Author: Arjun Sajip (Little White Lies)
Translator: csh
The translation was first published in "Iris"
In the 1961 sci-fi work Solaris, Stanislaw Lem explored the limits of human knowledge. While occasionally ironic, it's largely humorous. But somewhat unexpectedly, each screen adaptation of this brisk novel has resulted in a slower-paced work. Two adaptations are well known: the shimmering Solaris (2002), directed by Steven Soderbergh and starring George Clooney; Andrei Tarkovsky's epic "Flying into Space" (1971) is a very emotional meditation. And this work by Tarkovsky has a large number of fans around the world. When it was first released in the Soviet Union, it sold more than 10 million movie tickets, and many people insisted that it The greatest sci-fi movie ever made.
However, there is a third adaptation of the novel, and for fans of Solaris, this film may be as precious as the rare beluga whale. The Soviet adaptation of Solaris had an indoor screening at London's Barbican Centre, and only a lucky few saw the somewhat lengthy work. From the film's aspect ratio, still photography, and relatively crude studio set, we might already be able to infer that this is a 1968 TV movie. At the same time, it's also extremely blurry, and it doesn't have English subtitles yet. During the screening, an interpreter must enter the subtitles in real time.
Ironically, while Lyme's "Solaris" is about the unknowability of extraterrestrial life, it marks a sort of popular shift - it interprets what intelligent aliens have in mind. new image. Psychologist Chris Kelvin is dispatched to a remote ocean planet, Solaris, with a lonely research base with three astronauts inside. When he arrived in Solaris, two scientists were in a state of high mental stress, taciturn and some sort of mysterious trauma. The third astronaut has committed suicide. Within a few hours, Kelvin discovered that they were not alone here. Among the "guests" who came to the space station seemed to be Kelvin's young wife, who committed suicide on Earth ten years ago.
It turns out that the ocean planet itself is a sentient being. It will invade people's brains out of curiosity, extract memory fragments from them, and resurrect dead lovers. And everything it does has no clear purpose. These flesh-and-blood stand-ins seem completely real—they can even question their own existence. Kelvin has been blaming himself for his wife Harley's suicide, but when he sees his wife's double, he is horrified by her instead. But then he became fascinated by her and fell in love with the woman in front of him again.
If we place this Soviet TV version of Solaris in a specific historical context, we find that 1968 was the year of the Prague Spring, after which the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. In the novels and movies, the planet begins to make some troubling moves after scientists desperately communicate with it, bombarding it with radiation. The peaceful planet, with an unsettling calm, takes its own revenge on these bumbling invaders - and when the satellite audience sees it, they may feel empowered (Translator's Note: A satellite country refers to a country that nominally enjoys complete sovereignty in international relations, but whose domestic politics, military and diplomacy are interfered by powerful powers. Czechoslovakia was one of the satellite countries of the Soviet Union during the Cold War).
But this adaptation may not be for those history buffs. Based on Nikolai Komarski's screenplay, adapted directly from the novel, directors Boris Nileberg and Lydia Ishbava have made a rather mediocre production. Even putting the meager budget aside, the film is unimaginative. In terms of ideological propaganda, the film's moves are also unremarkable - the last few lines of the film have been slightly adjusted, and in the "miracle" these characters see, a certain triumphalist belief is conveyed. In the novel, the author's view of the so-called "miracle" is more ambiguous.
Another, more impressive line from the novel has also been omitted, likely due to Komarski's self-censorship, who may have discovered a possible allegorical effect in this line: "We don't want to conquer the universe, We just want to extend the boundaries of Earth into the universe... We don't want other worlds, we just want mirrors."
The film is 142 minutes long, even though it doesn't have to be that long. Komarski doesn't do his best to condense the novel and make it adaptable to another medium. And the editor G. Njiyeva seemed to be too merciful: the shots and scenes were longer than they needed to be, and this phenomenon did little to shape the mood and atmosphere. Neither Tarkovsky nor Soderbergh did a particularly good job of interpreting Lem's "rolling ocean" concept, but at least they both tried; Nileberg and Ishbava apparently didn't did not show this. Thus, in this film, there is a lack of a physical environment that contributes to the psychological disturbance.
This excavated antique — although it may have been entirely for Soviet TV in 1968 — is enough to remind us why that Tarkovsky film is so important. That Tarkovsky co-created with screenwriter Frederick Grunsteen is a masterful adaptation. For the 1971 film, the age and narrative passages of the original book were altered to create a more complete narrative. Not only that, but it also incorporates heavy beauty and profound connotation.
This includes the opening 40 minutes of the film (a tender, languid image that reminds us to pay attention to this beautiful planet); the silent, heartfelt contemplation (thinking about the importance of children's love) ); also poetic interpretations of the mundane elements of Lyme’s novels. The note on the vents doesn't just let you know the vents are still working: they're for homesick astronauts, imitating the rustling of leaves.
Another strength of the 1971 version was its reflexivity, and Tarkovsky exploited the full potential of the medium of film, adding certain unique elements to his work—whether it was Lyme or Nileberg And Ishbava, neither can do that. His use of color is exquisite: the sudden switch to black-and-white or color filters is not logically obvious, but they are very important for the grasp of emotions. He also refers to other artworks in the film, notably Breger's painting titled "The Huntsman in the Snow". It is photographed with a flowing gaze, which lasts for about a few minutes, allowing us to trace its outlines. In addition to expressing a desire for a simpler sense of time, it also explores the permeability of art itself. At the end of the film, we also see a narrative-level ingenuity that is a poignant reunion between Kelvin and his father at home, but it all takes place on Solaris's imaginary island.
Perhaps the adaptors of "Solaris" shouldn't be blamed for being "too serious" in their films. Because the novel has a bumpy translation history: its only published English edition—though beloved by millions of readers—was actually a translation from French. Lem himself has described the French version as "terrible". Nor do we have reason to believe that the Russian translator of the novel would have more faithfully reproduced Lem's imaginative Polish prose. Perhaps the only difference between the Soviet TV version of Solaris and other versions is that it was the first film to be adapted from a Lyme novel. It is not difficult to find that Tarkovsky's version is superior to other films in many aspects, such as depth, intensity and beauty - not only compared with science fiction films, but also compared with all films.
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