Originally published at Cinema Knife Fight, June 19, 2014.
Last time, we talked about the 1972 Russian science fiction film SOLARIS, as well as the 1961 novel by Polish author Stanislaw Lem, on which it was based. I’ll be referring back to them from time to time, so if you haven’t read the review, scroll down a little and read that one first. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Thirty years after the release of Andrei Tarkovsky’s ambitious film, Steven Soderbergh (OCEANS 11, 2001, CONTAGION, 2011) wrote and directed his own version of SOLARIS (2002). I almost added the adjective “modern” but, in fact, SOLARIS keeps itself fairly close to the original material, both novel and film (without the flowing reeds and extended shots of Japanese cities). This 2002 remake, however, has some stark, but mostly effective differences.
I won’t recap the plot, as SOLARIS is very much the same basic story—Doctor Kelvin is sent to Solaris Station at the behest of old friend and scientist Gibarian (whose name has been Americanized), and finds him dead from suicide and has to deal with the two remaining, half-psychotic scientists struggling to cope with visitors from their past lives created by the planet below them for some mysterious reason. Kelvin is soon visited by his late wife (now named Rheya instead of Hari) and struggles to face old and painful feelings of guilt and remorse for her past suicide. Ok, I guess I did recap the plot.
Basically, the underlying storyline is the same. For someone who has just read the original novel, watched the 1972 film for the second time, and spent hours writing a rather long review of said movie, these similarities bring an inherent joy with them, like old friends coming to visit.
But the differences also make the 2002 SOLARIS fascinating to watch. Not everything in this movie works, but much of it does. Let’s be half-full today and start with what worked.
First of all, the actors. Thirty years earlier, Donatas Banionis played psychologist Kris Kelvin to sad perfection, both in dialogue and though his silences, expressing an inner turmoil through diverted gazes and subtle gestures. After reading the novel, I appreciated how much he became Kelvin, until watching George Clooney (GRAVITY 2013, THE MONUMENTS MEN, 2014) take the role. Clooney’s often called an “actor’s actor” for good reason: he can do as much with his screen presence and controlled expressiveness as when he recites lines of dialogue (which he does in an honest, genuine way). He is Chris Kelvin (his first name was also Americanized) in this film, a man haunted by his past and given a second chance via this nightmarish but oddly beautiful situation. Kelvin says as little here as he does in the novel and prior film, so having Clooney in the role is a definite plus.
This lack of conversational skills in every character is also a minus, in both films and the novel. On arriving at Solaris Station to find his friend dead, a normal person would not put up with so many half-answers tossed his way by the surviving team members. He would press hard for facts and details about what the hell happened. I give director Soderbergh credit for making his Kelvin more pissed off than the original, and Clooney relays his eventual acquiescence to everyone’s silences a little more convincingly. There are blood stains everywhere, implying more ingredients of fear in his eventual decision to wait these people out.
The first person Kelvin meets on the station, Snaut, is called Snow in the remake, and I enjoyed Jeremy Davies’ (the LOST TV Series, IT’S KIND OF A FUNNY STORY, 2010) portrayal as the borderline insane, twitchy scientist. Granted, he plays him much the same as Daniel Faraday in LOST, dreamily speaking in half-completed sentences. But it works for Snaut/Snow in this situation. He claims his visitor was his brother, who has not returned since the last time he’d “removed” him, but the effects of those visits have had their toll. There is a clever revelation at the end which gives much insight into why his emotional gears have slipped so badly.
Dr. Sartorious, the other remaining resident of the station, is in this film a woman named Dr. Gordon, played by the estimable Viola Davis (ENDER’S GAME, 2013, THE HELP, 2011). As in the original, we do not see whom she is hiding in her room. Sartorius was calm, cool, and a little nuts, whereas Gordon is tense, wired, and also a little nuts. Both are fiercely intelligent and determined to find a way to rid the station of these visitors, a thwart to Kelvin who, as the story progresses, is more and more insistent that his wife’s copy be allowed to return to Earth with him.
Although the original film does deal primarily with Kelvin and his wife, this version makes their relationship its single focus, especially through the backstory of their life on Earth. Their initial meeting on the subway, to their courtship, marriage, her dealings with depression and eventual suicide are shown via extended flashbacks and dream sequences. These scenes show the progression of her depression, and the reasons for the couple’s breakup (which triggered her eventual suicide). This was a flaw, if minor, in the original SOLARIS, which did not explain as completely what had pushed them to that state (aside from her clinical depression). The novel, in fact, never gave a reason.
As a side note, some folks might enjoy these flashbacks for no other reason than the two nude scenes: that would be Clooney naked, and not his wife (played by Natascha McElhone of THE TRUMAN SHOW, 1998, and CALIFORNICATION TV Series). This is worth mentioning simply because it breaks stereotype and gives the eye candy to the other sex for a change.
