Steven Soderbergh’s stylish psychological thriller, released November 2002 in the United States by 20th Century Fox , eloquently captures the theme of Stanislaw Lem’s 1961 book. Written almost fifty years ago, “Solaris” is an intelligent, introspective drama of great depth and imagination that meditates on man’s place in the universe and the mystery of God.
Soderbergh’s “Solaris” is a poem to Lem’s prose. Both explore the universe around us and the universe within. Not particularly palatable to North America’s multiplex crowd, eager for easily accessed answers, “Solaris” will appeal more to those with a more esoteric appreciation for art.
When I saw the 2002 20th Century Fox remake of “Solaris” (released on DVD soon after), I was blissfully unaware of its legendary history. I say blissfully because I harbored no pre-conceived notions or expectations and therefore I was struck like a child viewing the Northern Lights for the first time. The stylish, evocative and dream-like imagery flowed to a surrealistic soundtrack by Cliff Martinez like the colors of a Salvadore Dali painting.
It was only later that I discovered that Russian experimental director, Andrei Tarkovsky, had previously filmed “Solaris” in 1972 based on Stanislaw Len’s masterful 1961 book of the same name. Reprinted by Harcourt, Inc. with a new cover featuring a sensual image from the 2002 film, the original book was translated in 1970 from the French version by Joanna Kilmartin and Steve Cox for Faber and Faber Ltd.
Written almost fifty years ago, “Solaris” is a dark psychological drama. Soderbergh faithfully captures the intellectual yet sensual essense of Lem’s book by tempering the language and movements. Featuring a fluid and haunting soundtrack, his film flows like a choregraphed ballet. There is a dream-like quality to the film that is enhanced by creative use of camera angles, unusual lighting, tones and contrast, and sparse language. “Solaris” is not an action film (no one gets shot, at least not on stage), yet the tension surges and builds to its irrevocable conclusion from frame to frame like a slow motion Tai Chi form.
In response to his friend’s plea, a depressed psychologist with the ironic name of Kris Kelvin (played with quiet depth by George Clooney), sets out on a mission to bring home the disfunctional crew of a research space station orbitting the distant planet, Solaris. Kelvin arrives at the space station, Prometheus, to find his friend, Gibarian, dead (by suicide) and a paranoid and disturbed crew, who are obviously withholding a terrible secret from him. It is not long before he learns the secret first hand: some unknown power (apparently the planet itself) taps into his mind and produces a solid corporeal version of his tortured longing: his beloved wife, Rheya (played sensitively by Natascha McElhone) who’d committed suicide years ago. Faced with a solid reminder, Kelvin yearns to reconcile with his guilt in his wife’s death and struggles to understand the alien force manifested in the form of his wife. He learns that the other crew are equally influenced by Solaris and have been grappling, each in their own way, with their “demons,” psychologically trapping them there.
Ironically, our hero’s epic journey of great distance has only led him back to himself. The alien force defies Kelvin’s efforts to understand its motives; whether it is benign, hostile, or even sentient. Kelvin has no common frame of reference to judge and therefore to react. This leaves him with what he thinks he does understand: that Rheya is a product of his own mind, his memories of her, and therefore a mirror of his deepest guilt ? but perhaps also an opportunity to redeem himself.
Lem packs each page of his slim 204 page book with a wealth of intellectual introspection. Through first person narrative, he intimately unveils the complicated influence of this arcane force on Kelvin. Lem explains it this way: “I wanted to create a vision of a human encounter with something that certainly exists, in a mighty manner perhaps, but cannot be reduced to human concepts, ideas or images.”
Such an incomprehensible entity would serve as a giant mirror for our own motives, yearnings and versions of reality. For me the contrast presented by such an arcane alien force emphatically — but also ironically — defines what it is to be human. It is only when faced with what we are not that we discover what we are. Later in the book, Kelvin cynically observes: “Man has gone out to explore other worlds and other civilizations without having explored his own labrynth of dark passages and secret chambers, and without finding what lies behind doorways that he himself has sealed.” In the film Gibarian sadly proclaims of the Solaris mission: “We don’t want other worlds – we want mirrors.”
