First Look ’24: Solaris Mon Amour

Cineastes sometimes forget Tarkovsky’s Solaris was not the first adaptation of the Stanislaw Lem novel. It certainly wasn’t Soderbergh’s either. In 1968 there was an early Russian film released, often referred to as Solyaris. Even before that, there were Polish radio productions in 1962 and 1970, each predating Tarkovsky and Soderbergh. Filmmaker Kuba Mikurda samples audio from both Polskie Radio plays in this hybrid documentary that in a very abstract way also condenses the themes and story of Lem’s novel in Solaris Mon Amour, which screens during this year’s First Look.

For those who know the book (which Lem started writing in 1959, the same year Resnais’s Hiroshima Mon Amour was released, so there you go) and films, Mikurda’s audio excerpts are readily identifiable as Solaris-ian. The images are culled from vintage 1960s Polish industrial and educational science films that have nothing to do with Lem, but marry-up rather aptly with the audio passages. Scenes of protozoa and microscopic cell structures fittingly match discussion of the sentient “sea” on planet Solaris, while protagonist Kris Kelvin’s alienation is nicely represented by star fields and remote figures traversing alien-looking terrain, or the like.

As a result, Solaris Mon Amour sort of is Solaris, but you need to know some of the various Solarises to fill in the gaps. Ironically, that now makes Tarkovsky’s Solaris one of the more “accessible” versions.

Ikarie XB-1, Restored and Uncut

They set off to seek out new life and new civilizations three years before the original Star Trek launched. They found a strange form of space madness five years before the first Soviet adaptation of Solaris (and nine years before Tarkovsky’s classic). It too was loosely based on a Stanislaw Lem novel, but for years it was only known as Voyage to the End of the Universe, in a cut that was heavily edited and redubbed by American International Pictures (AIP). Happily, Jindrich Polak’s Czech science fiction masterwork has been fully restored in its entirety, which releases this Friday, via Film Forum’s virtual cinema.

Ikarie was also considered an influence on Kubrick’s 2001, at least in terms of its sleek space-age design. It is just as moody and brooding as the 1968 Solyaris, but also displays some of groovy vibe of vintage DEFA sf films, like Eolomea. You can tell just by looking at Ikarie that it must have been influential. The narrative sounds relatively familiar, but keep in mind, it was the product of the early Cold War-era-1960s.

Sometime in the future, a crew of scientists embark on a fifteen-year journey, searching for life in the Alpha Centauri system. As we can tell from the in media res prologue, one of the crew goes raving mad and will threaten the safety of all abord the Ikarie. It doesn’t just happen. The deranged Michael will apparently be infected with something. The question will be—is it the doing of mysterious aliens, or is it perhaps somehow related to the evil derelict NATO space vessel they find drifting from a dark era long-passed.

The very idea of a NATO starship does not make sense, since the North Atlantic Alliance has never been involved in space exploration—just maintaining the peace and containing Soviet expansionism, but obviously Ikarie XB-1 had to incorporate some kind of propaganda to earn its release. In most other respects, the futuristic crew do not sound much different than Star Trek’s Starfleet. Regardless, story is really just a vehicle for the wonderfully retro sets and Jan Kalis’s absolutely stunning black-and-white cinematography.

The Ikarie model is just okay (a bit like Space 1999’s Eagle), but the interiors will make sf fans swoon. Admittedly, the antiquated robot owned by crew mathematician Antony Hopkins [definitely not “Sir Anthony”] is transparently modeled after Robbie the Robot, from Forbidden Planet (1956), but that adds to the retro charm. Yet, there is a grace to spacefaring scenes that clearly prefigure 2001 (all that’s missing is The Blue Danube accompaniment).

Arguably, the cast acquits itself quite well, especially considering what a strong stylistic stamp Polak put on the film. Otto Lackovic delivers a Shatner-worthy freak-out as Michael and Radovan Lukavsky provides Picardian steeliness as Macdonald, the first officer, who makes all the hard decisions. Of course, the Ikarie has its share of expendable crew members too, just like the Enterprise.

