the Artistic Council, V. N. Zhuravlcv, summarized the meeting by predicting that Tarkovsky 'can become a good director of Soviet cinema if he rakes into account all of his shortcoming s'. Turning to Tarkovsky, he advised him to show more flexibility: 'Andrei, )'Oll will never be able to work well if you behave like rhis.''4 Thanking his elder colleague for their input, Tarkovsky noted that in the presence of a stenographer he was obliged ro register his disagreement with the ideo­ logical critique, which he couched in typically strident language:

I don't understand how the idea arose that we see here a rich little violinist and a poor worker. I don't understand rhis, and I probably never will he nblc to in Ill)' entire life. If it is based on the fact rhar everything is rooted in the contrast in the interrelations between the boy nnd rhc worker, then the point here is the contrast between art nnd labour, because these arc different things and only at the stage of communism will man find it possible ro be spiritually nnd physically organic. Bur this is a problem of the furure and I will nor allow this ro be confused. This is what the picture is dedicated ro. •s Tarkovsky crowned his spirited rejoinder by exclaiming rhar rheir enrire critique was 'forced' (vysosa11o iz pal'tsa, literally 'sucked out of their fingers'). More to the point, he rook issue with the qualification of the film a 'reali ric', revealing in the process a surprisingly nuanced appreci­ ation of rhis ambivalent term. Reali 111 is a flexible concept. The realism of Mayakovsky, the rea lism of Pausrovsky, the realism of Serafimovich, the realism of Ole ha and others, these arc all different. And when we speak of rea lism we musr speak regarding our own work. In the present case we arc dealing with a short film. A short must have irs own genre. This picture must belong to a certain genre and we have tried ro preserve this genre. Our task was to cr�:atc a convcnrional reality. Whar is the convention? That we could not develop the characters of rh�: Jl

I c�rth

h�:roes over four or five reels (chasti) in the manner of Gorky or Furmanov. We develop them in a purely conventional manner, �chemaricall)', which is what we are being condemned for.'6 \\ hen asked whose manner he worked in, Ta rkovsky answered: 'We \\nrk i n no one' manner' ('My ni pod kogo ne rabotaem'). In these 'P.lr�c, off-the-cuff comments Tarkovsky moves seamlessly from sran­ d.trd categories of Soviet artistic discourse (communism, realism) to ,t.1rtlingly original aesthetic conceptions. For him, apparcnrly, there was no outright conrradiction between the system's thematic and srylisric lumrarion and the ambitions of his cinematic project. The problem '' ·'' in read that his treatment of the conventional themes and stories of 1 he ovier S)'Stem avoided staking out an explicit position, and this lack of 1 .111 untried di rector named Eduard Abalov. The rushes from Abalov's hoot proved unacceptable for the Unit's artistic cottncil, which fired the h.tpk- unit of Mosfilm IIIliII's

Childhood wa mostly shown in c:trly mati nees without any advance notice. Tarkovsky's independent-minded behaviour in San Francisco prepared the ground for 'rhe future legends about T:t rkovsky's difficult and prick I y cha racrer' ,:9 a I rhough press reports noted on I y his 'very poinred, Hollywoodish shoes'. 10 The file on

Ivan s Childhood

also

rclarcs rhe curious case of the missing photograph. On the day of the premiere of

ll'an $ Childhood, 6 April

1962., a parry was held ar rhe Dom

roo long, rhe char.1crer of Galtsev roo 'infanrile', rhe character of Ivan

kino, a kind of official centre for cinema workcrs rhar included a norori­

roo 'hysterical', and rhe finale roo 'naturalistic' (a word applied ro

ou�ly wcll-srocked bar. At somc point, omeone rippcd some photo­

scenes of graphic sex or violence)Y• A document of 1 2. February 1962.

graphs off a small phoro exhibit dcvotcd to rhc film :111d presented rhem

lists specific shors rhar should bc cut or removed entirely in order to cor­

to Ta rkovsky, who was accosted hy local balmshki and accused of rhefr.

rect these hortcoming.s. A telegram dated 2. 3 March 1962. dem:tnded rhe

The :trgumcnr escalated, :tnd T:trkovsky resorted ro somc choice phrases

deletion of Hider's corpse from rhc documentary montage, as wc11 as

in defence of his insu lted wifc, lnn:1 Rausch. A ludicrously exrensivc

the cutting of rhe !>hot where the dcranged old m:lll !>how!> Ivan a

•m·csrig.ttion hy a commi!>-.ion of rhc Mo film Parry Committee and

certificate embo!>!>ed wirh rhe likenes� of Stalin.:- The finn I version of

thc Part)' Bureau of the First Creati,•c Unit absolved Tarkovsky of .Ill)'

/umr s Childhood sri11 attracted criticism from higher authorities for rhe

wrongdoing, bur it also notcd that rhe incidcnr h:1d contributed

gruesome document:try foot:tgc, and ro thi!> cia)' copies of rhe film differ

.1

in rhe com posit ion of the final sequence.

drunkard, :1n arroganr and mornll)' dissolme 111:111 who bears wairr. hr11shchev's Thaw, likc A11drei /Zubliiv, Tumabout was completed only

poerics True, production was marred by a mysterious flaw in the

lltcr Khrushchev lost power. Because of its perceived pacifism and unusual

film-srock, which p rom pted Ta rkovsky ro fire his cameraman Geo rgii

'ollnd, unril the 1 990s Turnabout was broadcast only once ( 1 4 April r 965)

Rerberg and repeat rhc ent ire location shoot shot for shor. The only reall y

"n Central A ian radio, in place of rhe regular nocturnal concert of clas­

critical document i n the files on Stalker is an editor's report from !arc

'll'.tl music. A 1 976 feature on Marg;1rira Terekhova mentions that she is

1 977, which demanded that Tarkovsky make the screenplay more fantas­

uu·renrly playing Queen Gertrude, bur conceals rhe name of the play's

tic by stressing the alien origin of the Zone irs 'violation of earthly

director and passes over in silence her recent role in Tarkovsky's Mirror ­

laws', and also rhe fictitious nature of the bo urgeoi s' country in which it i s set.6- Ta rkovsky's quick and easy acquiescence ro these demands ­

the role for which she is best known and most highly regarded.69

and their irrelevance ro rhe subseq uen t discussion - leads one to suspect

.trt direcro r for leon Kocharian's One Cha11ce in a Thousand (Odessa

that rhey may have been parr o f a ploy ro get Mosfilm ro re-launch pro­

I ilm Studio, 1 968); as screenwriter for Z. S abi rov's Beware, Snakes!

For Stalker Tarkovsky moved to a new reculiar

'

ex peri me nta l

'

.

,

'

Tarkovsky periodically worked on other's films: as screenwriter and

duction of Stalker as a double-length film, which it did in early 1978. The

(Uzb ekistan, 1979); and (allegedl y) as uncredited assistant on several other

only demands made of the prelim i nary edit were rhar Tarkovsky add an

lilms, such as Shaken Aimanov's End of the Ataman (Kazakhstan, 1 970)

explanarory text at rhe begi nnin g of the film, amend the Professor's line when he rcl cp bones his institute (instead of the 'head of the laborarory

'

he now requests 'rhe ninrh laboratory') and chan ge rhe Professor's weapon from an 'atomic mine' ro a gen eric 'bomb'.6� After the struggle owr Mirror and rhe exertions of Stalker, Tarkovsky felt sufficiently exhausted and c xasperarcd to compare his pli ght ro rhar of Hamler (in Tarkovsky's idiosyncratic i nterpreta t io n) : The rragedy of Hamler for me is nor that he is fared ro die physi

­

cally, bur rhar he falls morally and spiritually that before he.: kills he ,

is requi rcd ro ac:c:cpr rhe laws of rhis world. [ . . . [ l n a sense.: everyone

46 I c�nh

l.1rkH\''k}

Ill

'•'1'1:llpporred by a vertical one. It could be a mere post or a scraggly tree, as long as it suggests the spatial metaphysics of the cross over a grave, or of , , church rower over a plain. It is both pillar and pillory. lt suggests that if Andrei and lloriska nt ohc post

(Am/rei Rubli'l').

Two phorogrnphs by Tnrkovsky.

'>pace is a prison, altitude is liberation. lt suggests- as for the child Ivan, the monk Andrei Rublev and his young friend Boriska, the Stalker, (,orchakov and Alexander- that the mastery of space is a crucifixion. Bur this would be a dangerous over-simplification of a kind typical for those who judge Ta rkovsky by rhc pious and prophetic rone he t . dopted in his later years. The dream is acrually one of a tragic failure

'

A Jr.n' mg h

/

L�rkm 'k).

lilt.:\ irably reclaimed by nature - whether flooded by rain, engulfed in ll.tme or simpl)' worn down b)· riml!- their ruins continue to rand as loci of memory and places of epiphany. Each of the three paces - nature, home and c:Hhedral - is distinguished by a characteristic visual tension, formed by a crossing of the camera's gaze with rhe characters' and spec­ t.uors' lines of sight. laturc is simply a f-low that absorbs the human )!..t7e, though sometimes it eerily :.eems ro be returning it. The home has \\ mdow�,

through which denizen!> pcl!r our into rhe world, while strangers

look in. The cathedral is markl!d by upright columns whose seemingly rl!gular arrangl!mcnr is disrupted by inexplicable folds in space, which •

.. � j. �-: � 1'' ."'f . ;

•

• •

'

'

' �

.

neate a spl!cific density of rime. Tarkovsky's carhedr:�l spnce is demon­ ,

.,trared mosr fully at the beginning of

Nostafghin, where a fertility ritual

.., performed in the rigorou ly �comerrical yer disconcertingly elusive

. •

•

.

,

...pace of a columned crypt. Jaml!� Macgillivray has :.hown that, while the camera appear!> to represent thl! per pecrives of thl! characters, most norably Eu�enia, Tarkov sky suwre� different point� of view to crc:lte :1 .,cn�e of confusion and powerlessnl!ss, rendering rhe grid of columns as a Danrean 'dark wood'.' The peculiar meshing of g:tzes in each kind of .,pace corrl!sponds ro a pecific kind of rime, which knits rhe spa rial folds IIHO a unique fabric of experience. Constructed by human gaze!>, :.pace is alwa)' personal, never merely decorative or informative. In A11drei Rubfeu, for example, Tarkovsky

of spirituality, which enrcrs inro conAict with irs natural conditions; rhe inrensity of rhe prayer undermines the shelter that makes it possible. This pessimism is more in line with Tarkovsky's films. In Ivan s Childhood

used some of the most famous monuments of old Ru sian architecture, such as rhe Church of the Protection of the Morher of God on the Nerl

eros es either smnd crooked on ruined gr:wes or arc formed of the detritus

of war, like rhe rail of the crashed German aeroplane. After rhe sack o f Vladimir in Andrei Rublev, Andrei say!> 'there's nothing more frighten­

ing than when ir nows in a church'. Tarkovsky's camera may soar over. rhe characters, bur (unlike his polaroid photography) it never achieves Olympian tranquillity in irs observation. In the spaces of his films rhere is neither captivity nor liberat ion, neither Promethean heroism nor

Chri r-like acrifice, bur human figures being rugged acro�s space, up and down and through it, and also our ide of it. The film il> nor a liberation from pace, bur rather irs formation inro a locus of vi ion.

Three kind!> of �pace domin:tre :�11 Tarkovsky's films: nature, rhe home and the shrine or cathedral. l lumans construct fragile homes to �helrcr from hostik forces and n lil!n �nze . When rhese homes arl! ).l.

1 horr, sires of human dwelling must nor only organize space within the frame, bur also enable vision on-screen. Surprisingly, Tarkovsky did not unconditionally favour filming on location. In the studio, he said, 'you can do remarkable things, as long as you know how to do it and arc correspondingly confident of the plau­ sibility of your idc:ts in the conditions of the studio where you arc !>hooting' (uR 55). Thus, while the landscapes in Fellini's Casanova 'could nor have been shot better in natural locations', Tarkovsky admit­ led: 'I would never dare ro shoot such sccm:s at Mosfilm'. He did, rhough, construct ebbor:tre sets at Mosfilm for Solaris (by designer Mikhail Romadin) and Mirror (by Nikolai Dvigubsky). Still, Tarkovsky was a plcin-air filmmaker, perhaps for the same rcaon that .John Constable adduced in 1 8 1 9 :tpropros of his large canvas Stratford Mill: 'It will be difficult to name a class of Landscape, in which the sky is nor the "key 110te", the srnndard of "Scale", and the chief " Organ of se11timent". The sky is the source of light in nature and gov­ erns evcrything.'1 With characteristic panache Chris Marker has shown how frequently Tarkovsky uses a raised camera to frame his characters against the earth; this is nor merely ro root them in the soil, but also ro view rhem from rhc sky. In Tarkovsky the sky keeps the earthly forms and dwellings submerged in the conditions of their appearance and, at the same time, on the verge of their disappearance back into rhe natural flows of wind, rain and fire. It was in lva11 s Childhood that Tarkovsky firmly established his poetics of space. The film open with a shot that rises up a pine tree as Ivan disappears from view and then reappears (improbably far away) at rhc back of rhc frnme, looking towards the camera. One of the last shots in rhc film closes this movement by descen ding back down a tree, now a dead stump by the sea, as Ivan walks towards the camera. That these shots arc marked as dreamlike or even fantastic underscores their symbolic value; lv:111's journey is both nn ascent and a descent, leading to no particular go:tl bur descri bing a defined locus of experience. It is never specified whether the four inserted episodes are dream or memory; '

space

I 55

after all, the final one occur after we learn of Ivan's dc:uh, when rhere i no one lefr to dream or remember. We therefore do nor know whether rhc e sequences belong ro Ivan's mind's eye or to that of the spectator. More likely they are formed precisely i n the crossing of these perspec­ tives, as a purely imaginary space. The fir t and last shors of Tarkovsky's final film Sacrifice echo those of Ivan's Childhood. At the end of the opening credits rhc camera rises up the tree on Leonardo's painting of the Adoration of the Magi, after which there is an extremely long rake of Alexander and his son pl::tnring their own bizarre tree, essentially an improvised concoction of sticks. The final shor of the film, after Alexander burns down the house, is of the child lying under said rrcc, with the camera again ascending. up irs marred, scraggly torso. Rcsi ring the cathartic deere ccndo of Ivan's Childhood, rhe screen fades ro an inrcrrirlc bearing a dedication to Tarkov ky's son Andrei, 'wirh hope and consolation' - only ro fade hack into rhc shor of rhc tree. There arc many orhcr echoes in the rwo endings: the beach, rhc bucker of water, rhe add res of an absent parent. Yer rhe very motion of the camera reverses lvan!s Chiltlhood, and the bmenr for loss is re-dedicated tO a hopeful future. The parallel between the two endings raises rhc question whether, by bearing their author's imprint too overtly, Tarkovsky's last works restrict rhe abiliry of specta­ tors actively to parricipatc in the creation of the filmic space. Filmmaker Alcksei German has even linked the banality of the ending to the aes­ thetic of Socialist Realism.J Indeed, has the living tree become the rod of Aaron and the artist - a high priest? The issue, as I sec it, is basically whether Tarkovsky constructed his spaces as vehicles for his intended meaning or as sires where something unplanned and perhaps unintended can arise spontaneously for the spectator. In a 1962 article he discussed ar length rhc relationship between intention and chance in the shooting of a key scene in lt1an's Childhood:

\Y./e had the following project for conveying the spies ro the opposite bank: thick fog, dark figures nnd Rashes of the flare . The figures were to cast shadows like incorporeal sculptures. However rhe light breeze of the Kancv basin (where the 'flooded forest' was being shot) would probably have broken up our smoke pnrrerns. Then we thought of giving some shots of the operation during rhc flashes of rhe flares and separating rhem b)' other shots, in this approximate s6 1 carrh

manner: flash- two figures in rhe frame and rhe shoulder of a third, moving ro rhe right; Rash - three small figures in the distance moving away from us; Rash - the frame shows eyes and wet branches . . . ere. When we rejected this idea we shot the material which ended up in rhc film and it seemed most simple and nnrural.4 I ,1rkovsky drew from this experience the lesson rhar the mise-en-sdme ,hould nor be tailored ro the intended meaning of the shot, bur almost 1 1 1 re�isr it, in rhe manner of a counter-flow. He cited the example of k.ln Vigo's J.'Atalante, which begins with a wedding procession that lollows rhe bride and groom around rhrcc haystacks: 'What is this? A •Hu.ll, a fertility dance? No, the episode is ignificanr nor in irs literary rl·tclling, irs symbolism or visual meraphoriciry, bur in irs concrete sarur­ llcd exi renee. We cc here a form filled with fecling.'s In this manner l.ukovsky saw spatial figure less as enclosed sets than as bare stages 1h.u invite and even require the specraror ro fill in the gaps. What props 1 here arc, like Vi go's haystacks, must work as insensate material objects 1har resist our desire to allegorize or to turn the narrative into ritual. The cinema returns us to material rcn liry nor by representing ir ro '"• bur by forming a space where things and human gazes encounter �:.tch orher as forces of resistance. Throughout the opening and closing ,hors of /valls Childhood and Sacrifice rhe single most imporranr force 111 Ta rkovsky's construction of space is rhe motion of the camera. . I ukovsky's manner owed much to the mastery of Vadim lusov, a trusted lOIIaboraror who bore much of the responsibility for scouring locations .111d for establishing the look of Tarkovsky's films. Tarkovsky had ori­ �inally wanted to team up with Sergei Urusevsky, best known for his work with MikiH1il Kalarozov on The Cranes Are rlying and I Atn Cuba, where the camera excctltcs sweeping movements and stages dramas of hghr and shadow in each frame. In lusov, Tarkovsky found Urusevsky's Jramaric style balanced by a welcome patience, even implacability. .1\loreover, lusov con isrcnrly provided :1 finely minted image of such 'risp clarity and high resolurion that it has often been credited with ensuring rhc 'aurhcnriciry' of Tarkovsky's visual textures. lusov's cam­ era captured both the flows of space and the forces - both material and psychic - which sr:1bilize it, at least for a moment, ns a definite image in .1 definable location . But Tarkovsky's usc of space was nor only rhc stabilization of its tlows under rhe forthright eye of rhc camera; he was also intensely space

I

57

sensitive to the ways in which specific spaces - no less than individual people - elicit distinct responses from u , directing our gaze rowards specific possibilities in the world. Spatial framing is a precondition for the event, the irruption of the new from without; ir is therefore both a stabilization of rime-flows and the condition for their destructive and revelatory manifestation. In Ivan's Childhood the radiant idyll of Ivan's dreams is hown as no lcs distinct and 'authentic' than the dark intima­ cy of the bunker or rhc terror of open combat. \XIh:u distinguishes the th rcc kinds of space, more rha n anything else, is rhe logic of rhc c:um:ra 's gaze. While scenes i n the bunkers arc shot with a relatively stationary camera, on rhc barrlcficld the camera soars and wanders independent of rhe characters. The scenes of dream or memory, by contrast, purpose­ fully confuse the camera perspective: now we sec with Ivan's eyes, now we look stmight at him or sec what he cannot. The three kinds of space coincide only i n Ivan's fantasy of revenge, inspi red by his viewing of Albrecht Dtircr prints, when the barrlcticld invades the bunker and the dream i s deployed in barrie. ltmn 's Childhood is thus a drama of space, nor only in the way thar Ivan comes from and returns to 'the orhcr side', bur also - and more fundamenta lly- in rhc w:1y rhat action is equated ro the: formation of visible locations amidst rhc elemental Aows. lature in Ivan's Childhood appears in three main guises: the idyllic land­ scapes of the dream sequences, filled wirh vegetative and animal life (shot in the Crimea and at Mosfilm); the swampy wood of the front (shot near Kanev); and the birch grove near J\llasha's infirmary (shot outside Moscow in Nikolina gora). The prologue links the first two natural land­ scapes. Ivan is first shown i n a sun-drenched forest. Both Ivan and the camera arc in motion, which creates a disorienrating and dizzying per­ spective; this i s crowned when we imagine rhc camera to be following Ivan's perspective as he runs down a hill, only for ir ro swoop up violently and inhumanly. Ivan is rhcn shown framed against the earth, which itself i s knorrcd with tree roots (a shot that is repented practically verbatim in A11drei Rublev, in the episode 'Thcophanes the Greek'); the camera suddenly turns upwards to frame the anxious mother in close-up. Ivan then wakes up i n a disrincrly different space; i f previously rhe four clements appeared in vivifying harmony, here rhey arc jumhlcd: rhe smoke fills the air and water covers the land. As in the fi rst shot of the film there arc folds i n rhis space: when Ivan emerges from his hideout he slips off-camera left and re-emerges on camera several seconds bter in an impossibly distanr )8 I l::mh

ilo

rlh

I.

•

"

I

'

1l1

Ir

location. \Y/e then see low shots of Ivan framed against an ominous sky; like the Stalinist high-rise i n Steamroller and Violin, the windmill is roo vertiginous ro be a dwelling. Subsequenrly, having lost his home in nature, Ivan will nor be framed against rhe earth, but concealed by it, almost swallowed up by it. Galrsev's dark, dank bunker (shor at Mosfilm studios) is a poor sm­ rogatc horne, evidenrly the cellar of a disu ed church. Galtsev has done little ro domesticate it. The main di fference between the bunker :111d the hostile world outside is the relatively stati omH)' camera through which we view it (and the orher internal spaces of war). As announced by the remarkable first shot of Galrsev's hand, the emphasis here shifts tO rhc framing of shors, blocking of characters and the mise-en-scene. Space becomes a passive arena for human actions where a semblance of family can arise; moreover, here the clcmenrs of narurc are resrorcd ro order by space

I 59

rhe fresco in ,,, C/,ilrliJoocl.

II lr

,.

.I •nl \nJn.,l t I 111 luff\ I ' ( r.mde ••

The bunklgano

'Jost.tlp.IIIJ),

her"""" h ot-droch's rnmanooc od) II >nd Rnl)•p· 11c mgh1m�rc.

to itself. However, this romanticism is mitigated by Ta rkovsky's reluc­ tance ro con ummare rhe rran formation of ruined home into :t shrine;

Nostalghia is also reminiscent of the desolate finale to Rossellini's Germany Year Zero. The very sequences of Mirro1· after all, the ending of

that bridge the rimes and spaces also contain the seeds of their own des­ olation - namely, the wind

that scatter the objects from the table and

the shot of a trash-filled well, both of which mark an acknowledgement of the entropic force of nature and of history. Today the village of lgnar'evo, where

Mirror was filmed, has radically changed from irs stare

circa '973· The open spaces have filled with new construction, increas­ ingly in rhe ryle of American suburbs, each house surrounded by a ten­ foot fence. It is the epoch of enclosure in the Russian countryside, where each individual seeks to create a separate zone, perhaps even inspired by Tarkovsky' idyll of the country home with irs private memories. It is not just the ubiquitous rubbish rips asrridc each sertlcmcnr that make any idealization impossible. Across the Moscow River from lgnar'evo is an idle factory that presents a familbr post-Soviet landscape. It is impossible rod:ty ro believe in Tarkov ky' domestic idyll; bur could that have been Tarkovsky's point? One wonders whether ir w::�s nor rhis very sight that led Tarkovsky from

Mirror ro rhc posr-indusrria l desolation of Stalker, shot mainly ar

66 I earth

-

Srill rrom Roberto Ro�sclhni, (;ermany, YeJr Luo.

-

an idle ovier power :.ration in rhe our kirrs of Tallinn, Estonia, and ar an active one on the river i n t\ tloscow. As Tarkov ky' sryle became more elementary, rhc three dominant sp:tccs of his world achieved ever purer expression: rhc rickety apartment alongside the railway tracks th:tt serves as home; the nawre of the Zone, which appears in league with an alien will; and the cathedral space of rhe 'Room of Desires' to which rhe three men trudge, where their own wishes will reorganize rheir world. The antechamber ro the Room - where the protagonists decide ro forego this resr of rheir will - was especially designed as a columned 'temple' stand­ ing right on rhe lapping waters (os 274). Many attempts have been made ro define what is meant by the 'Zone' in Stalker. For Raymond Bcllour it is an image in which dream is indistinguishable from memory.8 For Ziick it i 'the material presence, the Real of an absolute Otherness incompatible with the rules and laws of our univcrsc'.9 More specifically, Zi7.ek lists se,reral connotations of the word 'Zone' in the Soviet imaginary: a prison camp; the sire of an ecological dis:tster; the area where elites live; foreign territory; or a site of cosmic incursions such as meteorites. Zizek concludes that 'the very indeterminacy of what lies beyond the limit is primary'. In fact, rhe limit itself - or rather the act of delimitation - is the primary condition v

•

v

for rhe 'presence of the Other', the source of 'the void that u rains desire'. In many respects rhe Zone is simply the demarcated area with­ in which an event can occur, akin to the screen in the cinema. Tarkovsky defined the Zone as 'nor a terrirory, but a test thar results in a man either withstanding or breaking. Whether a man survives or not depends on his sense of individual worth, his ability to distinguish what is impor­ tant from what is rransienr'.'0 The Zone, then, is rhe quintessence of Tarkovsky's spaces: a locus of experience formed of inquisitive human gazes and an uncanny impersonal gaze that cannot simply be identified with the camera. The Zone is where one goes to sec one's innermost desires. It is, in short, rhe cinema.

"l{o.u.l,ldt.• Picuu .' nc.u· 'I ulhktwu,

-.U1111111:1' .too6.

68 1 canh

space

I 69

innocenr of rhe artifice. 'What we sec cou ld become nature; but the l.u.:t that we sec it is wholly unnatural', explained Bah1sz. Given rhe inexorable artifice of film it may be instructive ro lay greater stress on rhe fir t member of Tarkovsk>''s formula 'the illusion of reality'. After all, in his lecrures to student directors, Tarkovsky dear­ ly stated: 'It is impossible ro photograph reality; you can only create irs image' (UR 45). A I showed in chapter Two, far from trying ro repro­ duce or even represelll narure, Tarkovsky undersrood that rhe spatiality of film - and also the idea of anyth ing happening i n that space - is mediated first and foremo r by the creen zone. While for other film­ maker rhis may have led to an obsession w ith meta cinema tic n arratives an d shots ( from Anronion i' 131011'-11/J ro K idlowski 's Camera Buff), Ta rkovsky makes his viewers question rhe medium by engaging r he m di rect ly in the composition of rhe im ng.e upon rhc scree n Vivia n Sobchack has i nsrrucr ivcl>' classified rhe prevai ling concep­ tions of r hc screen :IS three me tap hors: t he p icture fra me the window and the mirror. Tnrkovsky's early films e xplore all three qualities of the screen. The action in The Killers is rhe::t r ric af ly framed by a wa II of frosrcd glass thar includes us in the priv:ue world of the bar while rende ring rhe world beyond sinister in irs impcnetrnbiliry. In Stea111rofler and Violin the shop window disp lays mirrors rhat provide S:1sha with a ka leidoscopic view on the world beyond. In Ivan 's Childhood the boy s individual drama is played ou r again st the backgroun d of war, creating a deep space that is sometimes at odds with the foreground. Here rhe screen begins ro be used i n a way remini cent of Jean Renoir, a� a field of varying depth, held rogether by the crossing of t he charncrers' and specta tors' gazes. In rhe angry conversation berween Griaznov and Ivan, Ta rkovsky wrote: 'only rh e bac kgroun d - the work of rhe soldiers outside rhe window- adds

3 Screen

-

Ta rkovsky frequcnrly defined the aurhenriciry he sought on screen as 'the illusion of rea lity' . This asp iration is probably impossible and most cer­ t:linly unwise; as nunH.:rous rea l ity ' television shows have demonstrated, the more uncriticnl the nttempt ro 'catch life unawares' the more ir is linble ro seem uncnnny, forced or rehearsed. Indeed, the renl rn:1y only be d iscern i bl e on fi lm in irs very refusal to be represented . Thcn.:fore, th ro ugh out h istory nrrists have repea tedl y discovered that rhey arc rhe mosr re:1lisr when they foreground rhe very strictures of observing and recordi ng, that is wh en they subordi nate represenration ro prescmarion. Bela Balasz once observed rhar the 'absolute evidence of reality' may be pos ible only in n ature fil ms because on l y 'Plants and animals do not act for the director. And si nce s u ch gl impsed scenes ca n n ot be imagina ry, they po ess omething metaphysically u n setr l i ng for the ma n who is terrified of the uncontrollable power of his fa ntasy. Perhap the least re:tli tic moments in Tarkovsky's films come when his animal perform complex movemenrs as if on cue, manifestin g an alien will thar is :tr once within and outside the aesthetic event. The fact that the cruel treatment of an im:t ls in Andrei Rubliiv - Kiril l 's bearing of h is dog, the burni ng cow, the hor e thar fall and is lanced - has :1lwa)':> been the mo:.r conrrover ial clement of the film shows how disconcert­ ing it ca n be to h:we the fiction ruptured by a udden consciousness of realiry; :ll> Ak ira Lippir has observed of Eisenstein's Strike, rhe actu:1liry of the animal slaughter 1 . . . j i mposes from outside th e d icgesis a ta ste of death , of rhc real'.• A similar rcacrion is perh a ps elicited by rhe fre­ quent shors of chi ldre n observi ng rhe action from wi th i n the frame, for instance, during the jester's dance or in th e scene of rhe Russian Cal va ry. A 1 such moments 1 h e ca mcra seems ro a sk how rhc scenes look to those

.