Although I enjoyed Natalya Bondarchuk as Hari in the original film, here McElhone is intense and, like Clooney, able to relay much with little dialogue. Her Rheya is far more real a “person.” More so, in fact, because a number of later flashbacks are from her perspective, the copy remembering a life that is not her own. There is a line spoken to Kelvin midway through the story which encapsulates this particular film’s theme.
“How do you know you’re not the puppet,” he is asked. “…like all puppets, you dream of being human.”
Rheya struggles to accept who, or what, she is. Though this is a theme in the original movie and novel, the primary message of these latter two is that the human race is less interested in discovering extraterrestrial life than finding new mirrors to hold up to themselves. That deep of a message is not attempted here. Both films do, also, have a running undercurrent dealing with the emotional infection of guilt and remorse, but this remake has more hope, more optimism in the long run.
Before I get to one significant character, the planet itself, let’s get a few of the flaws out of the way because, as a standalone movie, SOLARIS is hurt by them.
During their first encounter, the twitchy scientist Snow explains there were two other people onboard before Kelvin arrived. One died when security forces boarded the station and shot a hole through his escape pod (why he was trying to escape is not known), and the other simply disappeared. If there were security forces, why didn’t they take Snow and Gordon back to Earth with them, and why aren’t they still onboard—especially considering a civilian has arrived? The idea that their goal was to quarantine the station to prevent any possible contaminant spreading to Earth hadn’t occurred to me until I write this, but that reasoning is never said and leaves some distracting questions.
As to Kelvin being a civilian, this is a small change with subtle impact to plausibility. It’s implied in the novel, and the original film, that he is a psychologist working for the space agency. In the remake, Clooney’s character is a private civilian with his own practice. Gibarian sends a message asking for him specifically, insisting only he can figure out what is happening. For some reason, the “agency” agrees to send Kelvin alone (look for actor John Cho (STAR TREK, 2009) in a small role as one of the agents coming to get him). In the book, there’s a larger ship remaining in orbit for a time, presumably with reinforcements, but here he is sent alone, a civilian to research this delicate issue on the station. It sounds a little improbable. Again, this could be for quarantine reasons, but if so, say so, because that would have added an interesting dimension.
One similar moment in the two films does not work in the later one. After Kelvin first encounters Rheya in his room, he quickly puts her in an escape pod and sends her off-station, presumably to her death. In the original, this occurs only after he spends time trying to figure this creature out. It only took Clooney’s psychiatrist a few minutes to send her packing. I would think he’d be at least a little more interested in studying her, find out what kind of creature she was. SOLARIS is short, compared to its original (an hour and forty minutes versus two hours and twenty-five), so his quick decision to destroy this person could have come from the editing room floor.
Overall, SOLARIS is a beautiful and clever film to watch. I appreciated the fact that in all scenes on Earth, it’s raining. No mention as to why; perhaps there’s climate change in the future, but it isn’t revealed. The rain serves as a subtle mood setting—who isn’t a little melancholy when it rains for extended periods of time? I considered this also as a possible nod towards the theme of water carried throughout the original film.
On that note: one major character from the novel and 1972 film is noticeably absent this time around. There is no living ocean on Solaris, at least none referenced. Instead, the life form is the planet itself and its ethereal, glowing atmosphere. When it interacts mentally and emotionally with Dr. Kelvin as he sleeps, Solaris’ swirling clouds streak through with glowing tendrils. They connect with each other, break free, like thoughts soaring between massive synapses in the alien world’s brain.
Accompanying this and, in fact, running as undercurrent through every scene, is Cliff Martinez’ score. It’s quiet and beautiful, setting a reflective, surreal tone. Martinez also composed the soundtrack for the 2011 film DRIVE, where music plays as much a character as the actors themselves. Conversely, I don’t remember if there was any music playing in the original SOLARIS. There might have been, but since I do not remember if this was so, it was not as significant a component to that film (where silence set the mood).
I liked how this movie ended. Similar to its predecessor, it went a step further than the novel, but unlike the 1972 film, this one closed on a far more optimistic note (but be warned, its overall meaning could be received as either incoherent, or brilliant, depending on your state of mind at the time… let’s just say it’s brilliantly incoherent, which is still a step up from a certain 1968 movie I promise not to reference in yet another review).
Even though the 2002 film moves along at a much faster pace than its predecessor, it is not a fast-paced film. It’s contemplative, with beautiful imagery and sets, but is in no hurry to make its point. Like the original, it is probably not everyone’s cup of tea. However, if you enjoyed the Russian SOLARIS, with all its low-tech and politically-charge foibles, you will appreciate Soderbergh’s remake. Most of all, it pays fine homage to a classic, if obscure, science fiction film while making its own stamp on the many themes and questions brought to life in Stanislaw Lem’s novel.
© Copyright 2014 by Daniel G. Keohane