Lem’s existentialist leaning is provided throughout the book and even alluded to in the name he chose for the space station: Prometheus. In Greek mythology, Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to humankind for which Zeus chained him to a rock and sent an eagle to eat his liver (which grew back daily). It is interesting that Soderbergh chose to send Prometheus to a fiery crash and named Kelvin’s dead wife, Rheya, after the Greek goddess, mother of Zeus and all Olympian gods. In a late passage of Lem’s book, a devastated and sorrowful Kelvin formulates a personal theory of an imperfect god, “a god who has created clocks, but not the time they measure . . . a god whose passion is not a redemption, who saves nothing, fulfills no purpose ? a god who simply is.”
Soderbergh addresses Lem’s existential vision with several brief but pivotal scenes. One occurs when Kelvin’s dead friend, Gibarian, returns to him in a dream on Prometheus and responds to Kelvin’s question, “What does Solaris want?” with: “Why do you think it has to want something?” Another scene occurs as a flashback to a dinner on Earth, when the real Rheya, prior to her suicide, argues with both Gibarian and her own husband about the existence of an all-knowing purposeful God, which both men argue is a myth made up by humankind: to Kelvin’s suggestion that “the whole idea of God was dreamed up by man,” Rheya insists that she’s “talking about a higher form of intelligence,” to which Gibarian cuts in with: “No, you’re talking about a man in a white beard again. You are ascribing human characteristics to something that isn’t.” Kelvin fuels it with: “we’re a mathematical probability,” which prompts Rheya’s challenge: “how do you explain that out of the billions of creatures on this planet we’re the only ones conscious of our immortality?” Neither man has an answer. Gibarian later commits suicide on Solaris rather than deal with the manifestation of his conscience. And I can’t help but wonder if the underlying reason for his inability to reconcile with his “demon” is because he was unequipped to, given his nihilistic beliefs.
Gibarian also tells Kelvin (and we must remember that all this is Kelvin really saying this to himself through his memory of the character): “There are no answers, only choices.” It is interesting then that the first pivotal choice in the story is made by the doppelganger Rheya (also a manifestation of Solaris but a mirror of Kelvin’s own mind) and it is a choice made out of love: to be annihilated, rather then serve as an instrument of this unknown alien power to study the man she loves.
Some critics have called Soderbergh’s “Solaris” pretentious, boring and devoid of action and intimacy. I strongly disagree. It is simply that, as with Lem’s original story, Soderbergh’s “Solaris” does not surrender its messages easily. The viewer, as with the reader, must intuitively feel his or her way through the fluid poetry, free to interpret and ponder the questions. This is what I think good art should do. And I feel both the original book and Soderbergh’s movie do this with enthralling brilliance.
Where Soderbergh and Lem depart lies more in each artist’s personal vision and belief. We are defined by the questions we ask and Lem asks a great deal of questions. Whether the forces that drive our universe are best defined by current science and the mind as random without purpose or as the manifestation of arcane motive more readily known through spirituality and the heart is largely a matter of belief.
Reviewer, Rick Kisonak, asserted that Lem’s “novel is an icy meditation on man’s place in the universe and the mystery of God. It poses countless metaphysical questions and makes a point of answering none of them. In Soderbergh’s hands, however, ‘Solaris’ becomes a celebration of romantic love, which culminates in the revelation of a caring, forgiving creator. At the end of his book, Lem writes [Kelvin ponders]: ‘the age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that finis vitae sed non amoris [life ends but not love] is a lie, useless and not even funny.’ The director ignores the author in favor of just such a poet.” Kisonak is referring here to Rheya’s interest in Dylan Thomas and its reference throughout the movie. Another reviewer, Dennis Morton, goes so far as to suggest that the screenplay of “Solaris” is the first stanza of the poem, which ends with: “…though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.”
While I agree with some of Kisonak’s reasoning, I think he has missed the point of Lem’s book. If one continues to read from the passage Kisonak quoted above ? as Kris Kelvin transcends from what he “thinks” in his intellect to what he feels and “knows” in his heart, to accept his (and humanity’s) destiny with humble fatalism ? we learn that Lem ends his book in much the same way as Soderbergh’s movie: life ends but not love. The endings are physically different, in keeping with some radical alterations from the book in the movie’s setting (e.g., the original Solaris station is located on the planet and Lem assiduously describes Kelvin’s observations and interactions with the alien ocean; whereas Soderbergh’s crew virtually never leave orbit and the planet remains aloof in the background, reflecting Soderbergh’s focus). Yet, Kris makes the same choice in faith and love in both book and movie (although the choices play out differently).
