[psycho d]

Stalker (1979). The title of this immense Russian film is misleading to the minds of the West as this is about as far removed from a psycho-thriller as can be imagined. Stalker might best be described as a philosophic journey whose story is a true blend of sci-fi and fantasy and whose ultimate goal is to elicit some contemplation of the inner humanity of individual humans. Without really answering anything, it takes many of the most profound clichés that intellects cling onto with dear life and then person takes personal pains to expose them as intelligence obtunding tools that has allowed true thought, as well as mankind, to stagnate beyond repair.

This is a demanding and slow story, where things tend to linger, lulling the viewer into a mental state such the the subtle purpose of this flick can penetrate the walls of dogma. In one sense, this is a sort of thriller as the journey seems to get more and more foreboding, but the source of terror is only alluded to in such a confusing fashion that it never quite manifests into true terror whilst always threatening to do so. This movie is difficult to characterize. Not quite avant garde in structure, it is more like a masterpiece of moving visual art whose message is heard but is too abstruse for the conscious mind to make any sense of.

The acting was strong, with much time spent allowing the actors to express feelings with their expressions and movements instead of just their mouths. Their transformation throughout, from cocky and self-reliant, reserved, and finally to the unwanted discovery of an inner reality they have been sequestering for their entire lives is quite an achievement. In another sense, though, they are secondary to the movie's visuals.

Andrey Tarkovskiy is not so much a director as he is a visual poet. The camera is used not just used to tell a story but to open the mind up to things that cannot be understood, allowing it to again fathom the mysteries of life with an almost a childlike innocence deviously coupled with a sense of dread that only maturity can generate. The metallic sepia tones used in the beginning creates a dream-like presence that concurrently divulges the ugliness of human existence. Alcohol and drugs would almost be an excusable escape from such a dreary place. Camera movement and composition are exquisite. Long shots are championed, almost as if editing was an unheard of phenomena. The visuals of nature and man and the decomposition of civilization are all juxtaposed as if no other combination could be possible but with such a cruel reality that the mind will do anything to relieve itself from such honesty. The score sneaks in, sometimes hitchhiking along with the industry of society, only to disappear like a thief in the night whose booty is yet to be noted as missing.

As this film comes to its close, in a fashion that almost dares Hollywood to breathe the life force of originality in place of its empty tinsel, the thinking brain is left convoluted, hinting of implosion, afraid and unprepared to seek a properly sanctioned thought that has been pre-approved by society with the empty promise of happiness at the expense of contentedness.
d