'

'

,

-

'

'

'

70

I l:.,nh

It

lh n.l,

IIH I U�H\ ...ky

I\\ lfl Iht.· U'CC"'

I1tw ll.uhlr>•).

screen I

71

I he -.t.:rc.:n ' '' mtiO\\ tf, prlll\.t.'"\• t�. u,l (Audm l�ul•l

It is also uggesti\'e ,·i-;-a-\'iS the icon!> in rhe fin:�le of Andrei Rubleu, which alway!> extend berond the frame, and of the widcscreen video monirors in Solaris. The screen conjures a world that aspires to shape our vision of the world beyond the frame. There i�, therefore, :1n entire ethic� of the screen. When working on

Andrei Ruhliiv, Tnrkovsk)'

W:lS

:�sked to react ro .Jco.y Kawalerowicz's

claim that hi!>torical films should seck

w

estrange contemporary �pecra­

ror ' ':nrromatism' by showing them alien types of movemenr and ges­ ture. T:� rkovs ky disngrced emphaticall)•: 'this distracts the spccraror's arrenrion, focul>ing it on what i., secondar>''.' While Tar kov!>k' ) implicitly agreed that rhe task of film was to ove rcome modern distr:lction, he saw rhe way tO achieve this nor as showing spectators a vision of reality, but

an clement of life an d give the specta tor mareri:tl for fur rhe r thought and a��ociarion!>' (n _n ; LV r 2.7). As Sobc hack concludes, in of:n :1s 'all three memphors rcbtc [ . . . [ only ind irectly to rhc dy n:1 rni c activity of vie wi ng rha t i engaged in by bo th the film an d the spectator', the >' uppn:l.s the 'exchange an d reversibility of perception an d ex pression' an d 'the inrr:1su bjectivc and in rcrsu bjecrive foundations of ci ne rna ric comrmrnication'. 1 To un de r ran d Tarko vsk' ) ir is imperative to develop thi s complex �en e of the crcen as a locus of inr crchangc between world, image and spectator. Andre Bazin once compared rhe cin ema screen to 'rhc little fla sh­ light of the u her, moving like an un certain corner across the night of our waking dream, rhe diffuse space without sh:1pe or frontiers tha r su rrounds the !>creen'.4 Th e screen do es not simply illuminate objects; it create the sp:�ce in which spectatOr s encounter rea lity. B:tzin's image vividly recalls the river crossing in fva n 's CIJild!Jood, where rhe frame is conrimmlly reconstitmcd by the came ra, the figure!> an d the enemy fl:�rcs.

by eliciting from them a new kind of vision. As filmmaker and critic Jean Epstein once wrore, 'There is no srill-lifc [nature morte] on the screen; the objects arc ways of seeing, [allitudes ['.''• By cxtension, cinema

i!> a field where inrclb:r coincides with the mosr vi!>cernl experience, whcrc somatic enga�cmenr in the plot (suspense) coincides with inrcl­ lccrion ( uspension). It wa!> here more than anrwhere else rhat Tarkovsk)' showed himself a student of Roberr Bresson, who allegedly explained his poctics with refe rence ro Lconardo da Vinci's dictum 'Think about the surf:lce of the work. Above all think about the surface.'- In his lectures Tarkovsky elaborated: In his pictures [ Bresson) turns into a demiurge, the creator of a world which almost rurns into re:1lity because there is nothing in it ro reveal artifici:�liry, inrenrion:�lity or the violation of a kind of unit)' In him e\·erything is erased nearly to the point of inexpres­ sivity. This is expressiviry taken ro such :1 degree of precision and laconism rhar it ceases to be expressive I UR 471·

Of the difficulties rhar arise from this approach rhe most conspicu­ ou� j� perhaps Ta rkov�ky's rejection of psychology in his characteriz:�­ rions, which :1s a re�ult seem wooden, passi\'e

or

simply bbnd. Spect:ltors

rarely idenrify with Tarkovsky's characters enough rhl· "t'l't.,l a.. 1111rror: Fonu .u

sympathize with

rhem. Indeed, Ta rkov�ky's actors rc ·tif)' with remarkable unanimity that his dirccrion of them was usually limited

ro

extern:�l positioning and

1f1t.' river look'

ge�rure; he consistently avoided di cu�sing with them what they should he

( lm/r,•t RuiAt·t•

feeling or thinking. T:�rkov k)•\ rea�on' arc illumined by his comment'

Hill; �,..uncr:t

-z. I earth

to

,crcc11

I

7>

on Michelangelo Antonioni and Tonino Guerra's L'Avven.tum. Tarkovsky remarked thar the unprepossessing plot of the film ('the film's heroes unsucces fully seek a young woman who has disappeared without a trace') was 'free of any symbolic or al legorical information. The authors simply follow rhe people's bt:haviour with unusual precision and arrenrion. A tiring and frustrating search. Without superfluous ("momentous") words and forced ("expressive") acrions.'N In our com­ mon parlance we might speak of such a film as 'A at', just as we do of medieval art that resisted linear perspective, dramatic posing and allegor­ ical puzzles. However, as in the icon, the refusal of surface expressiviry is merely the consequence of a different kind of relation between image and viewer. Just as the tension of L'Avventura (and, in a different sense, 8/ow-ufJ) was based wholly on 'observations', so did Tarkovsky's films resist any separation of the im:1ge from the actual act of looking - and of being seen. The implacability of Ta rkovsky's screen could be as frustr:�ting for the actors :1 for the spectaror. Ta rkovsky liked ro eire a maxim he :1rtributed ro Rene Clair, rhar rhe director does not work with actors, he just pays rhem (UR . p ). At time Tarkovsky followed Robert Bresson's example of using non-professionals, such as the poer Nikolai Glazkov as the flying peasant Efim in Andrei Rublev. In some cases Tarkovsky explained his casting of non-acrors in terms of 'typage': his producer Ta mara Ogorodnikova played Christ's mother in Andrei Rublev (and small roles in the next two films) on the strength of her 'Russian' fea­ tures (she is strikingly reminiscent of the poet Anna Akh matova), while real foreign journalists filled out the audience at Berton's debriefing in Solaris. Preferring to cultivate a stable of his own actors, who appeared in film after film, T:ukovsky avoided using actors with established per­ sonas, with the notable exceptions of Oonatas Banionis (in Solaris}, who by 1970 was a major Sov iet star, Oleg lankovsky (in Nostalghia) and Erland .Josephson, one of Bergman's favourite ncrors (in Nostalghia and Sacrifice). The ideal actor creates 'the sense of a real man who is not showing the spectator that he is doing something or bearing an idea, :�s we say, bur is completely and impossibly convincing, genuinely unique. Unique and not expressive. He is in his right place, :1nd this is the high­ est degree of exprcssivity for an actor in the cinema' (uR 41 ). However, the peculiar inexpressiviry of Tarkovsky's characters was far from being some kind of innare or pristine authenticity; it required from actors no less skill anti efforr (and patience) than Stanislavsky's Method. Banionis 74

I c.1nh

h.1s spoken candidly about the tension that arose from Tarkovsky's refu al to provide pS)'chological motivation for his instructions: ' I was �upposed to turn just so, to continue moving for so many seconds, and to turn also in the course of a certain number of seconds- not a second more or lcss.'9 Banionis felr he was not acting but 'posing'; bur on the screen it came differentl)r: 'The continual need ro count prevented me from concentrating during the shoot, bur in the frame you can't see whether I am thinking abour something or just counting one-two-three . . . That was the director's conception: a conception of genius.' Indeed, 'I needed the actor to dissolve in the [film's] conception', Tarkovsky once said (uR 36). Like Hari in Solaris, actors' minds arc blank slates, to be constructed in rhe act of viewing on the basis of their relative posi­ tion in phy ical and narrative space. As with Hari, our emotional atr:tchmcnt with the characters is likely to b�.: limited to frustration at 1heir impassivity and the shame that arises from seeing others - and being seen oursclve - in rhe frailty of a hum:1n 'identity'. Like rhe figures in :111 icon, T:trkovsky's characters may se�.:m 'Aar' until one realizes the inrensity of the gazes that cross the plane in :til directions and from all sources. In a sense, this was Ta rkovsky's st:trring point in Andrei Rublev, which sought to ger behind some of Russi:t's most famous icons ro capture the kind of life-experience rhat could hnvc given rise ro them. Ln the process of resolving the relationship between icon and film, image and narrative, Tarkovsky nor only developed tech­ niques for his subsequent films; he :tlso formulated his ideas in his single most important essay 'Imprinted Time' ('Zapecharlennoe vremia', 1.967], which placed his cinema poetics into a rich tradition of Russian aesthetic thought. In Andrei Rublev the drama of vision begins with the prologue about the Aying peasant Efim. The film opens with a shot of men l:tshing the bal­ loon over a fire; the shot closes with one of the men turning his gaze towards the camera. Such shots frequently recur in Tarkovsky's films, for inst::tnce with Hari in Solaris; it could be th:H rhe camera wanrs to avoid the direct gaz�.: of the characters, bur (espcci:tlly in H:tri's case) it seems more as if rh�.: characters fear being abandoned by the camera. The next hot (in the 1969 version) bows Efim hurrying across a river :1nd ends with him also looking into the c:1mera. Tht: third shot begins with the first man turning his gaze away from rhe camera, back ro his work. The fourth shot shows Efim mooring his bo:tt behind the other men :tnd scrct:n

I 7s

running inro rhe dmrch, as his pursuer'> become 'isiblc and audible on the ri,·er. Thc'>e '>hem dc�cribe a cl.w.it: cha:.e, to be �ure, bur it is a pecu­ liarly visual pur�uir. After Efim ascends rhe rower and rake:. Aight, we sec thar his endeavour is nor only one of new physical movement, more Auid even rhan that of animals or the river below, bur also of new vision. lusov' camera insistenrly rem inds liS that ir is capable of creating and recording a wide variety of motion�; the vertigo of Efim 's Hight i'> produced by wooping sl1or., from Efim's point of view (taken from a crane and a helicopter), bur :1bo alternaring shot'> where the camera :.eem!> to lurch around a sraric Efim. His Aight come� ro a sudden halt in a freeze-frame, :1frcr which rhe :1ir of his balloon is released into the river. Docs he Ay far, as suggested by rhe crane shots, or j liSt a few yards, as is suggcsted by the '>taric shors that hover unchanged!)• over the same river bend and village? Doc the hor'>e rolling on the ground represent an angelic 'l ie i'> saved ', or the face of a n.tture .1s indifferenr a'> the camera? In :my c.1se the linked dreams of Hying and of toral vision borh run up against the solidity and immobility of rhe cnrrh, which is conrrnsted to the graceful fluidity of flight, the river and the horse. The prologue declares rh:1r the.: srory will concern rhc challenge of arraining tran.,ccndenr vision 011 1he earth with­ our �uccumbing ro impossible fanra'>ie'> of Auencr or weighrlc, the drama of ,.i ion i much more pronounced in the original edit of the film from 1966, enrided TIJe Pc1ssion according to Andrei. Here, as Efim's collaborator turns around ro fnce the camera ar the end of the first shot, we immedi­ ately see and hear rhe crowd chasing Efim. The implication is rhar the first man has heard the commotion and is looking in our direction to idenrify irs ource. Howe,·er, thi apparent connection is actually impossible hecau e thc crowd io, roo disranr ro be audihle, nor docs ir eventually arrive on the scene from this direction. Whar, then, docs he look at? We can nor dwell for long on rhi!> my rery, becau e new ones keep arising, nor only in the juxtaposition of &hots, bur abo within shots and in rhc soundtrack. For instance, as Efim pushes off from rhe church, an unseen woman seems to whi per '0 Lord', bm rhis derail rcmains cnigmaric. The j!.re:ucr con­ 'picuousne!>'> of rhe di�conrinuirie� in the original version warns rhe \'lewcr nor ro ru'>h to condu ions, bur r.tthcr ro focu on containing the full amplirudc of mulrivalem rea lity with a single field of vi'>ion. The first epi.,ode, 'The jeMcr', cxtcnds this medir:Hion on filmic vision in a number of ways. Firsr rhcrc is rhc Tarkovski:tn rain, which fall:. in sheets in fronr of rhc camera whilc rhe rhrcc monb jog. along in -(, I C.Hih