Fantaspoa ’19: His Master’s Voice

There is something about the work of Polish science fiction writer Stanislaw Lem that inspires more ambiguous and open-to-interpretation adaptations than the original source novels. Tarkovsky’s Solaris is a classic case, but Ari Folman’s The Congress was no slouch. Neither is this. Gyorgy Palfi offers a Twenty-First Century re-imagined, sequelistic vision of Lem’s classic Cold War-era novella with His Master’s Voice, which screens today at this year's Fantaspoa in Porto Alegre, Brazil.

Like many Lem novels, Voice is a first contact story—sort of, but perhaps less so this time around. Regardless, Peter Horvath’s father left dark, dreary Socialist Hungary in 1981 to study a gamma ray phenomenon in America that he became convinced was a signal from space—and he just stayed. Unlike his mother and disadvantaged brother Zsolt, Horvath never really blamed him that much, but he always had a sinking feeling his father really shouldered some of the guilt for three notorious explosions that rocked Colorado (remember, it was gamma rays that created the Incredible Hulk).

With the fall of Communism and the rise of online connectivity, Horvath sets out to find his father, following the clues from a History Channel-style conspiracy show and the remains of the old research facility adjacent to Los Alamos. Many of his fears will be partly confirmed when he finally meets his father, now known as Hogarth, but everything is much more complicated than he ever suspected—cosmically so.

Palfi pitches his material at a very high level and he engages in a fair amount of mischievous flights of fancy, so expect to get a little lost once or twice. That’s just going to happen. Fortunately, it is worth unpacking all his scientific and philosophically speculation and following his narrative jumps. This is ambitious story-telling and sophisticated sf speculation, but it has genuine cinema substance at its core.

The characters are also sharply-drawn and surprisingly engaging, especially considering how out-there the film sometimes gets. Csaba Polgar portrays Horvath as quite a dogged everyman, but Eric Peterson really creates an impressively nuanced, multi-dimensional (so to speak) portrait of old Hogarth (formerly Horvath). Adam Fekete (who also co-starred in Kills on Wheels) is convincingly whip-smart and angry as heck as Zsolt. However, Diana Magdolna Kiss does not have much significant business to perform as Horvath’s lover Dora, who seems to magically visit whenever his is in need of a quick booty call.

There are some metaphysically significant plot points that are just left hanging at the end of Voice, but that is in keeping with the Lem spirit. Palfi’s outrageous visual stylings similarly fit Lem’s themes like a glove—the early sequences in which old, yet-to-be-revealed Hogarth/Hovarth’s face appears to be cut out of the film with scissors is one of the easier examples to explain. This is a smart, strange film, but that is to its credit. Highly recommended, His Master’s Voice screens today (5/29), as part of Fantaspoa in Porto Alegre.

Stanislaw Lem on Film: Solaris (2002)

Don’t call it a remake. Supposedly, Steven Soderbergh was reinterpreting Stanisław Lem’s source novel rather than fiddling with Tarkovsky’s classic. Okay, so where’s Dr. Sartorius and the study of Solaristics? Arguably, this is the least faithful of the three film adaptations, but it still shares thematic kinships with its predecessors. No matter what you call it, following in Tarkovsky’s footsteps is a perilous proposition, so you have to give Soderbergh credit for creating a distinctive Solaris (trailer here) of his own, which also screens during the Stanisław Lem on Film series at Anthology Film Archives.

This time around, the fact that Dr. Chris (no longer with a “K”) Kelvin is a psychologist who has been unable to process the guilt and grief stemming from his wife’s suicide takes on tremendous significance, quite logically enough. He is rather surprised when representatives of the DBA corporation (including a blurry John Cho, in the one sf role he is probably never asked about at cons) recruits him to assess the state of moral at the Solaris space station. It turns out, he was requested by his old friend Gibrarian, who apparently committed suicide shortly before his arrival.

The two surviving crewmembers, Dr. Snow and Dr. Gordon are both acting suspiciously. The latter has become a paranoid recluse who rarely leaves her quarters, whereas the former is twitchier than Meryl Streep playing Dracula’s fly-eating Renfield. He soon learns the crew have been visited by apparently flesh-and-blood constructs generated by the sentient planet from the darkest corners of the subject’s subconscious. In Kelvin’s case, it is his late wife Rheya. At first, his “visitor” freaks him out, but then he desperately grasps at this unlikely second chance.

