From: Arkady Strugatsky, As I Saw Him, translated by Sergei Sossinsky. Published in About Andrei Tarkovsky, Memoirs and Biographies, Progress Publishers, Moscow 1990. ISBN 5-01-001973-6
In my impression, the following events took place in July 1978. At the time, Andrei Tarkovsky was filming Stalker near Tallinn. As one of the screenwriters, I am with him. Andre came back from the set exhausted, and then we would sit down and revise the script. Cross out plots that prove redundant and come up with plots that are needed. Unimportant conversations are deleted, and important ones are included in the outline. We would occasionally argue late into the night and try to come to an agreement; but when I got up in the morning, Andre was already on set.
Keep in mind that Andre hadn't seen any of his scenes until that miserable July. The film is awaiting development at Mosfilm studios. I remember being surprised, even terrified: it seemed to me that he was working under the hood, which would inevitably lead to trouble. And trouble did happen, but from totally unexpected places.
While developing the film, something went wrong with the machine and the film was mostly destroyed. Mikhalkov-Goncharovsky's film "Siberia" also appears to be damaged. But Mikhalkov-Goncharovsky suffered a purely spiritual loss. Either the damage was minor, or the studio compensated for material damage, film, budget, etc., including deadlines. I don't remember much. I was busy with other business at the time.
Andre finds himself in a predicament with little way out. As a writer, I understand his situation very well, it's like a writer who loses the only manuscript of his new work and leaves no rough copies (if not worse). But it was even worse. Half of the film allocated to Andre has been lost, and two-thirds of its funding has been lost. The National Film Board politely but firmly declined to compensate for these losses. It was suggested that he treat the damaged film as if it had been developed normally and continue shooting. When he categorically declined, he was hinted that all losses would be graciously written off as a creative setback—provided, of course, that he would abandon the film and work on something else.
Those were really grim days. Andre's face was covered with clouds, and he turned around all day. Everyone on the team was numb with fear. Of course, I was also distressed because I self-righteously attributed these troubles to the usual bad luck of the Strugatsky brothers. One day I told Andre this, but he shoved me impatiently and hard.
All of a sudden — and a lot of things about Andre happen out of nowhere — more than a week after the event, Andre popped in with a smile on his face. He is walking on clouds. He laughed. Frankly, I was terrified when I saw him. He walked into the room and glued himself to the wall with his legs, back and head - he was the only one who could do that, I tried it once and failed miserably - stared at the ceiling and said earnestly:
"Tell me, Arkady, you've rewritten 'Roadside Picnic' ten times, aren't you tired?"
"I'm tired," I said cautiously and sincerely.
"That's right," he said, nodding cordially, "so what would you say if we made Stalker into two parts?"
I didn't immediately understand how all this was going on. In fact, it's pretty simple. They will allocate funds and films for the second part and extend the deadline. Add to that what's left of the original, and it's possible to save the situation. Another important circumstance: I sensed, intuitively, what Andrei felt as a seasoned professional: his ideas changed and expanded over the course of his work, and this was only part of the Space will be greatly limited.
"Will they allow it?" I asked softly.
Andrei just glanced at me and turned away. I later learned that a few days ago, he had asked the authorities (or demanded?) and they hesitated and agreed through gritted teeth.
"Then now," he said in a flat tone, "go to your Boris in Leningrad, I want a new script in ten days. Two parts. Don't care about the environment. Just the dialogue. And a short note. And the most important point: the stalker must be a completely different image."
"What should he look like?" I was taken aback.
"How do I know? But I don't want your bandit in the script."
I sighed and cheered up. What can I do? I don't know how he works with the other script writers, but for us, the situation is as follows: I bring a new chapter that has been discussed the day before. "I don't know, you're the author, not me. Edit." I did. I tried to grasp his tone and intent as I understood. "It's worse now. Change it." I sighed and staggered to the typewriter. "It's good now, but not what we need. This sentence doesn't feel right. Try to put some more thought into it." I stared blankly at "this sentence", which is like any other sentence. I may not even have written this sentence. But I went to revise it again. He read and read, and read for a long time, and his moustache was up and down. Then he hesitated: "Okay, that's it for now. At least we have something to work on...and then we can rewrite this conversation." It was like a bone in my throat. Let it continue. "Isn't it appropriate?" "No, it doesn't." "What did you dislike in the dialogue?" "I don't know, go and fix it. Get it ready by tomorrow night." That's how we write the script, This has been accepted and approved at all official levels.
"What should a stalker look like in the new script?"
"I don't know, you are the author, not me."
I see. Actually, I don't understand anything, but I'm used to it. But even before the work started, it was clear to my brother and I that if Tarkovsky made a mistake, it was an excellent mistake, equivalent to a dozen good decisions made by the average director.
I was suddenly compelled to ask:
"Look, Andre, what do you want the sci-fi element of the movie for? Let's throw it out."
He smiled: like a cat that ate its owner's parrot.
"By the way! It was you who suggested it, not me! I've thought about it for a long time, but I'm afraid to suggest it, lest you be offended."
Long story short, I flew to Leningrad the next morning. I won't tell you about me and Boris, because I'm not writing about the two of us, but Andrei Tarsky. What we write is not a sci-fi movie script, but a fable (if we understand a fable as some kind of anecdote, whose characters are typical of the era, carriers of typical thoughts and actions). A stylish writer and a brilliant scientist enter the "zone" where their most cherished dreams are possible, guided by the apostle of a new faith, a theory of thought.
Ten days later, I returned to Tallinn. Andrei greeted me at the airport. We hug together. He asked, "Did you bring it?" I nodded, trying not to shake. At home, he took the manuscript and silently retreated to the next room, closing the door tightly. The wives took care of me and poured brandy (it was my birthday). Naturally, we cannot eat anything.
Some time passed, maybe an hour.
The door opened and Andre came in. There was no expression on his face, only his moustache was shaking, as he always did when he was lost in his own thoughts.
He looked at us absently, went to the table, picked up a piece of food with a fork, put it in his mouth and chewed it. Then he stared above our heads and said:
"It was the first time in my life that I had my own script."
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