-

the background, bathed in sunlight. Thcre arc !>imilar "rccns of rain ar the end of this cptsode and throughout the film, most notably in rhe recurring imagc� of the monb under an oak tree and in rhe final :.hot of four horses on a spit of land (which also srand in sunlight, barring away Aiel> with their rails). This insistent rain exaspcrated even so patient a viewer as Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who cxcbimed: '\XIhat rain! Antediluvian, unbelicvahl)' heavy rain, rime to bang rogcrher oah's ark! Life il> beaten down hr this rain, and rho�c !>ilcnr horses arc washed up, and the Rublcv frcscoc!> are washed away, and nothing remains . . .''0 It is roo conspicuous to be di missed as amateurishness or oversight; Ta rkovsky was wcll aware of the kitschy implications of using 'cine-rain' from fire-hosc� (111{ 54). Evidenrly thc rain here is not really a !>ign th,tt 'it is raining'; instead, such scrccm of water (invari­ ably pumpcd out of tho�c ver)' �ame fire-hoses) effectively acsthcticize the world by holding ir ar the di'>timil.tr effect i achieved ''hcn we realize rhar we have hccn watching the monb through a window that matches the proportions of rhc screen; rhc c:1mera rccedcs ro �how thc jcsrcr who cmbarks on a circuit of rhc hut. This extremely long l:lkc bcgins with a shifr hctwccn rhrce plane� of dcpth, and then flattens the duce­ Jimcnsional �pace inro a tbt, q•lindric:1l panorama. The two-dimen­ sionality of the screen i rhus both a limitation and a condition of rhe versatility of the filmic narrative. just as the narrative import of rhi� episode (if any such reduction bc possible) is the monks' and rhe jesrer\ observation of cach other, so irs point is tO en�age rhc specraror in :111 active interchange with the scrcen. The epilogue of A11drei Rublet' sers rhe camera in direct relation ro rhe work of the icon-painter, as if tcsring ro ' not entering but circling around ir. There was some strange shift. 1 . . . ] 1 thought rhis feeling hnd some material sense, that one cannot just be persecuted b)' such a dream. There was something in ir, something very important. And I thought, because of something I'd read, rhat I would be nble ro free myself from my feelings because ir wns quite a grave feeling, something nostalgic. Something was pulling me back inro the past, leaving nothing ahead. [ . . ] Well, I thought, let me wrire a srory. However .

ir all gradually began to take form as a film. Moreover a strange

Tarkovsky's Solnris rook a rarher more pessimistic view: rhe only way ro control rhe Aow is to kill ir or freeze it, bur ir always seeps back in th rough the cracks. A similnr concern haunts Stalker, where natural Aows repos­ sess the structures with which humans have sought to control them. The irony is rh:u the hostile alien will against which humans sn·uggle is the very source of life. Lived time arises from the friction between human d �sire and rhe seepage of impersonal nature . At rhe end of Swlpting in Ttme Tarkovsky remnrks rhar even such a rich civilization as ancient China nonetheless uccumbed when it 'collided with rhe material world that surrounded [it]', just as 'an individual collides with society' (sr 240-4 1 ; z v 348). Still, Tarkovsky concludes: ' I t is not that we live i n nn imnginary world, bur that we create ir ourselves. And therefore we our­ selves depend on irs f:til ings, while we could depend on irs strengths.' Mirror, in my rending, concerns the possibility of this very change. Much of the confusion in the history of Nlirror stems in a cardinnl shift of emphasis rhat occurred during the film's preparntion. Conceived as :1 film about Tarkovsky's mother, ir evenrunlly became an aurobiographi­ ca I srud y: At one point I A icksandr] Misharin and I wrote th e scree npbt)' '\XIhite, \X/hite Day'. I did not )'et know what this film would be about, how it would be organized in rhe screenplay and what role IJ�

I

rirc

The hiswry of m:11111cd lli�ht

{So/uri$).

rhing happened. I i nd eed was freed from these impressions, bur this psychotherapy turned out to be worse than the cause. When I lost these feeli ngs I felt that I had, in a sense, lost myself. Everything was complicated. These fee lings disappeared, bur nothing formed in their pl:.tcc. Although, to be honest, I had somewhere supposed something of the kind, and even in the screenplay ir was wrim:n rhnr one shouldn't rerurn to old places, whatever it might be: one's home, the pl;�ce one was born, or the people one has mer. And nlthough that w;�s thought up theoreti­ cally, it turned out to be quire nccurare. The mnin thing: it turned our rh;�t rhe sense and idea of rhe film was nor :.tt all ro free oneself of memories [uR 28-91. Tarkovskv rhus indicates his disagreement with Prousr nnd Freud, borh . of whom (nllegedly) encouraged rhe idea rhar telling a story helps to rid oneself of rhe pasr. Tnrkovsky stresses rhnt, i n rhe process of seeking something personal, he found something objective and demonstrable ­ nor ;t repressed memory bur :1 clarity of vision. The idee1 of representing one's world by isolating irs principle of presentation obliged Tarkovsky to look beyond his personal imagin::�ry ro find irs intersection with rhat of Soviet society. At one point he spoke of filming rhe rehearsal of a military pnradc on the eve of rhe annivers:1ry of rhe October Revolution: 'This epi so de will take place on a single sn·eer with military hardware, crowds of peopl e and here fit will he poss ible ] ro connect evcrythin�,; into a single knot.''1 This scene, remi­ ,

,

niscent of the May Day parade in Khursiev's The Gate of 1/'ich (/ Am ima!;in:lry I

135

·tiuenty), was 'li nked to the hu m of life an

d wirh people \\·ho are brought together and sepa rated by this h u m of life'. T he episode ar the pr in rin � plant is nor remembered bur im agined; it was based on a wide spread anecdote of rhe time, which features also in Vasilii Grossm an's novel Life and Fate (parr 2, chapter to ), where a single transposed let ter rurns Stalin's name inro a pro fan i ty an d res ults in a seven-year im pr iso nm en t for the guilty proof-reader. O ne can easily believe rhar these coinc idences arose spontaneously as po in rs of in tersection between Ta rkovsky's in di vi du al im ag in at io n an d rh e social imagina ry. As Ta rkov sk y wrote con cern ing rhc w ar foo rage he fo un d for Mirror,

If

HI

luHI

t

l'lll�lr)'

II',( Irom Spain

w�

,J m Alirror.

\XIhen before me on rhe scre en there appeared, as i f ou r of non­

being, people who were rormen red by unbearable, in hu m an labou r, a horrible an d tragic fa re, it im medi a tel y bec:1mc de ar to me that there was no way th is episode could not become rh e cenrre, the very essence, rhe ne rve an d he ar r of our picrure, which had begun merd)' as an inrimare lyric:�l memory lsr 1 30 ; Zl' 2.43-4) .

documentary footage pe rfor ms a more complex set of functions. It is thus important to consider rhe precise origin of rhe footage :�nd the rca­ sons for i rs inclusion in Mirror.

The intersections between the p erson:1 l i ma gi na ry an d th ar o f societ)' arc vividly explored in rhc docum entary sequences of Mirror, wh ich show bu llfights and the Spanish C ivil \XIa r, Soviet :wi:Hion in the late I9 JOS, Soviet forces fighting in World War 11 The linkage between faith and m:uerial rexrure is at the centre of Stalker, rhe starkest and purest example of Tarkovsky's cinematic .

ccuvre and the film that was closest ro being 'rhe optimal incarnation of [his original] idea', where 'conception (zamysel)

closel y matched

rhe resulr'.6 A major factor i n irs exceptional status was Tarkovsk>''S increasing solitude, especia l ly following the defection of Vadim Iusov

plot of Stalker was a central parr of :1 c onsci ous strategy ro focus attention almost wholly on rhe image itself and avoid 'enrerraining or surprisi ng the specraror'.7 In public forums of from his regular team. The 'ascetic'

l F· I w�rcr

world, not as parr of a grand imaginary project, but in irs 'pseudo-mundane' m ate ri a lity The harsh aesthetic texture of Stalker ensures that rhis is no romantic return to inn ocence; but how, then, should one understand Ta rkovsky's concluding sra tem e nt ahour the film, that in the fin a l analysis it is also about 't he fact that, without faith in fairy-rales and miracles a human being is incapable of l iv i ng. and, furthermore, of being called human'? Docs this not imply th:ll, just as rhe Stalker's mission may rurn out ro be a wild-goose chase, Tarkovsky is using fi lm ro induce a state of faith without himself believing.? .

Tarkovsky's aesthetic p ri ncip le was to seck the maximum effect wirh rhc m in im um of means: 'The image must be truthful a nd opt i mal ly simple. This is nor a goal in itself, but is a neccssnry con d it i on for conveyi n g to scnsoriu111 I

1 53

Unless one is as sensitive to colour harmony as a painter, one

The homl in the flame (Mirror).

does nor notice colours in everyday l i fe. For example, for me cinematic reality exists in the rones of black and whi te. Yet in

Rublev we had to relate life and reality on the one hand with art and painting on the other. This connection between thL: final colour sequence and the black-and-white film was for us his a way to express the interdependence of Rublcv's art and

and life. In other words: on the one hand everyday life, rational ed realistically presented, and on the other- :1 conventionaliz nrion artistic summary of his life, its next stage, irs logical continu

[An 2.41.

Tarkovsky returned to the problem in most derail in an interview recorded during his preparations for

Solaris:

Colour on screen is, as a rule, obnoxious and even provocative.

Why? After all no one notices colour in life. 1 . . . ] And then we

shoot what we see on l:Oiour film: everything becomes colourful! And we can no longer perceive this image as reality without the colour. Colour exists everywhere in this image; it everywhere

the spectator the spiritual essence of what is being depicted.' '> Tarkovsky's minimalism had important practical motivations. For instance, the decision to shoot Andrei Rubliiv in black and white was dictated in parr by the lower resolution of colour stock, especially when the 35mm frame is enlarged to 70111111 for widescreen projection. '4 The use of widescrccn projection became pro blematic after the move to colour in

Safaris.

After shooting its first colour sequences Tarkovsky

reportedly said: 'you can sec it's fake! I need to shoot black-and-white pictures! My next picture will be black and white and on a small screen'

(os 57) . As with sculprure in the cinema, single-tone represenration has somehow become for us more 'realistic', free of rhe conspicuous artifi­ ciality of colouration. Still, as Tarkovsky pragmatically admitted, ' [s]ince colour has been invented you have to wonder how you can make use of it'.11 Tarkovsky's solution was consramly to shift in a meticulously planned manner between black and white, sepia and colour film. What Walter Benjamin called the percussive effect of film was for Ta rkovsky not onl)' the discontinuous staccato of frames, bur also the constant alternation between types and gradations of colour:nion (as well as between diffcrenr speeds of projection). '6 Tarkovsky's most forthright statement on the matter concerned the colour epilogue to • 54

I

W:I!Cr

Andrei Ruble11:

llu hund with 1111 '""' (i\lirmr).

sensorium I '55

insinuates itself on our eye. Here there arises conventionality, which may be either artistic or anri-arristic .

.

.

•1

I , on.trdo, dr.m·ing ·I h.111d> (dc1oil, I I ,) ,

The rask is nor merely ro de-familiarize the spectator's perception of colour by creating percussive shocks; film, Ta rkovsky suggests, is capa­ ble of much more subtle variations. Using acoustic terminology, Tarkovsky claimed that it was necessaqr tO 'mix' the colour ro 'achieve rhe necess:uy measure': The first way is to 'eliminate colour' by means of colour. That is, to tone down the colour in every wa}; to seek measured, subtle and at the same time balanced spectra, ro elicit greys, so rhar rhe sense of colour is no stronger or sharper rhan in our normal life. And there is another parh which I would call psychological: ro saturate rhe action with emotion so that rhe corresponding experience of this emotion is higher, sharper, stronger rhan rhc mere sense of colour. I sec colour cinematography most of all as nor letting colour 'occupy the foregro und' or become showy.'s Tarkovsky noted that thl.! only phenomena that are always perceived as colourful arc sunsets and other 'transitional stares of narure'.'9 To make rhc spectator sec colour is rhus ro convey a transition within the reprc­ senred object, corresponding ro a change in texture. The rcxrural differ­ ence between colour schemes 'expresses the specific srare of matter in the film, the moment of irs change in rimc'.!O As in an autumn leaf, 'colour direcrly expresses processes concealed in rhe texture';" 'only together with texture, manifesting ir', Tarkovsky added, 'can colour convey rhe stare of what is depicted, its "history" and irs "actuality", so rhar rhe viewer feels he is sensing it wirh his own skin'.!! Ir is rhe paradox of Tarkovsk)"s art that such artful shocks to one's vision induce a new sensation of nature. As with colour, over rime Ta rkovsky increasingly employed sound ro punctuate and inAccr rhe images in unexpected, complex ways. According to Owe Svensson, who worked as sound engineer on Sacrifice, Tarkovsky made it clear rhar 'his focus is always on the picture, while rhc sound comes larer'.!1 What in Soviet cinema was merely rhc standard practice of dubbing in all dialogue and sound in post-production, for Tarkovsk)' was a conscious poerics of de-synchronization, by which he sought to •56 I

w:ucr

undermine rhe fixed meanings rhat :1ccompany rhc image: 'One has only ro rake away rhc sounds of the world that is reAecred by the screen or fill this world with incidcnrnl sounds rhat do not exist for rhis precise image, or which arc ddormed so :1s nor to correspond ro this image, and the film will immcdiatcl)' lind full voicl.!' (sT 169; zv 279). The cumulative effect of rhis complex synchronization is ro create images rhat resist interpretative penetration, mimicking. rhe impenetrability of material form. The besr illustration of Tarkovsky's aural aesthetics is his little­ known 1965 radio production o f William Faulkner's srory 'Turnabout' (1932).!4 Faulkner (like Hemingway) was officially endorsed in rhc ussR thanks to his Nobel Prize and politics; his story 'Turnabout' had become widely known afrer irs first Soviet publication in t96o; irs narrative ­ concerning a reckless bur comageous young p i lor of a torpedo boar ­ is somewhat reminiscellt of II'llII s CIJildiJood and the final episode in A11drei Rublii11.:1 Tarkovsky engaged his regular composer Viachl.!sl:w Ovchinnikov to compose and conduct rhe musical interludes. He w:1s assisrcd b)' Aleksandr Misharin, a radio editor with whom he bn:r co-authored rhc scrccnpby ro Mirror (among other texts) . The acrors included furun.: director Nikir:1 Mikh:dkov, rhc younger brother of i\ndron Konch:1lovsk)\ Tnrkovsky was �1ided in his staging b), his fat her's expericncl.! writing :1nd sraging the r:1dio-dramas Glass and Tale about Sphag/111111 in rhe early • 930s. sensorium I '57

