From: Adam Kempenaar
To: Sam Hallgren; Eric Baker
Subject: Should have paid more attention in Existential Philosophy
Before commenting specifically on Steven Soderbergh's 'Solaris', I want to mention right off the top that I have not seen Andrei Tarkovsky's 1972 version, nor have I read Stanislaw Lem's book (1961). I've gathered from reading various sources that Soderbergh's rendition is closer to the book than Tarkovsky's while also being a lot less confusing. If this is true, I can't imagine how negatively Sam would react to the original. (A 2-disc Criterion Collection DVD comes out today.) Sam faults the current 'Solaris' for lacking specifics and for raising questions that it can't or won't answer -- “What is Solaris?”; “How should we get rid of the "visitors?" “How dangerous are the "visitors?" -- but one of the reasons I enjoyed the movie so much is precisely because these questions were left open for interpretation. These are the kind of questions that a standard, plot-driven sci-fi movie would try to answer, but for Soderbergh (and I'm guessing Lem and Tarkovsky) these issues are merely MacGuffins, plot means to a much larger end. The movie isn't concerned with trying to explain why this strange planet is somehow able to interpret one's dreams and actually produce a flesh and blood version of someone close to the dreamer. It is, as Sam says, "a story of relationships, loss, and the psychology of mourning and forgiveness," but it's also much more than that. Depending on how you interpret the ending -- which I will admit to having some confusion about -- 'Solaris' is either the ultimate exitentialist manifesto or the ultimate affirmation of God's supreme power. The movie's central dilemma is fascinating enough -- Clooney's character, Chris Kelvin, has to decide whether he would prefer to go back to Earth and resume his normal life, or exist essentially in isolation in space with someone -- something, really -- who is an exact replica of his dead wife, Rheya. Fortunately, I have yet to experience the loss of someone that close to me. But if I had, I could see this actually being a difficult decision if I was placed in a similar situation. Life on Earth without the person I love most in the world, or life with that person in a place without any typical human concerns -- no job, no mortgage payment, etc... The conundrum is that the allure of an existence without those daily concerns is also what makes it seem so frightening because our ambition and material items are what define us. Even more intriguing, however, is the way the film frames the age-old philosophical debate on freewill, an issue that we see being discussed specifically in at least one flashback during the film. The planet Solaris enables Kelvin, in a sense, to become God. As islandgirllizzie says in the Feedback Forum, Rheya is defined by Kelvin's memories of her and while Solaris may be responsible for "making" her, it is Kelvin who is responsible for "creating" her in his dreams. One could posit that what is ultimately so disarming about Rheya and the other "visitors" to the ship is that it forces Kelvin and the scientists to accept a position they are not equipped to take. Man aspires to be God, and in His absence (thanks to freewill) has not choice but to do so. Perhaps Lem's message is that Man is not quite ready.
Looking back over this I'm not sure any of it makes sense, but oh well. There's still much to discuss about 'Solaris' -- the performances, Soderbergh's signature camerawork and editing, plus Eric still hasn't chimed in yet...
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