So yes, this is Solaris, except Soderbergh throws in an incidental plot twist that largely parallels the big reveal in Professor Zazul. In some ways, he appears to deliberately evoke the Tarkovsky classic, starting with the nearly continual rain during the early Earth-bound scenes. This is also the steamiest Solaris yet. Indeed, Soderbergh is much more interested in the relationship between the husband and wife and Kelvin’s subsequent guilt-tripping. His affinity for vintage 1970s cinema stands him in good stead, in this respect. It is a bit of an exaggeration, but a tag-line like: “in space, love means never having to say you’re sorry” would not be wholly inappropriate.

Probably best known for Spy Kids 3 and Return to Horror High, George Clooney actually slow burns quite effectively as Kelvin. He always looks torn up inside (and it literally seems like he walks under a constant rain cloud while on Earth). Natascha McElhone poignantly portrays the various Rheyas, especially the visitor incarnation’s coming to terms with her debatable human status. Unfortunately, the 2002 Solaris really suffers when comparing its Snow to previous Dr. Snauts (translations vary). Jeremy Davies basically hits the same almost shticky note over and over as Snow, whereas both Vladimir Etush and Jüri Järvet added complexity and heft to their respective 1968 and 1972 adaptations. Viola Davis hardly registers as Dr. Gordon, the Sartorius substitute, but that is still an advantage over the ’68 Russian TV production.

Much to Lem’s frustration, all three films downplayed what he considered the most important aspect of the film—the inconceivably alien nature of planet Solaris itself. Yet, there is obviously something deeply compelling about the space visitations, especially Rheya/Hari, since it keeps inspiring challenging and emotionally engaging films. Strictly speaking, the first two Solaris films are probably better, but that is not a knock against the 2002 release. In fact, it is quite rewarding to watch all three in short succession. Recommended as high quality, character-driven science fiction, Soderbergh’s Solaris screens tomorrow (11/4) and next Friday (11/10) as part of the Stanisław Lem on Film series at Anthology Film Archives.

Stanislaw Lem on Film: Solyaris (1968)

In space, only one thing can hear your guilt trips. That would be the sentient ocean on planet Solaris. The very same Solaris. Four years before Andrei Tarkovsky’s masterpiece, Russian television produced a surprisingly distinctive two-part adaptation of Stanisław Lem’s source novel. It was a leaner, darker Solaris, with a “y” added for greater Cyrillic-ness. Although subsequently overshadowed, there is still considerable merit to Boris Nirenburg & Lidiya Ishimbayeva’s Solyaris, which screens during the Stanisław Lem on Film series at Anthology Film Archives.

Dr. Kris Kelvin has been dispatched to check up on the space station orbiting planet Solaris. Much to his surprise, he finds the station in shambles and his best friend Gibaryan has committed suicide. Dr. Snaut’s reception is disconcertingly cagey, while Dr. Sartorius is downright standoffish. Kelvin soon discovers why. The collective mind of Solaris’s great ocean has plumbed the darkest corners of their subconsciousness to generate so-called visitors. In Kelvin’s case, it will Hari, the wife he inadvertently drove to suicide.

Snaut and Sartorius would much prefer to be rid of their visitors, but not Kelvin. At first her visitation is painful, but soon he embraces her presence as a second chance. In fact, he might just be falling in love with her, perhaps for the first time. Of course, this puts him diametrically at odds with Snaut and Sartorius.

It is really not fair to compare the 1968 Solyaris with Tarkovsky’s lofty classic. They might have the same basic story, but they exist on different planes. That does not mean we can safely dismiss Nirenberg & Ishibayaeva’s version—quite the contrary. While quite faithful to Lem’s narrative, their black-and-white interpretation is distinctively moody. Their evocative use of light and shadow suggests film noir, while the severely industrial sets hint at German expressionism.