Ta rkovsk>r's dramatization pursue rhc acoustic equivalent of his polycenrric and shifring framing in the cinema. The foreground narra­ tion and conversation is accompanied by rival tracks - rn1cks on rhe street, chansons in the bar- which gradually overtake the foreground at various poinrs, embedding the main characters i n a l;ugcr and some­ what unruly world. Moreover, in Aleksandr Sherel's words, 'The enrire sound texture was recorded with striking precision, unusual for radio directors in the rime. ·�6 Afrer reviewing all the sound effects available ro him, Tarkovsky set off ro record seagulls and ships i n the Riga porr with a portable rape recorder of profession:1l quality. Shere! counrs eight dis­ . tmcr tracks of sound, so that in the barrie scene one ca n hear even the sound of the empry shell casings falling ro rhe deck of rhe boar. The loss of consciousness by the first-person narrator in the midst of barrie was originally depicted by a silence lasting 30 seconds. This rechnique was so unusual rhat ir was thought ro be a mistake, and Tarkovsky was com­ pelled ro fill ir wirh rhe low roar of timpani. Shere! admits rhnr with irs high acoustic resolurion Ta rkovsky's production would probably have losr much of irs effccr over normal rransisror rad ios. Tarkovsky's emphasis on texture culmi nated in his declaration rhar 'Theoretical!>' there should be no music ar all i n a film unless it is parr of the aural reality imprinred i n the shot' (UR 55). By 1967 Ta rkovsky had clearly tired of Viacheslav Ovchinnikov's luscious orchesrnll scores, complaining thar 'Ovchinnikov musr be held in check or else he'll write nor a soundtrack bur a talented opera'.�7 Beginning wirh Solaris, Ta rkovsky engaged Eduard Arrem'c.:v, who worked mainly in electronic music, which he added ro record ings of cbssical, mainly Baroque music. \XIith Solaris, Ta rkovsky began ro conceive of his soundtracks as a n integration of music and diegeric sound, including (post-synchronized) dialogue and (de-synchronized) sound effects, resulting in a growing complexity of S)'nchronizarions between sound and image. I n Stalker, A rtcm'cv's last film for Ta rkovs ky, the three orders of sound began w blend to the degree of indisri nction. As i f in rh c folds of rhc visual rhythms, Andrea Truppin observes, 'a sound will fade in very gradually, often remaining at the border of audibility for so long rhat, as we begin to perceive it, we fir·r question if we have in fact heard anything and rhen wonder how long we have been hearing it'.�s As in so many other rega rds, Stalker marks the extreme point of ;JScericism and sensuality; the music is ofrc.:n ind isti ngu i sh a ble from diegetic noise, even when strains of Beerhoven's Ninrh Symphony emerge 158 I

water

i n rhe finale. This complex synchronization works together with the folded space of the Zone ro make the film an opaque medium rhat resists our understanding with an almost material force, using the image to renew the spectatOr's somatic experience. Faced with rhe need to define this fil m-form, at once aural and visual, inrellecrual and of the body, Tarkovsky turns to the concept of rime: 'film as a form is closesr ro a musical construction of material. \XIhat's most imporranr here is not the logic of the Aow of events, bur rhe form of rhc Aow of these events, the form of their existence in the cinematic material. [. . . ] Time is already fo rm' (UI< 26). In his final two films Ta rkovsky utilized pre reco rded music (mainly Baroque and folk songs), shifting the emphasis from the music itself r:o irs diegeric source. Thus i n Nostalghia Beethoven's Ninth Symphony blares with high distortion from Domenico's tape recorder, while in Sacrifice the ethereal strains of apparently non-diegeric Japanese music unexpectedly become localized in space when Alexander shuts off his (hitherto unseen) stereo system. Here music is present only to make palp­ able irs disappearance. Tarkovsky's final film saw significant changes to the soundtrack. Owe Svensson, the sound engineer on Sacrifice, has expressed horror at the low quality of sound effects in Tarkovsky's Soviet films and Nostalghia. It i s disconcerting when, for example, Kris's steps through the spacecraft resound like high-heels on parquet, as do Gorchakov's brogue-clad feet on the cobblestones of Rome. One can never quite be sure, thoug h, rhat rhc monoronous sound of footsteps was not intended to be ostentatiously expressive, as Tarkovsky found ir to be i n Bergman (s-r 162; zv 279). In Sacrifice Svensson saw to it that 'no rwo footsteps would sound alike and they should have a life of their own'. Still, the basic principle of complex synchronization remained the same, so rhar rhe soundtrack ro Alexander's dream 'is heard as a combination of woman's voice, the Japanese Autc and various ship sounds'. Sound ­ whether voice.:, inst rume n t or environment is used to expand rhe temporal and spatial placement of the image, dissolving any specific den ota t ion s in the atmosphere that surrounds it. -

-

As Tarkovsky's first film i n colour and wirhout an orchesmd score, Solaris is especially useful for investigating his sensorial poetics. The firsr key sequence is rhc 'ciry of rhe fururc', which was shot in Tokyo in r971 wirh both hhck-and-white and colour film and which was accompanied by :1 parricularl)' dissonant piece of Artem'cv's music. According ro lusov, sensorium

I

• 59

Tarkovsky, subtle changes to the quality of rhc image can cotwe)' more information than the dialogue or narrative. The second reversion to black and white occurs when

Kelvin views

Gibarian's suicide video for the second time, now in his own cabin. hrst we sec the black-and-white video framed by its screen within a colour room, but an axial cut reveals a black-and-white shot of

Kris watching,

and further shots of the video rake up the entire frame, so that Kris and Gibarian arc now united in the same black-and-white space. When (in the video) Sartorius knocks at Gibarian's door Kris rurns his head, confusing the tape with reality. (This confusion is consistent wirh Lem's novel, where

GibMian appears to Kris in a dream or as ll solarian

spectJ·e.) Kris then lies on the bed and views himself in the mirror; the im' Changes in the surfaces of water are studied in interspersed shors of a barrel with filmy water, a polluted river and the waterlogged tile floor, each of which is subjected ro disruption and analysis. The fold in space is a warcry lens, gradually bringing into focus rhe studied image of rhree men in search of themselves. The \XIriter helpfully cites the analogy of Sr Peter: the illusion of walking on rhc water is sustainable as long as fai rh lasts. Other script ural references are forthcoming when the Stalker's wife (in voice-over) recites rhe Revelation of St John the Divine and rhe Stalker reads verses concerning rhe occurrence on the road ro Emmaus from Sr Luke's Gospel. Three days after the Crucifixion two disciples are on their way ro Emmaus when Christ joins them unrecognized and asks the reason for their sadness. They answer by briefly relating the srory of Christ's betrayal, death and resurrection. Christ admonishes them for their lack of understanding bur srays wirh rhem ro break bread, whereupon rhe disciples recognize him and he disappears: 'They said ro each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking ro us on the road, while he was opening rhe scriptures ro us?"' {Luke 34: 22). It would be simplistic to say that rhe Stalker is posing as Christ; after all, i t i s the Professor who breaks bread (in rhe form of his sandwiches) and rhc \XIrirer who dons a crown of thorns. The link has much more to do with rhe impossibility of sharing space with rhe resurrected body, which requires nor vision bur faith. This may sound like a lugubrious religious fable',;o bur it has di rect bearing on the work's sensorial effect. Salvation from the Dry Tunnel includes a colour shot of the riled floor covered by a film of dirry warer. These shots continue in sepia in the ensuing scene of rcsr. The objects glimpsed range from a borde and syringes ro a gun, coins, pages from a '

calendar and John the Baptist from Jan van Eyck's Ghent Altarpiece. The soft flow of rhe water contrasts wirh rhe objects below and rhc human figures above; moreover, rdlections from the water and sub­ merged objects are indistinguishable from refractio ns and surface pollu­ tion. The heaving swamp with swirls of airborne matter causes one to wonder abour rhc role of the camera in producing these effects. True,

lh mhrandr, Cbrist ,, I 1/IIIUIIIS ( 16 J4). lh tnhr.Ul>

In rhe screenplay rhc vision ends when the Professor throws a log inro rhe water, spreading circles over irs surface and melting away the mists of the vision. In Stalker rhe scene was completely dissolved i n the film's murky Aui d s - from rhc beer in rhe bar to the glasses in the finale - all of

which

emphasize the opacity of the very medium of vision through

which this story, this vision, is being presented. t h� mention of lt·�·rkh in rhc 1\ -

tl-cnpb.y suggests

unibriry bc.:rwccn

1 ..

lh�· 'l"l'll\' and the.:

\\ork of �trcist

N1kubi Rocrich, '' "'cmplificd

ltl'l4..' tn his l..c

unusually radiant azure sky, in the distance the dark-green wall of

\ du primnups 1 ' 'i!.?-;o). '• rt'

At the beginning of their

path the Stalker remarks that the Zone is by defini tion a silent place. It follows that all of the sounds in the film are traces of some alien will reacting to the intervention of th e three men. It is nor so much thar rhe unexpected and unusual sounds of the Zone 'convey a sense of heterogeneous worlds existing simultaneously,

but not necessarily intcracting';J.t instead, they allow the spectator ro

dissect discrete components of experience, which is always

an encounter

between contrary forces. By 'refusing to announce the manner in which

the forest. On the top of the nearest hill there stands crookedly a pole with a bull's skull placed on top. Under rhe pole there sirs an old and snow-white man, with feet in bast shoes extended on rhc grass, his face ' in rhc clemenr of fire, a nd it would be fatuous ro cbim thar they constirute n k in d of ritual communi ty, allowing Gorchakov (in the finnl shot) w g.nrher the wmporal m:1nifold inro a present of plenitude and ubiqu ity, free of desire or temptation. It is only an imngc, n stirring one, bur one thnr reminds us mosr of :111 rhnt images arc mnnipulable. Time is imprinted in the image, hut only insofnr as the image continues to flow in a life, as i n n film. In his writings on aesrhcri Indeed, the opera seems more intent on referencing the film than on adapting irs defining characteristic - its poignant temporality- to a new medium. Most interesting for our purpost::s, however, is Tarkovsky's use of a huge pendulum, which swings ar intermittent points during domestic scenes at court, accompanying the clockwork-like musical themes rhat

after which Dimitrii Aoated through the opera as the materialization of Boris's guilty conscience or as his guardian angel, in a manner reminis­ cent of Tarkovsky's Hamler (os 375). Fedor's map of Russia doubles as a large carper that Boris tramples underfoot and then pointedly wraps himself in. The way that rhe statues come ro life in the Polish court puz­ zled many critics; it appears ro have been carried over from Nostalghia, where in his letter (read by Eugenia) Sosnovsky has a very similar dream. One also sees a related image in one of Tarkovsky's Polaroid snapshots (11. ·• 1 5). Tarkovsky had particular problems plotting the interaction between rhe soloists and the crowd; in his films crowds figure only at the very periphery of the individual's private drama, i f at all, bur in Mussorgsky (and, especially, Pushkin) the crowd (symbolizing the 'nation') has an insensate agency. '0 In Tarkovsky's staging, the soloists occupy the front of the ramp, while the crowds cominually writhe behind them and on the

symbolize (it would seem) the inexorable beat of fate. I t appears at the

sides of the ramp, symbolizing the people's passive suffering as a result of their rulers' actions. The srage is rendered as polycemric as Tarkovsky's frames, bur wirhour the cam era's agency the 'atmosphere' dissolves inro symbolism without attaining a specific temporal pressure. For instance, opera critic Paul Griffiths wondered 'whether ]Tarkovsky's] ending might be more powerful i f ir were less easily posirive'." The staging struck 186

J warcr

llmi.' (:rulumw.

l oH·n1 G:1rdcn.

beginning of rhc first court scene, and then again in rhe so-called clock scene, afrcr Boris's com·ersarion with Sh uiskr, as Boris portentOusly wraps himself in a map of Russ ia. It swings for the last rime as Bor is lies dyi ng when he hea rs his death-knell, and comes ro a halt undt:r the gaze of Dmirrii's ghost In the opera rhis integral part of the cinematic fabric ,

.

is separated out into a cl early legible symbol: the death o f Boris com­ pletes the C)'cle of events he initiated with the murder of the legitimate heir. At the same rime, the pendulum links Boris's betrayal to that of the younger prince in Andrei Rublev; as rhe latter surveys rhc wreck of r he cathedral in Vladimir, a l arge censer swings behind him; irs motion is

suspended as the prince recalls his conflict with his elder brother. In the film the intervention of memory literally b ri ngs rime to a stop in a com­ plex, composi te moment; the vast epic battle becomes palpable as an event in human time. If in h is stage works Tarkovsky kept the pendulum swinging for as long as the action continued, his films begin on ly when tht: pendulum ceases ro swing, liberating rimt: to flow free ly through the shot.

