Film Review: Stalker (1979)

Next time you take a roadside picnic and throw something away in the grass, take a moment to consider what happens next. Ants will come out to pick up and carry the crumbs away. Birds will peck at seeds and fruits. Maybe some badger will grab a wrapper and get his head stuck in it. Suppose you chuck an alkaline battery away, or a canister of oil? Mere leftovers for us become mysterious and deadly artifacts for lesser creatures.

This was the basic premise behind Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's book, Roadside Picnic. What if aliens landed on Earth and left some junk behind? People and governments would surely covet it. It could become a whole new kind of black market. But what effects would such artifacts have on lesser beings like us?

1979's Stalker adopts this premise into a one-of-a-kind vision. From its opening credits onward, the film is seeped in hard, gritty textures and drab colors. In this bleak setting, the nameless Stalker (Alexander Kaidanovsky, notably bald, scrawny, and kinda alien-looking) takes a job to escort two clients into the Zone--the place where a meteorite crashed and became quarantined by the military. One man is a writer (Anatoly Solonitsyn) looking for inspiration. The other, a professor (Nikolai Grinko) looking for scientific discovery. Despite the heavy guard and the threat of never coming back, the three break through and progress through the Zone. We never see any psychical threats, but the trio always react with fear and anxiety over invisible traps and unseen entities. Passing through dark corridors and ruins, truths are unearthed about each character, which puts their whole endeavor into question and endangers them all.

This is a long and mopey film. Gone are the pulp fiction roots of the original story--Tarkovsky sought to craft a meditative experience out of this, sculpting viewers' time as he always did to draw out each moment and force you to think about what's on screen and what's being said. It might be agony for some viewers, because each shot lingers for long, long, long stretches of time. It kills the pacing, especially when the characters stop moving and decide to discuss philosophy for minutes on end.

Fortunately, this film will reward patient viewers. The combination of dreary visuals and sharp writing directs the audience to contemplate greater implications of the journey. It's not so much about three guys walking through the woods--it's an allegory to religious pilgrimage, and synonymous to living life itself. The entire trip challenges each characters' faith, as they question the existence and validity of an all-powerful Room that promises them happiness and fulfilled wishes. Each performer puts on melancholy and understated performances, accentuating the stillness of the cinematography and the quietness of the soundtrack. The sheer mood suggests cynicism towards society, the arts, science, religion--the entirety of mankind. Viewers can infer any number of conclusions, as the Stalker himself distresses over how people lost their way.

This is one of the ultimates in arthouse cinema. Stalker has cinematography like no other, showcasing places and people so dark, but with a delicate touch that implies greater beauty in nature and power of forces above and beyond mankind. Best of all, the film offers content worth contemplating and reflecting on. Tarkovsky and the crew suffered toxic environments to realize this vision. Then, the film was destroyed--the Soviet laboratories were unfamiliar with the film stock and it was improperly developed. Tensions with the cinematographer (who was subsequently fired) only accentuated the frustration and cynicism Tarkovsky felt, before having to re-shoot the entire film again. What's left might be a reflection of his own anguish. And we are given a chance to stare into his abyss, to see what stares back at us.

If you have the interest, the patience, the willpower, the film is a must-see.

4/5