While the Russian TV version lacks Tarkovsky’s sweep, there is a stark intimacy, like far-future science fiction by way of Cassavetes. Yet, despite the boxy aspect ratio, Solyaris is still quite a cinematic work. It is also easier to follow the strategies devised by Snaut and Sartorius to quiet the Solaris ocean during the second half.

Vasiliy Lanovoy is more tightly restrained than the guilt-wracked Donatas Banionis in Tarkovsky’s film, but he aptly suits Nirenburg & Ishimbayeva’s quieter, nearly suffocating film. Vladimir Etush’s Snaut is more of a compassionate, slightly schlubby everyman, but like his Tarkovsky counterpart, he too makes a strong impression. Frankly, the 1968 telefilm’s weak link is Viktor Zozulin’s Sartorius, who looks and acts somewhat cartoonish.

Adapting Lem is never an easy assignment, so you have to give Nirenburg & Ishimbayeva credit for getting the general spirit of his work and executing it with so much style. Arguably, the fact that such a credible Solaris predates Tarkovsky’s film probably made it easier for fans to give Stephen Soderbergh a chance with his 2002 non-remake adaptation. Both Russian takes are very highly recommended when Tarkovsky’s Solaris screens this Saturday (11/4) and Thursday (11/9) and 1968’s Solyaris screens this coming Sunday (11/5) as part of Stanisław Lem on Film series at Anthology Film Archives.

Stanislaw Lem on Film: Professor Zazul (short)

Stanisław Lem’s famous space-traveler Ijon Tichy is the sort of fellow who could possibly save or destroy the universe. He always understood the science of his wacky circumstances, but he was known to be klutzy and guileless. However, he caught a nice break when he was depicted by the distinguished-looking Piotr Kurowski in two short films produced for Polish television, including Marek Nowicki & Jerzy Stawicki’s Professor Zazul, which screens as part of Stanisław Lem on Film, the upcoming retrospective survey of cinema based on the work of the great Polish science fiction writer.

Initially, the 1962 short appears to have more of the trappings of a horror film when Tichy is forced to take refuge in an old dark house during a severe storm. It turns out the place even has a mysterious laboratory and a scientist, who is most likely quite mad. That would indeed be Zazul—sort of.

Frankly, Zazul feels considerably ahead of its time, given its doppelganger themes, the circular structure, and the generally slippery nature of reality. In retrospect, it looks like considerable resources went into its twenty-two minutes of air time, including set decorations worthy of the best Frankenstein films and a groovy vibraphone-heavy soundtrack composed by Edward Pałłasz. Plus, the frequent product placement for Coca-Cola is almost bemusingly surreal, given the era—early 1960s Poland.

Kurowski plays Tichy as a rather intelligent and principled fellow, but the film still stays largely true to the vibe of Lem’s humorously outlandish stories. Stanisław Milski certainly gets his Ernest Thesinger on playing the sinister scientist, which gives the proceedings extra added genre appeal. Recommended for Lem admirers and fans of Eastern European science fiction in the funky DEFA tradition, Professor Zazul screens this Wednesday (11/1) and Saturday (11/11) as part of the shorts program during Anthology Film Archive’s Lem film series.

Stanislaw Lem on Film: The Investigation

The word mystery has several connotations, but they are largely incompatible for Scotland Yard Inspector Gregory. He catches criminals—period. Questions of truth and metaphysics are way outside his comfort zone. Unfortunately, he will be forced to go there in Marek Piestrak’s adaptation of The Investigation, which screens as part of Stanisław Lem on Film, the upcoming retrospective survey of cinema based on the work of the great Polish science fiction writer.

It started weirdly. Various provincial morgues and funeral parlors started reporting instances of corpses being tampered with. However, just as Gregory takes the lead on the serial corpse-mover investigation, it escalates to include full-fledged walking dead. Of course, Gregory does not believe anything supernatural could be afoot. It is all just part of some eccentric criminal’s plan to sow chaos and confusion amongst the populace. He will never accept any outlandish or uncanny explanations, even when he maybe possibly sees one of the missing dead people riding the bus.