9 Shot

In a n interview during the production of Nostalghia Tarkovsky directly a dd ressed the nature of n ostalgi a and of rime. Nostalgi a, he said, 'is nor the same as :1 longing (toska) for rhe past. Nostalgia is a longing for rhe space of rime rhar has passed in vain.'' The reason he explained, is that the 'insranr' of the present can be experienced only 'when we fall inro :tn abyss : we.: arc in a stare betwc.:en rhe instant (of life) and the future (of the ,

end)'. The logic is nor immedi a te ly evident, bur Tarkovsky's la ng u a ge insisrs on rhe spa ria l iry of te mpo ral experience. Time bt:comes palpal;lc when it coincides with space; ir is at this ver)' momenr rhar it becomes the object of our longing and of our regret. This is :tboll t as close as one can get ro Tark ovsky's idea of rhe lo ng rake: a span of film across an :tb)'ss o f experience, which sl ips from rhe viewer's grasp c.:ven as it satisfies the desire for mon:, averring the fear of rhe end even as ir moves, inexor:.tbl )', towards a cur In Stalker Ta rkovsk )' 'wanred there robe no break in rime bet ween momage curs [ . . . ) so that time and irs fl u idi ty were m:t nifes r and existed tvithiu t:ach shot [ . j as if I had shor the film in a si ng.lc rake' (ST L9J--Ii /.1' 3 • 5). I r is nor that in these long rakes Tarkovs ky s camera exemplifies an :lll rhentic attitude towards rhe world, a pious l:1ssitude rh·

Discussing rhe film's conception at the beginning of production, Tarkovsky specifically norcd that Gorchakov (then a historian of Italian architecture) was on his first trip to the land he studied, which hitlwrto he had known 'only b)' reproductions an d photographs'.2 At the same time, i n Ta rkovsky's account, Gorcbakov becomes painfully conscious of the fact that 'he Tarkovsky simply inrerprcrs this concept of rhythm less ' spontaneous like nature itself, and what obliges me ro

his crumpled balloon as bubbles in rhe river, the camera remr's focus on the image thar invests (or 'infects'?) rhe material world wirh an atmosphere of potentiality. I n Sacrifice the clements of cinema seem especially attuned to rhosc of nature. The earth that hns been appropriated for dwelling is under con­ tinual rhrear; the shrine that Alexander erects our of driftwood testifies as much to the absence of life as ro irs porcnrialit)\ The house contains a n entire world of signifiers - from Leonardo's painting to the old map that Otto gives Alexander, from the j:1panesc music ro the threatening TV news -all of which arc completel y consumed in Alexander's fi ery sacrifice. The long rake seems to borrow its majestic ind ifference from the sea , which throughout has been observing the d ram a as it develops. Th e question "

�nnosphcrc I

21 1

·The breath of plag.uc' in Luis Bui\ucl"s Na�tiTm (•959>·

Hamler in Ta rkovsky's i nterp retation , Alexander continually feels com­

pel led towards an act rhar he finds repugnant. However, Alexander's reac­ tion to the model house betrays more the guilty conscience of a Claudius (in the scene of The Mousetrap) than the accusatory zeal of Hamlet; he quotes (again in English) from Macbeth: '\XIhich of you have done this? The Lords' (111. iv. 49). It is curious that, while rhc question is posed by

Macbeth upon the appearance of the ghost of Banquo, the last two words are actually the stage direction iden ti f)1 ing the next speakers. (Since they cannot sec the ghost the lords answer: 'What, my good lord?') I t is as if Alexander is con j u ri ng u p his own 'lords', in the hope of receiving a response ro his usurpation of power. It is clear that Alex ander's guilt lies far in the recesses of the past, perhaps in rhc very construction of the house and the establishment of its household. Adelaide implies that

that rema ins at the end of the film - as in all of Tarkovsky's a::uvre - con­ cerns the possibility that water may once again serve tO sustain life on this earrh. Bur every thin g hinges on rhe fragile breath of the little boy, alone under the immense, blank sky. The narrative of Alex ander calls to mind Ta rkovsky's observation (quoting Pushkin) that 'the breath of plague' pe rvade s Luis Bui'iuel's Nazarfn (s·r 73, zv 174). However, it also recalls Ta rkovsky's description of how Bach's music opens 'a kind of vacuum, an empty space, where the spectator feels the possibi lity of fi lli ng the spiri­ rual void and feeling the breath of an ideal'.> Just as the consumption of the house by Aame frees the son to fashion his own future, in a place he will reclaim from nature, so the consumption of the film detaches the spectator from irs own speci fic configuration and returns him tO the world renewed and empowered. Ar rhc cenrrc of Sacrifice is a family of the theatre; both Adelaide and Alexander arc former act ors, and now Alexander is a well -regarde d the­ atre critic and reacher of aesthetics. When Alexander awakens after the night of apocalypse it is his ediror that he calls ro check on the existence of the world, as if rhc theatre (or literature m ore generally) were his only substantive lin k ro th e world outside. In their birthday salur:uions Alcx:tndcr's colleagues call him Rich:ud and Prince My shkin, a pparen tly in me mory of his final roles. Dos to ev sk>' is pa I pa ble rh ro ugh ou t, but the u ndercu 1-re n r of Shakespearean tragedy is especia lly strong. In the mi dst of his p hi losoph­ ical dinrribc Alexander exclaims (in English): 'Words, words, words.' Like 112. I :tir

Alexander brought her from London to this desolate spit of land on false pretences, since she did nor know he would relinquish his theatrical star­ dom. Perhaps (following the link ro Macbeth) this stardom was won ar the cost of v::mquished rivals. We are nor cold, bur still the temporal ckpth of the family drama is achieved less by the layering of images (as in Mirror or

Nostalghia) than in the characters' verbal and physical gestures, and it

is augmen ted by meta-theatri cal rather than mew-visual references. Tarkovsky consisrenrly arrested tO his desi re to observe rhc three unities, characterizing the sryle of Sacrifice as more 'dramatic' than in his previous films; in this, as in other respects, it is closest to Stalker. The main characters form two sets: Alexander :tnd Otto (and Maria) on the one hand, Victor and the three other women on the other. The leaders of rhc rwo groups a rc both contemplating a sacrifice: Alexander will destroy his hou seh old, while Victor will reli nqu ish his numerous roman­ ric liaisons and social position and emigrate to Australia. The two men arc repcn tedly brought into parallel siru:ltions; after the announcement of the crisis, for i nstance, Alexander is shown ply ing Otto with brandy, while Victor administers a sedative to Adelaide and Marra. All of the possessions and images in the house arc implicated in the interpersonal relationships; even Alexander's book of icons, a ray of light in the gloomy rwilighr, is a present from Victor and rhus tainred by his berrayal. The main bone of contention is rhe boy who silently regards h i s hapless ,

elders as they make impossible claims upon him. Crucially, though , rhe boy never enrers the main space of conren tion on the ground Aoor o f the house, appearing only in his bed and on the land outside. His gaze is as ycr un able to hold the famil)' togeth er. armospherc

I 11J

The camera pl ays a much more active role in exploring and explod ing rhe spaces of the house. For one thing, the camera is complicir in height­ en i ng the film's theatricalit)� Wirh the exception of rhe night mare and Maria's dwe lling ir limits itself to rhe house and irs immediate environs. In no orher film does Tarkovsky have such sustained scenes with a station­

I he mudd house

.\.u·r�ficc).

,

ary camera, for i nstance in rhc shots of the child's crib or of Alexander's sofa. Espec i all y in scenes with Otto - when he presents Alexander with rhe map, or when he implores Alexander ro sleep with Ma ria - the char­ acters execute an elaborate dance in order ro keep the action framed before :tnd towards rhe camera. At times it is as if Tarkovsky is intent o n

renouncing one of his greatest gifts: rh:tt of the mobile camera. Yet these aesthetic renunciations culminate in one of Ta rkovs ky's richest, most in du lgent long rakes. Just as this long rake redeems the cinema, so Sacrifice overall redeems the image as a sire of mediation. The fare of the i m age in the film is most closely linked ro th e figure of Orro, the only true omsider in rhe house (even Maria, an Icelander who lives sep a ratel y, is parr of the household). Only Otto expands Alex:tnder's world beyond the walls of the house, delivering the congra t u ­ l a tO r y te l egram from his colleagues :tnd presenting him with an cight­

Piero della Fmncesca, whose Madonna del Pflrto featured in Nostalghia).

cenrh-cenru ry map of Europe. In this respect he fulfils his voca rion as posrman by exerci sing the power of mediation. He also p rov i des the bicycle that Alexander (and later Maria) uses to escape the confines of the house. As G. K. Chesterton showed in his story 'The Invisible Man' ( 1 9 1 1 ), the ubiquirous postm:tn melts unseen into the landscape of modern i ty. It is, perhaps, this inconspicuousness that allows Orro ro dis­ cover and i nvestigate the su pern a tur:�l occurrences he collects. Bur Otto is also an actor of.sorrs, :�s he shows when he takes a theatrical rumble off his b i cycle a nd. feigns slapstick anger for the lirrle boy. At rimes there is someth ing Ch::tplinesque about h is movements, as if Otto were i nten t on turning Alexa nder 's inw:ud drama into :1 film. Otto and Alexander's relat ionsh i p is con ti n ually ch anne l led through

Otto also helps the child create the scale model of the house, which frightens Alexander as if the ph ysi cal re d u pl ica tion of his house has undermined irs sanctity. Finall)', Orro tells the s to r y of the photo­ graphic porn·air of :1 woman, taken in 1 960, which when devel oped included her son as he looked i n an undeveloped photograph taken just before his death i n 1 940. This srory suggests :1 concept of the im:�gi­

images, though Alexander is oddly numb ro their appeal. While Otto stresses rh:�r the map is an origi nal Alexander seems ro reject the very idea of an original im:�gc, excla im i ng: 'This Europe is like Mars; it has no thi ng in common with rca l i t) Alexander Sa)'S that he q u i t acting

-

n:�ry as a parallel re:�lity in which images (even undeveloped, potential ones) bleed into each other, n u ll ifyin g 'objective' space and time. If for Alexander (a professor of aesthetics!) imercsccheniia', p. 457· 71

42. Ibid., p. 63. 43 Ccorgii Kunits)•n, 'K isrorii Antlreitt RttiJii;ll(f', OT, pp. 414-17. 44 1hnscript of a meeting of the Artistic Council of rhc [Sixth Creative! Unit to discuss the literary scenario Beginni11gs a11tl Ways b)• A. S. Konchalovsky and A. A. Tarkovsky (1.8 April 1963); llGALI 2.453·5· 12.72., p. 66. 45

A. Tarkovsky, 'Proposal for adapting Sranistaw Lem's novel Solaris for the screen';

Andrei Tarkovskii, 'Ia ostalsia sovetskim khudozhnikom', cd. Fcliks Medvcdev, . Ogonek no. 21 (1987), p. 27; see also T 1rkovsky's letter co lurii Andropov, Ccncml Secretary of rhc Com munist Party at rhe time, dated 6 February 1984 and published i n Soversbc11no sekret110, no. 3 (•990), p. 1 4

2: Space

Ibid. p. 67. ,

46 Ibid. p. 71. 47 Ibid., p. 71. 48 Ibid. , p. 72. 49 Tr.m.cript of discussion of the directOr's

r , 'Andrei Tarkovsky's Mtulonntt dc/ l'arto', Revue canatlien11c 1 James Macgillivay

,

d'etutles cim!matogmpbiques 2. (Autumn 2.002), I>· 95·

cre n

s

e play for A. Tarkovsky's Andrei RuiJ/iiv,

24 August 1964; RGAU 2453·5· 1294, pp. 1 1-12. CuriouS!)\ Tarkovsky acknowledged 'I don't like long pictures' (ibid., p. 5-f). 50 Ibid., p.

l!.

51

Ibid., p. 35· 5 1. Rohcrt Bird, A11drei Rubliiv (London, 2004); V. Fom in 'Andrei Rublcv', l'olka, no. 2, ,

�JO

I references

z. }olm Constable's Correspondence. VI: Tbe Fisbns, cd. R. B. lkckerr (Ipswich, r968), p. 77· 3 Alcksei German, 'Vysokaia prostota', lskusst110 kino, no. 6 (1990), p. roo. 4 Andrei T:�rkovskii, 'Mezhdu dvumia fil'mami', lskusstvo kino, no. r r (r9G2.), p. 8J. 5 Ibid., p. Sz.. 6

Ibid. v

7 Ziick, 'The Thi11g from Inner Space', Se.\·11ation, cd. Renata Saled (Durham and references I

z.

31

London, .woo) p. 234. 8 Raymond Bellour, L.'Entre-lmages z: Mots, Images (Paris, 1999), p. r 9o. 9 Zizek, 'The Thing from Inner Space', pp. 237-9· JO Andrei Tarkovsky, 'Pered novymi zadachami', lskusstvo kino, no. 7 (1977), p. n8; cf. ST 200. '

22. 1-3 24 25

Andrei Tarkovskii, 'M.czhdu dvumia fil'mami', lskusstvo Kino, no. u (1962.), p. 84. jacques Ranciere, Film Fables, trans. Emiliano Battista (Oxford, 2006), p. n9. lusov, in Chto takoe iazyk kino?, p. 236. Tarkovskii, 'Mezhdu dvumia fil'mami', p. 84.

4: Word and Image 3: Screen r Bela Balasz, Der Geist des Films (Fmnfurr, 2001), p. 84. 2 Akira Mjzuta Lippit, 'The Dearh of an Animal', Film Quarterly , LVVI (Fall 2ooz.), p. 14. 3 Vivian Sobchack, The Address of the Eye (Princcron, NJ, I992), p. 15. 4 Andre Bazin, What is Cinema?, ed. Hugh Gra)', foreword by Jean Renoir (Berkeley, CA, r967), vol. 1, p. 107. 5 M. Dolinskii and S. Cherrok, 'Vck piamadtsat)'i - vek dvadtsaryi', S011etskii ekran, no. 3, (1966), p. n. 6 Cited in Luis Buiiuel, An Uns[Jeakable Betmyal: Selected Writings, rrans. Garrett . 128. White (Berkeley, CA, 1995), pp. LO), 7 Leonardo, On l'ainting, cd. Marrin Kemp (New Haven, CT, 1989), pp. L)-r6; cf. Roberr Bresson, Notes on the Cinematographer, trans. jonathan Griffin (Copenhagen, r997), pp. 22-3. 8 Andrei Tarkovskii, inrroduction ro lonino Guerra, [poems], lnostmmmia literatum, no. 7 ( 1979), p. l89. 9 Donaras Banionis, Ia s detstva khotel igmt', trans. lolita Dimbialirc (M.oscow, 2006), 10 ll

12.

J3 14 15 16

p. 174· Akksandr Solzhenirsyn, 'Fil'm o Rubleve', l'ublitsistika: v trek/1 tomakh (larosbvl', 1997), vol. 111, p. 1 67. Sec rhc inrerview with Vadim lusov on rhc supplemenrary disk of Andrei Rubliiv, I)VO, Krupnyi pian, 2.004. Maxim Gorky, 'The Lumicre Cinemarograph (Extracts)', in The Film Factory: Russian and Soviet Cinema in Documents, .1 896-1939, eel. Rich:u·d Taylor and Ian Christie (London and New York, 1994), p. 25; Russian text in Maks im Gor'kii, Ob iskusstve: Sbomik sttllei i otryvkov (Moscow and Leningrad, 1 940), p. 5.1 . Andrei Bclyi, Arabeski (Moscow, 19n), p. '4· Viacheslav Ivanov, Sobmnie sochinenii, 4 vols (Brussels, 1971-87), vol. 11, p. 96. Viacheslav Ivanov, Selected Esst�ys, trans. Roberr Bird, ed. Michael Wachtel (Evanston, 2001), pp. 104-5; Ivanov, Sobmnie sochinenii, vol. 11, p. 96. Alexander Bakshy, 'Scn:en Musical Comedy', The Nation, vol. 130 no. 3370 (5 February 1930), pp. 158, 160.

