In a film where a brief shot of George Clooney’s ass is the warmest thing going, something must be awry. After doing a drug movie, a sex movie, a caper flick, even one with J. Lo, Steven Soderbergh has ventured into the realm of oblique Russian cinema with a remake of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris. Impressive for its lethargy and emotional distance, the film displays Soderbergh’s remarkable ambition and range. He does good flicks and bad, indie films and Oscar-winning epics. Yes, he is hard to pin down, but at least the man is unpredictable—a welcome respite from the play-it safe cowardice of other established directors.
The urge to experiment is fraught with opportunities for failure, and Solaris flounders on many levels. Advertised as a love story to span both the cosmos and the afterlife, the film fails to connect with its audience, leaching all warmth from the screen. Chris Kelvin (Clooney) lives in the near future, faded with grief over the death of his wife Rheya (Natascha McElhone). A message arrives from a space station orbiting the far-off planet Solaris: Something is driving the crew insane and Kelvin, a psychiatrist, is asked to go investigate. He finds two survivors suffering from shock, blood-covered walls and, oh, awakens one morning next to his dead wife. It doesn’t make much sense to either of them. She is a fully conscious and functioning being that, they discover, has been reconstructed completely from Chris’s memories. But something isn’t right, as she acknowledges, “I’m not the person I remember.” It’s a fascinating idea, but little is done with it.
This is a cold film, Kelvin’s name notwithstanding. The planet Solaris itself, a blue and pink veined undulating ether, displays more life than these people. Clooney’s eyes are deep with sadness and McElhone’s dismay is believable, but there are no sparks to be seen. All that exists between these two lovers is the cold, blue light of outer space. This emotional vacuum transmits itself to the audience, and while the two actors are pleasant to look at, there is a total lack of warmth and an absence of any discernible pulse.
This chill does wonders for the look of the film, though. Soderbergh, once again serving as both director and cameraman, shows a penchant for long, static shots. When mobile, the camera takes a stately pace, drifting quarters of an inch at a time, preventing us from penetrating any of the persons or places on the screen. Solaris is slow. Scenes last eons longer than one would expect and minutes go by with hardly a word spoken. Watching the film, one is slowed down to a catatonic state as the characters retire into their interiors. For all of its emotional and plot faults, there is a dreamlike stillness achieved in watching Solaris that is novel in and of itself. With emotions suppressed, minds will subconsciously mull over the film’s philosophical musings while sitting in a heavy lidded stupor.
Flipping back and forth between the space station and Chris and Rheya’s memories of their courtship back on Earth, Soderbergh contrasts the cool, metallic sheen of outer space with the warm, softly-lit fuzziness of the past. More than anything, Solaris is a meditation on memory. In the film’s only memorable line, Kelvin says of his dead wife, “I was haunted by the idea that I remembered her wrong.” The film jumps around in time so much, it is unclear whether the film ends in the past or the future. While the two lovers stand in a bookstore and discuss their relationship, it is unclear if these memories are real, dreams, or interpretations.
In much the same way, the film creates itself before it’s half over—We know what to expect and never get anything more. Dead before it hits the screen, Solaris spools out shivering. Mouth agape and limbs stiff, you may leave feeling something close to awe, until the realization hits that all you need is a defrosting.
