November 16, 2002

There are no answers.  Only choices.

If you want to understand Steven Soderbergh’s Solaris, you’re going to have to let go of the diamond in the bottle, pull your relaxed hand out and let the diamond come to you. 

If you value things being done the way they’ve always been done before, you are going to have a problem.  Solaris is a sci-fi movie without much real science fiction.  Solaris is a love story that deals with loss and our sense of responsibility for others without much interest in sexual combustibility.  Solaris is a story about the nature of humanity and the divine, without telling you what to think.

Thirty years ago, Andrei Tarkovsky made his version of the Stanislaw Lem novel.  Some of the dialogue in some of the scenes is virtually identical with that in the new movie.  But Tarkovsky seems to have been trying to connect more metaphors to the novel’s premise than Soderbergh has.  Tarkovsky’s film involved parents and aging and political humiliation and an occasional sense of Twilight Zone clarity.  Soderbergh’s adaptation of the novel aims directly at the human heart free of, what it seems to this writer, the distractions in which Tarkovsky’s film becomes immersed.

George Clooney plays the central character here, Chris Kelvin.  As a therapist, he seeks answers for the emotionally broken.  One of Soderbergh’s most arresting touches is the group dialogue that fits the specific losses of a group of people who have lost loved ones, but which also can be read as the voices of 9/11 family members.  But Kelvin has his own loss to deal with.  The loss of his wife. 

Kelvin heads to Solaris after he sees a transmission from his friend, Gibarian, requesting that he, very specifically he, comes to the space station orbiting Solaris.  The “why,” however, is far less clear. 

On arriving, Kelvin finds a lot of empty space and two crew members.  Like Gibirian, they speak in riddles… riddles that only their psyches, at rest, can answer. 

And so the heart of the movie begins… the journey into the big questions of life and love. 

But this is no sterile, intellectual exercise.  This is a film of deep, deep emotion and passion, which is even the more powerful for its sterilized environment of space.  This is a film that breathes, literally, its sound making the ship itself a character in its telling. 

George Clooney is remarkable in a role for which an actor of his charms could never get enough credit.  Terry Gilliam recently discussed directing Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys.  First, Willis agreed to work without his “big movie” support staff and without the big money he usually gets.  He wanted to really work.  Gilliam says that his only real direction on set was that Willis not smirk, not twist his upper lip like he does when he is in thought and not widen his eyes.   And what Gilliam got out of Willis was a great dramatic performance.  This is what Soderbergh gets out of Clooney, whichever one of them made the rules. 

Clooney doesn’t fall back on any of his charming tricks.  Besides being unshaven and a touch grayer than usual, he exudes an impenetrable personal space around him that is exactly the opposite of what he normally does as an actor, which is to invite people to come close. 

Amazingly, this is one of the elements that really matched the Tarkovsky Solaris.  I don’t know the work of the actor who played Kelvin in that film, but with Clooney, it is quite unexpected.  The other example of the same this year is Tom Hanks in Road To Perdition.  Unfortunately, the limitation of that performance was the limit Sam Mendes put on it as a director.  Hanks was distant, but Mendes still kept him close.  Soderbergh has no trouble allowing us to distance ourselves from Clooney’s Kelvin.  In fact, even after he finds a reason to soften, his edge remains, in defense of his vulnerability.  Credit for that goes to Soderbergh as both director and screenplay writer.  But a lot of it has to go to Clooney, who surfs a very complex character wave and never, ever worries about what we in the audience will think.  And in his control, we feel his anguish more deeply than histrionics could ever explain.

The rest of the cast is sterling as well.  Natasha McElhone’s performance is deceptively easy on first glance.  But she essentially plays four different characters in this film (you’ll have to see it to understand) and each has its own unique character arc, knowledge of history and motivations.  And if her emotions are not clear – and Soderbergh traditionally likes his characters to emote in silence and short bursts of intense energy – then the Clooney character doesn’t work.  The balance is precarious.  And she pulls is off, all the while making it look easy. 

The other two major supporting performances come from Jeremy Davis and Viola Davis, both of whom are quite different than Tarkovsky’s shipmates… at least in body. This is one of the lovely things about Soderbergh.  He develops his characters so well that issues like age, race and even sex are almost always irrelevant. 

The Great Viola Davis (I’m petitioning to have her name changed officially) is the voice of science, even if her faith in that religion has been a bit shaken.  She doesn’t get a lot of screen time, but she is so strong a presence that we feel as though we know her and we respect her strength and intelligence. 

On the other side of Kelvin’s shoulder is Jeremy Davies, who plays a shipmate who seems to have a space bong nearby at all times.  But he is open to everything, much as Davis’ character wants to stay closed.  Again, he doesn’t have an enormous amount of screen time, but by the time you reach the end of this journey, the nuances along the way fill in many of the blanks.

Solaris is one of Soderbergh's finest works, more closely aligned to the emotional layering of The Limey than one would imagine.  It is easily one of the finest films of this year and will probably outlast City of God and Adaptation as an enduring piece of art.

Much of the frustration you are likely to hear from critics is about the very end of the film, which I won’t even broach until after you have all had a chance to see the film.  But if you want to understand, then scroll right back up to the top of this column. 

Soderbergh's unwillingness to explain every detail in order to make it easier for the audience is daring, but not so daring that the underlying emotionality is out of reach of the average person.  My only fear for the film is that the breathtaking silence will turn some people off before they allow themselves to be turned on. 

This whole film is very much like the silent section of Cast Away, where you really have to stay with the movie.  This is not a passive experience.  And if you don’t want to be in touch with your own heart, you will find yourself pushing away.   When I first saw Cast Away, I said that it was Bob Zemeckis’ “art film”… the art film of a filmmaker who masters and reinvents genre after genre.  I didn’t think it would be very commercial, even though not terribly commercial for Tom Hanks means $105 million.  But the audience found the film and did that work.  I can only hope that the same will happen... even if it's just $70 million domestic... for Solaris.

I don't like to jump all over the "masterpiece" thing after one viewing.  But Solaris has been with me every day since I saw it.  In a time where I am seeing "Oscar movie" after “Oscar movie,” Solaris creeps into my thoughts when I am talking about other movies.  And any time rain falls.  (Again, you’ll have to experience the film for yourself to understand.)  In the face of a lot of rageful movies, something as pure as Solaris is a heartful respite to a tender place.  And in the pantheon of great movies, Soderbergh’s Solaris will soon takes its place.

E ME:  What can you say?