17 Alexander Bakshy, 'The M.ovic Scene: Notes on Sou nd and Silence', Theatre Arts Monthly Xlllh (13 Febru:Jr)' 1929), p. 107. J 8 Sergei Eisenstein, 'The D)•n:unic Square', in Selected Writings, vol. .I , eel. and trans. Richadr Taylor (London, 1 988), p. 208. 1 9 Dclcuzc, Cinemll-z: The Time Image, p. 1 25. 2.0 Vadim lusov, in Chto takoe iaz,yk kino? ( Moscow, 1989), p. 236. 2 1 ln lrma Raush, ed., 'Andrei Tarkovskii: Odin god zhizni', Kinostsenarii, no. 4 ( 199.1), p. '178.

232. I references

J

Andrei Tarkovskii, 'Ia nikogda ne stremilsia byt' aktual'nym', Forum, no. ro (r.985), pp. 2.27-)6.

2

Vida T. Johnson and Graham Petrie,

3 4 5 6

7 8

The Films of Andrei Tarkovsky: A Visual Fugue

(Bioomingron, IN, 1994), p. 253. 1� A. Florenskii, lkonosttls (l'vloscow, 1995), p. 95 · Ibid., p. I35· Ibid., p. w1. Ibid., pp. to4-5. Ibid., p. 104. Andrei Tarkovskii, '[ Kogda fil'm okonchenJ', untitled contribution,

in Kogda (il'm okoncben: Govoriat rezhissery 'Mos(i/'ma' (lvloscow: lskussrvo, 1964), p. 170.

9 Ibid., pp, 170-7 1 . 1 0 RGALI 2453·). t 272, p. 41; 2453 ·5 ·1294, p. 44· a: v trekb tomakh (laroslavl', J 1 Aleksandr Solzhenirsyn, 'Fil'm o Rublcvc', l'ublitsistik 1997), vol. 111, p. 162. 1 2 1 am grateful for the help of Farida Tche1·kassova and Kagan Arik in identifying and rranslaring rhc Turkic speech in episode 7 of Andrei Rubliiv (episode 6 in 7he l'assion '

according to Andrei). Andrei Tarkovskii and Andrei Konchalovskii, 'Andrei Rublcv', lskusstllo kino, 5 ( t,964), p. 138. 14 Oleg Bclyavsky, 'The Filming of Andrei Rublyov', Soviet Film, 5 ( 1,966), p. 18. 1 5 Arscnii Tarkovskii, Sobrtmie sochinenii. Tom pemyi. Stikhot110reniia (Moscow, 19,9 r ) I>· 302. I6 Ibid., p. 344 13

·

1 i Andrea Truppin, 'And Then There Was Sound: The Films of Andrei T:ll'kovsky',

Sound TbeOt)'ISomull'mctice (london, 1992), p. 235. 1 8 Solzhcnirsyn, 'Fil'm o Rublcvc', p. 1. 57.

5:

Srory

lurii Kublanovskii, 'lnst>iratsiia vdokhnoveniia: Anch·ci Tarkovskii pcred

Zhertvoprinosheniem', Ne.uwisimaia gazeta (29 Dcccmbc1· 1992), p. 7· 2 Alcksandr Lipk- ( 1989), p. 1 36; M1 9-1· 2 Ibid p. I 32· r

'

,

.•

lurii Kubbnovskii, 'lnspiratsiia '·dokhncweniia: Andrei Tarkovski pcred Zhcrtuoprinoshrnicm' Nc�JIJ!isimaia .(!IIU!tll (29 December 1992.), p. 7. 4 Oleg Yankovsk), 'How We Shot the "Inextinguishable Candle" Episode for ) Nostalgbia'. www.a.:s.uc:1lgar)�ca/-mn mdsln osralghia.comn·hcTopics/Yankovsk' .hrml, accessed 12 Febru:t r)' 2004. J

'

5 G. M. Kozimsev, Solmmie sochin('nii 11 piati tonwkh, vol. 2 (Leningrad 19lh), 6

p.

367.

\( Fomin. 'Andrei Ruhli.!v,' l'olka, no. ::., Za{lrl'shchcnuye (il'my: /)okumeuty. S11idetel'sr'"· Komnwntarii (Moscow. 1993), p. -1'-

7 Andrei Ta1·kovskii, 'lmcrv'itl gazete "Pm ' k ck ranu'", Andrei TnrkrlJiskii: Nachalo . . . i 11utti (uospominaniia. intt•ru'iu. h•ktsii, star'i), cd . M. Rosrorsbi:1 (Moscow: VC:tK, 1994), p. Jli.

references I

237

Ibid.; cf. Aleksandr Lipkov, 'Strasri po Andreiu', Literatumoe obozre11ie, 9 (r988) p. 77· 9 Quoted from Sergei Eisenstein, 'Beyond the Shot', Selected Writings, vol. I (London, Bloomington and Indianapolis, IN, 1988), p. 140. 8

Ibid., p. 145· 11 Ibid., p. 140. Sergei Eisensrein, Selected Works, vol. 2: Towards a Theory of Montage, ed. Michael I2. Glenny and Richard Ta)•lor (London, 1991), p. 229; translation adjusted according ro: $. M. Eizenshtein, Monta�h. ed. Naum Kleiman (Moscow, 2000), p. 299. 13 Eisenstein, Towards a Theory of M.ontage, p. 229; Montazb, p. 299. 14 Andrei Tarkovskii, '[Vsesoiuznaia pereklichka kinematogralisrov]', lskusstvo ki110, no. 7 (1997) p. 5l· t 5 Andre Bazin, W hat. is Cinema?, ed. Hugh Gray, foreword by Jean Renoir (Berkele); CA, Los Angeles and London, 1967), vol. I , pp. 2.7, 49·

Filmography/Credits

r6 17 r8 19 20

r. Films directed by Andrei

IO

Ibid., p. 37· lusov, in Chto takoe kino? (Moscow, 1989), p. 237. Ibid., pp. 235-6.

Ibid., p. 236 Ibid., p. 237. 21 Ibid., p. 238. Slavoj Zizek, 'The Thing from Inner Space', Se:watio11, cd. Renata Sa led, (Durham 2.2 :md London, 2000), p. 233·

23 Ibid. 24 Oleg Beliavskii, 'Na s"emkakh fil'ma A11drei Rubliiv', Sovetskii (il'm, no. 5 (1966), p. 21; cf. Oleg Bclyavsky, 'The Filming of Andrei Rublyov', Soviet Fihn, no. 5 (1 966), p. 21. 2.5 Jacques lbncierc, Film Fables, trans. Emiliano Battisra (Oxford, 2.006), p. 11' 1.

10: Atmosphere

1 Sec Owe Svensson's comments at http://www.filmsound.org/owcsvensson, accessed 17

Tarkovsky

The Killers (Ubiitsy), 1956, 19 min. Black and white Pwduction Company: VGIK (All-Union Srare Institute of Cinematograph), Director: Marika Bciku, Aleksandr Gordon, Andrei Tarkovsky, Screenplay: Aleksandr Gordon, A. Tarkovsky, based on a srory by Ernest Hemi ngway, Photography: A. Rybin, A. Al'veres Starring lulii Fait (Nick Adams), Aleksandr Gordon (George), lurii Dubrovin (firsr cusromer), Valentin Vinogradov (AI), Vadim Novikov (Max), Andrei Tarkovsky (second customer), Vasilii Slwkshin (Ole Anclreson)

There Will Be No Leave Today (Segodnia uvol'n.en.iia ne budet), 1958, 47 min. Black and

white

May 2002, and rhe liner notes ro Ancient Swedish Pastoral J lusic, Caprice Records, \l

(CAP 21483).

2. Vadim lusov, 'Tarkovskii osralsia soboi', l.itemlllmaia Rossiia (2.2 April 1988), p. n . 3 Quored from Tamara Verina, 'Tarkovskii o Tarkovskom: pochri semeinyi razgovor', Kul't11m i zhizn , no. ro (1979), p. 2.3. 4 Andrei Tarkovsk); 'Percd nov)•mi zadachami', lsk�tsstuo kino, no. 7 ( 1' 997), p. 1 !7.

Production Company: The Training Studio of VGIK and the Central Television Smclio Producer: A. Ia. Koroshev, Screenplay: A. Gordon, I. Makhova, A. Tarkovsky Director: A. Gordon, A. Tarkovsk)', under rhe supervision of A. Zhigalko and E. N. Foss in rhc course of M. I. Romm, Assistant to Director: A. Kuptsova, Cameramen: L. Bunin, E. lakovlev, under the supervision of K. 1'vl. Vcnrs, Assistant to cameramen:

5

\( Ponamarcv, Composer: lu. Matskevich, Sound: 0. Polisonov, Art Director: S. Peterson,

1995

'

Ibid., p. u6. 6 Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, eels Howard Eiland, 1vlichacl \Y/. Jennings and Gary Smirh, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA, •999), p. 51.0. 7 Transbrion :1dapted from Andrcy Platonov, So11/ [Dzban), rrans. Robcrr and Elizabeth Chandler and Ol�a Mcerson, wid1 jane Chamberlain, Olga Kouznetsova and Eric Naiman (London, 2003) pp. 8-9.

238 I references

Military cons ultant: Lieurcnanr-Coloncl l. I. Sklifus Starring 0. Borisov (Captain Galich), A. Aleksccv (Colonel Gvclesiani), I� Liubcshkin (Vcrshinin), 0. Moshkamscv (Vishniakov), V. Marenkov (V�sin), I. Kosukhin (Tsignadzc), L. Kuravlcv (Morozov), S. Liubshin (Sadovnikov), A. Smirnov (man in cowboy shirr), A. Dobronravov (Dr. Kuz'min), I. Golovina (Galich's wife)

239

Steamroller and Violin (Katok i skripka), 1961, 46 min. Colour (Sovcolour)

L. L1Zarev, Art Director: Evgen ii Chcrniacv, assisted by I . No,'Odcrezhkin and S. Voronkov, Special effects photography: Viacheslav Sc,·osr ianov, Special effects design: P. Safonov, Composer: Viachcsl:w OvchinnikO\•, Costumes: L 1 O\•i, •'-'1. A lxtr Baranovskaia, Sound: I. ZelcmS0\':1, Make-up: \� Rudi na, M. Aliaurd ino, $. Barsuko'l Advisers: Dr \� Pashuro, '

Production Company: .\losfilm (Crcarin: Uni1 for 1hc l'roducrion of Children's Films) Producer: A. Karetin, Director: Andrei Tarko,·>kr, Assistant Director: 0. Gcrrs, Script: Andron Konchalovsk>; Andrei TarkO\·sk)', Photography: Vadim lusov, Editing: L. Bmuzova Script editor: S. Bakhmcr'cva, Art Director: S. Agoian, Special effects photography: 13. Pl uzhni kov, V Scvost"ianov, Special effects design: A. Rudachenko, Conductor: E. Khachaturian, Music: Vi,tchcshv Ovchinnikov, Costumes: A. lvbrrinson, Sound: V Krachkovsky, Make up: 1\. 1\llak:tshov:1 -

Starring: Igor' Fomchenko (Sasha), Vladimir Zamansky (Scq;ei). Naral'ia Arkhangcl'sk:tia (girl), Marina Adzhubci (mot her) Supp oni ng cast: lura Brusser, Sl:wa Borisov, Sasha Vi10sbvs ky, Sasha II'in, Kolia Kozrrcv, Gena K liachkovsky, Igor' Korm•ikov, Zhenia Fcdchenko, Tania Prokhorov.t, A. ,\ l.lksimov.t, L. Scm cno,·a, G. Zhd.mova, t\1. Figner

Ivan's Childhood/My Name Is Ivan (Jvanovo detst110), 1962, 95 min. Black and white Production Company: Mosfilrn (Second Crearivc Unit Tim e'), Producer: G. Kuznetsov, Director : Andrei Tarkovsky, Assistant Director: G. Naranson, Scr eenp lay: Mikh:t il l'apava, Vladimir Bogornolov, based r>n rhc SIOr' ''lv:�n' hy V ladim ir Bogomolov, Photogmphy: Vadirn lusov, Editing: Liudmila Fciginova, An Director: Evgenii Cherni:1cv, Special effects photography: \( Sevnst 'ianov, Special effects design: S. ,\lukhin. Screenplay editor: E. Srnirnov,Conduc1or: E. Khachaturian, Composer: Viachc,Ja,. Ovchinnikov, Sound: I. Zclcni'0\',1, Make-u p: L l�askakova, Military adviser: '

)

Colonel G. Gonch:1ro,·

S1arring: Kol ia Burliacv (Ivan), Valc111in Zubko'' (Captain Kholin), E. Zharikov (Licurcn.un Galtsev), S. KryiO\' (Corporal K:Ha>onych), N ikolai Gri n 'ko (Gr innov) , V Mali:wina (Mash:1), Irina Tarkm•sk:tia (Ivan'; nlot hcr ), D. Mi limcn ko (old m:111 wid1 hen) Supporting cast: A. Mikhalkov-Konch:1lovsky, I. Savkin, V Marcnkov, Vera Mi rm ich

Andrei Rublcv, 1969 (ussR release 197 1 ) 185 min. ,

Origi na l

l'er·,ion: The l'assion according to Andr
min.