Unfortunately, science does not do him any favors either. Dr. Sciss is a statistician volunteering his services with Scotland Yard, but all he offers up is a correlation between areas of reported dead body activity and significantly low rates of cancer. Almost perversely (from Gregory’s standpoint), Sciss starts pushing him to think about the problem in more cosmic terms. As a result, he starts to suspect the statistician of being his super-villain.

The Investigation is a sly and heady novel, but it would be a challenge to adapt it dramatically. Nevertheless, Polish television took at least two cracks at it. Piestrak and co-screenwriter Andrzej Kotkowski are remarkably faithful to its somewhat loose narrative and rigorous philosophical inquiry. To make it even stranger, The Investigation boasts a massively funky soul jazz soundtrack by Włodzimierz Nahorny that feels completely at odds with the film’s Bertrand Russell-esque logical-epistemological gamesmanship, but holy smokes, does it ever sound fantastic.

Like a good soldier, Tadeusz Borowski tries to make Gregory more plodding than Maigret. However, Edmund Fetting gives the film some edge as the Inspector’s arrogant but more politically astute commander, Sheppard. As a pseudo-surrogate for the filmmakers, Sheppard clearly has little faith in the bureaucracy’s chances of saving the day.

The early 1970s TV film totally captures the look of its era, but Nahorny makes it sound timeless. Although Lem’s short novel was originally published in 1959, his philosophical provocations have not been undermined by advances in forensic science. In short, it all holds up jolly well. Highly recommended, The Investigation screens this Wednesday (11/1) and Saturday (11/11) as part of Anthology Film Archive’s Lem film series.

Tarkovsky’s Solaris

Thirty-seven years before the publication of the Ted Chiang novella that would be adapted as The Arrival, polish author Stanisław Lem had already grappled with the challenges of human communication with radically dissimilar life forms. However, some of those themes of his novel were overshadowed by a more fundamental examination of what it means to be human in Andrei Tarkovsky’s classic cinematic adaptation. Easily one of the most important science fiction films of all time, Tarkovsky’s Solaris (trailer here) returns to New York theaters this Friday, freshly restored by Mosfilm from the original negative.

Kris Kelvin sounds cold. In fact, he has been emotional unavailable to those closest to him, resulting in the tremendous guilt he bears. As Solaris opens, he is spending what could well be his final day on Earth, essentially saying farewell to his elderly parents. He will soon leave for the space station orbiting planet Solaris. Communications with the crew have been garbled, so Kelvin is to assess their condition and determine whether the mission can continue.

It is pretty clear the Earthbound authorities would prefer to pull the plug. Ever since space pilot Henri Berton gave an outlandish report of an attempted rescue mission in the planet’s atmosphere, the reputation of so-called Solaristics has suffered in scientific circles. Kelvin’s initial meetings with the two surviving crew members do little to reassure him. Much to his disappointment, his friend Dr. Gibarian committed suicide shortly before his arrival, but he left Kelvin a cryptic video warning.

The space psychologist will soon understand what his old friend meant when he comes face-to-face with his dead wife Hari. She is not a hallucination. She is a physical manifestation generated by “The Ocean,” the sentient atmospheric storm on Solaris the space station scientists roused with their X-Ray probes. Clearly, the Ocean is responding with what the crew somewhat euphemistically call “guests,” but it is unclear whether the intent is hostile or benign.

Those who saw the original American release of Solaris were probably baffled, because a good half-hour was chopped out. Granted, there are some long, meditative Tarkovskian stretches, but viewers really need to go through them to get into the film’s headspace. It is still the most commercial of Tarkovsky’s films (an almost laughable distinction), but viewers who buckle in and commit to it, should have no trouble following along.

Somewhat intended as a response to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, Solaris is one of the few films that can match its cosmic scope. Yet, Tarkovsky deliberately de-emphasized special visual effects, instead presenting a cluttered, human-scale vision of the future. Few films have managed to develop the Tarkovsky’s themes (and Lem’s) any further, but its shadow looms over every subsequent first contact movies.