-

v

S. bmshchikO\•, M. Merrsalova

Starring: Anmol ii Solonitsyn (Andrei Rublcv), Ivan L:1pikov (Kirill), Nikolai Grin'ko (Daniii Chernyi ). Nikobi Scrgeev (Feofan Grck), Nikolai Burliacv (Boriska), lurii Nazarov (Grear Prince, linle Prince), Irma Raush ('Durochk:t' - The Fool), lu. Nikulin (P:1r.-ikci) , R. Bykov (lcs1cr), N. Grabbe (Stepan), M. Kononov (Foma), S. Kq•lov (Head Bdl­ foundcr) B. lkishcn:1liev (Mongol khan), B. M :�rysi k (l'cl'r), A. Obukho11 Volodia Titov Supporting cast: N. Glazkov (Efirn), K. AlcksandrO\I S. Bar·din, I. Bykov, G. Borisovsky, \� Vasil c,, Z. Vorkul', A. Tirov, V VolkO\\ I. Miroshnichcnko (Ma ry M agdelene), T. Ogorodniko a (M:tr)\ Modtcr of Christ) , N. Radolitskaia, N. Kulllzov (Old Mason), D. Orlo sky, V Gus'kOI\ I. Donskoi, I. Ryskulm1 T. Makarov, G. Sachevko, N. Sncgina A. Umu ral ie'l Sla\'3 Tsarcv r (:-larfa), G. Pokosky, ,

'

v

v

Solaris (Sofiaris), 1972, 169 min. Colour (Sovco lou r), Cincmascope Production Company: Jvlosfilrn, Production Supervisor: Vi:u.:heslav T.'lrasov Director: Andrei Ta rkov sky, Assistant Director: Yu. Kushncrev, assisted by A. Ides, L. T.'lrkovskaia, M. Chugunova, Intern Dirccror: N. M:um, Screenplay: Fridrikh Gorenslncin, Andrei "1!1rkovsky, based on t he novel So/nris by Srnnistaw Lcm, Photography: Vadim lusov, Ed i ti ng: L. Fciginova, Screenplay editors: N. Boiarova, L Lazarcv, Art

Director: Mikhail Romadin, Sound: Semen Litvinov, Camera operator: E. Slwedo,, assisrcd by hr. Ncvsky. V. Shmyga, Special effects: V Sc,"ost'ianov, Special effects design: A. Kl imenko, Composer: Ed uard Artcm'cv, additional music by J. S. Bach, Set design: S. G:wrilov, V Prokof'cv, Still photographer: V. Murashko, lighting: E. l':munono\', Costumes: Nelli Fomina, Make-up: V Rud ina, Advisers: Dr L. Lupichev, Dr I. Shklovsky, Sta rri ng: Nat:tl'ia Uonclarchuk (Hari), Don:��as Ban ion is (Kris Kd vin), Juri Ja rvel (Snaur) , Vladisl:w Dvorzhcrsky (Berton), Nikolai Grin'ko (f:1thcr), A naroli i Solonirsyn .

(Sarror·i us)

Supporting cast: 0. 1Sarrrc1 (mother), V Kc rdi num , 0. K i�.ilova (girl), T. Malykh, A. Misharin (chai rman nf debridi ng), B. Ogancsi:1 11, T. Ogoroclnikova (Ann:l), S. Sa rk isia n (Gib ar ian) lu. Semcnov, V Sra1sinsky, \( Sumenm•a, G. Tcikh ,

l!l.tck and whi1e and colour (Sovcolour), Cincm.1scopc

Production Company: :-loslilm (Sixth Crc.ui'e Unit of Writers and Cinema Worker,), Director: Andrei Tarko"sky. Producer: T.un a r.o Ol!orodnikova. Assistant Director:

Production Company: t\ losfilrn (Fourrh Creative Unit), Producer: E. Vaisbcrg Director: Andrei Ta rkov>ky, Assistants tO the director: L. Tarkovs b i:t, V Kharchcnko, M. Chugtmova, Assistam Director: lu. Kushncrcv, Screenplay: A lcksand r Misharin, Andrei T:�rkovsky. Poems: i\r;cJlii Tarkovsk y Director of photogmphy: Georgi i Rc1·bcrg, :� ssi sted by V lv:1nov, Cameramen: A. Nikobcv, I. Shr:tn'ko, Editing: 1.. Feiginova, Screenplay editors: N. 1\oi:l!'(w:t, L. l.:n:trcv, Art Di rccmr: Nikula i i)vil!uhsky, Special effects: ,

I. Pelrcw

lmern Dircc10r: B. Oganesian , Assistants to the director: A. Machcrct, M. Volovich, i\. Nikol.te1•, Script: And rei Mikha lkov-Knndlalov>ky, An dre i Tarkovsky, Director of photography: V:1dim lusov, Photography: V. Sci'O>I'ianov, :tssisrcd by L. Andria nov, R. Ruvinov 1'. Sudilin, Special effects design: E. Kor:tblc v assisted by T ls aeva, L Pcrrscv, Ediring: 1 .. Fciginova, T Egor)'chcv:�, 0. Shcvkuttcnko, Screenplay editors: N. 1\di:lcv:t, ,

.

��o

Mirror (Zerkafo), L974 (released 1975), 108 min. Colou r (Sovcolour)

I lilmograp hy

,

fil mography I 2� r

lu. Porapov, StiUs photographer: V. Murashko, Composer: Eduard Arrcm'ev, additional music by J. S. Bach, Giovanni Batisra Pergolcsi, Henry Purcell, Costumes: N. Fomina, Sound: Semen Litvinov, Make-up: V. Rudina, Lighting: \� Guscv, Set construction: A. Merkulov Starring: Margarita Terekhova (Mm·usia, Aleksei's morher/Natal'ia, Aleksei's wife), Filip lankovsky (Aleksei, age 5), lgnar Danil'tscv (Aieksei/lgnat, age 12), Oleg lankovsky (Aieksci's father), Nikolai Grin'ko (colleague at the prim shop), Alia Demidova (Liza), lu. Nazarov (military instructor), Anarolii Solonirsyn (doctor), lnnokenrii Smoknonovsky (voice of Aleksei, the narraror), Larisa Tarkovskaia (doctor's wife), Mariia Tarkovskaia (Aieksei's mother as rhe old woman) Supporting cast: Tamara Ogorodnikova (visiror), ln. Sventikov, T. Reshcrnikova, E. del Bosque, L. Co rrecher, A. Gmrierez, D. Ga•·da, T. Pames, Teresa del Bosque, Tatiana del Bosq ue

Stalker, 1979, Cinemascope

161

min. Colour (Sovcolour and Easrmancolor},

Production Company: Mosfilm (Second Creative Unit), Administrative support: T. Alcksandrovskaitic director:

One Chance of a Thousand (Odin sbnns iz tysiachi), 1969 Director: Leonid Kocharian. Screenplay: Leonid Kochar ian, A. Makarova, and Tarkov Leonid, 'Beseda o rsverc', in Leonid Kozlov, Proizvedeuie vo uremeui (Moscow,

2.005). pp. 4Jo-J6

(l'vloscow, r964), pp. 1 37-7 1

'M. I. Rommu ;o ler', So11erskii ekrnn, no. 2 ( 197 1 ), p. 5 'Mczhdu dvumia fil'mami', lskussrvo kino, no. t t ( 1962), pp. 82-4 ·,\1)• dclaem fil'my', Kino (Vilnius], no. 10 (1981), pp. 16-18 '0 kinoobrazc', lslwssriiQ kino, no. 3 (1979), pp. 80-93 'On vyrazil vrcmia, kak nikto' [on Vladimir Vysorsky], V. Vysotskii: Vse ne rnk (Moscow,

Kublanovskii, lmii, 'lnspiratsiia vd okhnoven ii a: Andr·ci Tarkovskii pcrcd

"Zhcrrvoprinoshcnicm"', Ncznvisimain gazeta (2.9 December 1992), p. 7 Lipkov, Alcksandr, 'Strasti po Andrciu', Litemturnoe obozrenie, 9 (1988), pp. 74-80 Loisha, V., 'lskussn·o soz.dactsia narodom', Kiuo [Riga], no. 1 1 ( 1979), pp. 20-22 Lopukhin, Alcksandr, 'Nel'zi:r \'Crit' '' budushchcc, esli nc vcrish' v scbia', Moskovskic IIOI'Osti ( 1 5 February 1987), p. 1 1

komsomolets (3 june 1 965)

Nikirin, N., 'Diia mcnia kino - cto sposob dostich' kakoi-ro isriny' , Sovetskain Rossiin (3 April •988), p. 4 Podgorcc, Zbignicw, 'Ziemska mor:rlnosc w kosmosic, czyli "Solaris" na ekrnnc', Tygodnik l'owseclmy, no. 42. (1972) Raush, lrm:r, cd., 'Andrei Tarkovsky: Odin god zhizni', Ki11ostsrnnrii, no. 4 (1991), pp. 169-78 'Srrcmlius' k maksimal'noi pra,·divosti' , Kiuossteuarii, no. 5 (:1.001), p. 124 . Verina, T.·unara, 'Tarkovskii o T 1rkovskom: pochri scmcill)'i r:rzgovor', Kul'tura i zb;zn·,

pp. 95-100

nO.IO (1979). p. 23 Zorkaia, Ncia, 'Vozvrashchcnic v budushchee', Soverskii (il'm, no. 4 ( 1977), pp. :1.1o-:!.J

1991), p. 19 'Opyr na budushchcc', Voprosy literntury, no. 1 (1973), p. 101 'Pcrcd 110vymi zadachami', cd. 0. Surkova, lskusstvo kino, no. 7 (l977), p. 1 1 6- rS 'l'o doroge k fil'mu Solitlfis', So11etskii ekrn11, no. 3 (1971), p. 6 'Rczhisser i zrircl': problema konrakta', cd. 0. Surkova, Molodoi komn11mist, no. 6 (1974) pp. 86""91 'Skoro nachnursia s�cmki . . . Rasskaz o r:rbotc nad fil'mom Audrei Rubliiv', Moskovskii 'Slovo ob Apoblipsisc', cd. V. lshimov and R. Shciko, lskusstvo kiuo, no. 2 (1989), 'Spor o gcroia kh', Komsomol'skaia pravda ( r 3 September 1962), p. 4

'Tam nas zhder nci zvcstnnc', Trud (9 Scprcmbcr 1971)

'Tancrs: ego nastoiashchcc i budushchee', Klu!J i klmdovJcstvemwia deiatel'uosr ·, no.

.1

2.

Selected studies on Andrei Tarkovsky

( t98o), pp. 1 5-17

( Vsesoiuwaia pcrcklichk:t kincm:uografistovj, lskuss/1'0 kino no. 4 ( 1971 ), p. 51 ·z:rchcm proshloc vstrL'Chactsia s budushchim?', lskusstvo kiuo, no. 1 1 (1971), pp. 96-101 'Zapcch:rrlcnnoc vrcmia', Vofnosy ki11oiskusstva. lstoriko-teoreticheskii sbornik, no. 10 (Moscow, 1967), pp. 79-102

'Zhguchii realizm', l.uis l)ulliuel': Sbomik (Moscow, 1979). pp. 69-75

Selected interviews Abramov, N., 'Dialog s i\. Tarkovskim o n:lllchnoi fant:tstikc na ckranc', /!Jmm. '97o-1971. O!Jo:.rc11ie kinogoda (Moscow, 1971), pp. 162.-5. [Also in J.ittmllunrain gateta, 4 No,•cmbcr 1970, p. 8] All(/rei Tarkovsky l11rerviews, cd. John Gianviro Uackson, MS, 2006) Andrci Ta rkovskl' on rhc film Roublcv'", Young C:int•ma ir Tbeatreljeune Ciucma c.! r Tbeatre, 8 ( 1 965), pp. 16-13. "

'

q6 I bibliography

Bcaslcy-Murra)•. Jon, 'Whatever Happcnt'57,59>7T, 17, 21

1 3 1 , 169, 22Sn6; There Will Be No

Solonitsyn, Anatolii 102, 182, 184 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr 8, n. 100,

Leave Today 23, 29, 1 3 1 ; 106

SOund )4-j, 47, 77, l050 T07, 1.!40 I 56-6o,

Time of

Travel 23 54, 104, 145-6, 1.73-4; thco­ rerical works: 'Imprinted Time' 75-6,

16r-2, r6;, 167-8, 1 7 1 , 172, 173, 177,

91, T93> 194, t9;7-8, r99; Sculpting in

:uo, u7, 2.1!)-2.0; see also music

Time 9, 2·1,

Strugatsky, Arkadii and Uoris

r34, 201.; unrealized screen­

plays: 'Ariel' 1 31-2; 'Antarctic: Distant Land' 29, t } I ; Hamler 48;

124-5,

t:69-70

'

Svensson, Owe rs6, •59, 210

'

'l-loffmanni�lna't69, r8o, uo; 'The Idiot' 48, r T T , •73; work in other films:

Takcmitsu, Toru 17 Tarkovskaia, J'vlaria (mod1cr) 28, 87,

Beware, Snakes! 48, ro7; One Chance in 1

LO,

a Thousand 47, 107; Sergei Lazo 48

TMkovsky, Arsenii (farhcr)

'34 Tarkovskaia, Marina (sister) 28

z.8, 103, .:04,

128, L:!.9-JO, 137, 142-4, 157-8

Tarkovsk ); Andrei:

Thcopha nes rhc Greek 4 1

life of 28, 48-9

Tatosov, Vladimir 102

still photography JO, 174 works, dr:una1ic productions: /Joris

Terekhova, Ma rgarita 45, 47,

Codwtov 2.1, 48, 181-2, 184-8; 1-/amlet

Tolsro)•, Leo ' ' 9

47, 8 • , 1 1 1-12., 181-4; Tumabout 47,

Traubcrg, Leonid 1 4

110, 127,

18:!., •83

'57• 2.10; films: Andrei Rubli!118, 2.0, 2.1,

Alone 175

22,23, 28,4o-44•47, 52, 53-4· 58,

The Truman Show (Peter \'\lcir) 22.1

63-4• 70, 7Jo74o 7)-S, St-4, 87• 96-I02.,

Truppin, Andrea 105

l l j-q, 1 18, 1 3 1 , 142., 154-5• 157• 162.,

Tyni:mov, lurii

r6

170, 172 175, 187""8, 190, 19J-'7, :!.Oj,

204-5, 217; Ivan s Cbildl1ood 7, 1.1. 23,

Ucccllo, Paolo Hunt in tbe Forest 63, 63

28, ;6-9,44, 52, ss-6J, 64, 7 • , 72., 92-6, 98, 1 12.-IJ, ljl, lj6, 157, 172;

Uruscvsky, Sergei 57, 130

Killers, Tbe 29, 7 ' ; Mirror 8, 12, 1 ;, .z.;, 28, 45-6,47. 55, 65-8, 8 • , 8 5-7. to2-4, 108, 109, I 10, I 12., 12.4, I Z.j-8, IJO, I J I , •.14-5• , 5 , , • s7. '7'• 173, •75, 216.

no;

Vigo, Jean

L'Atalante 57 Vysorsky, Vladimir

uS,

129, 182

Nostalgbia 8, 48, 49, 53, 54, 6 1 , 66, 102, 104-5, 107, IJO, 145, 159, 1 7 1 , 173• '74-80, t!;6, 189, 19C>-