Viewers should also appreciate the ensemble’s fine performances, once they acclimate to Tarkovsky’s reserved aesthetic. As Kelvin, Lithuanian Donatas Banionis looks like an existential crisis personified. You can practically see the waves of guilt radiating out from him. Natalya Bondarchuk gives one of the great science fiction performances in movie history as the new Hari, who has apparently inherited the old Hari’s neuroses and develops peculiar new ones as she becomes cognizant of her true origins. However, it is Estonian Jüri Järvet who steals scene after scene as the station’s roguish but compassionate cyberneticist.

During his career, Tarkovky was bedeviled by Soviet state censorship and interference, but he was never considered an overtly or even semi-covertly political filmmaker. However, we can possibly read the rather dramatic use of J.S. Bach’s sacred “Ich Ruf Zu Dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639” over the opening titles and the strategic positioning of an image of a Rublev icon as small acts of defiance. Arguably, their very inclusion stretches Tarkovsky’s canvas even further. Regardless, Tarkovsky always keeps the nature of humanity front and center throughout Solaris. Anyone who professes any interest in science fiction cinema absolutely must be conversant in this film. Very highly recommended, the restored Solaris opens this Friday (5/12) in New York, at the Film Society of Lincoln Center.

The Congress: Ari Folman Channels Stanislaw Lem

Polish science fiction master Stanislaw Lem deftly satirized Soviet utopianism in The Futurological Congress. For his modernized riff, Israeli filmmaker Ari Folman uses Hollywood as the new evil empire. It is a smooth substitution. In the very near future, the movie business will take exploitation to even greater technological heights, as Robin Wright learns first-hand when she plays herself in Folman’s The Congress (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Lem’s novel may have provided the seed of inspiration, but you not find his well traveled hero Ijon Tichy. Instead, Wright will attend the conference in his stead, but first we will witness the final days of her acting career. Despite her early success in hits like The Princess Bride, Folman’s Wright turned out to be difficult to work with, frequently dropping out of high profile roles at the last minute. While she always claimed it was for the sake of her ailing son Aaron, her frustrated agent really knows it is fear and a lack of confidence that sabotaged her career.

However, Miramount has a final offer to make. For a lump sum payment, they will digitize Wright and program her into all the hit movies she was never shrewd enough to accept. Evidently, this is the way the business is going, so she reluctantly accepts. Twenty years later, she is the biggest star in the business, but nobody recognizes the real Wright. Accepting an invitation to speak at Miramount’s Futurological Congress, Wright plans to challenge their questionable ethical priorities from the podium. However, to get there, she must travel into Miramount’s animated city of avatars. Unfortunately, little things like the nature of time and reality will complicate her plan.

Frankly, the first fifty minutes of live action could have easily been condensed. In fact, by the time the film finally switches over into animation, Folman seems so eager to go off on a fantastical romp he never fully establishes the rules and boundaries of his chemically induced world of cartoon avatars. Still, it all looks spectacularly trippy.

Granted, Folman’s Congress is a bit of a narrative mess and it lacks Lem’s subversive bite, but it is fully stocked with fascinating ideas and surprisingly effective performances. In one of many intriguing side-plots, Folman puts a Matrix-like spin of Otto Preminger’s Laura when Dylan Truliner confesses to Wright he fell in love with her while working as the animator manipulating her digital image.

As Al the agent, Harvey Keitel delivers a monologue end all monologues, while Paul Giamatti (who could have advised Wright on playing a meta-meta version of herself, having done something similar in Cold Souls) adeptly brings some stabilizing sensitivity and dignity to the film as Aaron’s kindly Dr. Baker. Whether as an animated avatar or in the flesh, Danny Huston also makes a dynamite villain as Miramount (great name) studio boss Jeff Green.

Most importantly, The Congress’ animation is wildly cool and colorful, with enough thinly disguised cameos and visual quotes to reward dozens of repeat viewings. In contrast, the Wright family drama gets tiresome the first time through, especially when it comes to poor, pitiful Aaron, whose bland personality seems to be degenerating along with his sight and hearing. Nevertheless, Folman puts so much crazy ambition up on the screen, it more than compensates for the occasional lapse into Lifetime melodrama. Recommended for fans of cult science fiction and animation, as well as Lem readers who enjoy being scandalized, The Congress opens this Friday (9/5) in New York at the Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center.