In matters of faith and love, here is what Kris has to say in the book: “Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the air she had breathed? . . . In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yet I lived in expectation . . . I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past.” In the end of both movie and book, Kris Kelvin lets go of his fears and lets his spirit rise in wonder at what astonishing things Solaris (and the universe) will offer next.
In the final analysis, both book and movie are incredibly valuable but for different reasons. Soderbergh paints an impressionistic poem, using Kafkaesque brushstrokes on a simpler canvas, to Lem’s complex tapestry of multi-level prose. Lem challenges us far more by refusing to impose his personal views, where Soderbergh lets us glimpse his hopeful vision. I think that both, though, come to the same conclusion about the ethereal, mysterious and eternal nature of love.
On the one hand, love may connect us within a fractal autopoietic network to the infinity of the inner and outer universe, uniting us with God and His purpose in a collaboration of faith. On the other hand, love may empower us to accept our place in a vast unknowable and amoral universe to form an island of hope in a purposeless sea of indifference.
Whether love mends our souls to the fabric of our destiny; enslaves us on an impossible journey of desperate yearning; or seizes us in a strangling embrace of unspeakable terror at what lurks within ? surely, then, love IS God, in all its possible manifestations. This is unquestionably the message that unifies book and movie. And it is one worth proclaiming.
Brian Brown of Dragon Page recently reviewed Nina’s book, Darwin’s Paradox. This is what he had to say:
The Gist: Julie Crane has a lot of skeletons in her closet. She had the unleashed the Darwin virus on the world, murdered a government official, and then ran away from all the chaos she had created.
That is what the history books say, but often history is changed, twisted and confused from what really happened.
Julie fled into the wilderness outside of the cities with her husband. Outside of the influence of everyone and everything Julie learned to live in this wilderness. She gives birth to her daughter Angel and looks forward to living a life with nature.
All of this is shattered when Julie discovers that she is being hunted again. She makes a journey back to the city, alone. Julie’s daughter convinces her father to go after Julie and they too make their way to the city.
Back in the city Julie is confronted with the political intrigue, societal differences, and the mass of humanity she left behind.
It’s up to Julie, her family and new friends to unravel what is true and what is false and set things right for the future
The Good: This is a book of heavy, heady concepts in this book, chaos theory, human neurophysiology, ecosystems and sustainability, viruses, AI’s and more. It really gives some oomph behind the story of Julie and the other characters.
The vision of the future is well done and I’m a sucker for near future stories that have all of the elements of political intrigue, cybernetics, rebels against the system, AI’s going wonky, and a glimpse at future life.
The Bad: The human story elements seemed a bit weaker than the world itself and the concepts of humans living in the future. It seemed that Julie was moving on a very linear path through the world and not really deviating. For me, some of the supporting characters seemed more interesting, like her daughter Angel or the quirky, sleazy ex-Mayor.
It’s a bit confusing at the start with the barrage of the background information you get at the beginning.
The Ugly: Nothing really ugly to report.
Nina Munteanu weaves a good story that has some large concepts peppered through it. The story does have warts but they are easy enough to gloss over and dig into the main story. There are some nice twists and turns and rabbit holes to follow the tale down. I hope that future books have more about the world, the citizens who inhabit it, and the politics of city states.
I easily recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a nice mix of science fiction, political intrigue and some big scientific concepts. Go pick it up!
Does ‘Dark Matter’ to Philip Pullman?…Dark Matter… “Dust” … call it what you want… It makes up 90 percent of our universe, according to astronomers. This makes the kind of matter that you and I see rather exotic; while we must accept the existence of the most common element, dark matter, on … well … faith. You see (oh, another bad pun!), dark matter doesn’t emit or reflect light and doesn’t interact with what we think of as ordinary matter. Yet, this invisible particle is faithfully being credited with playing a crucial role in shaping the visible cosmos. Dark matter is some form of matter theorized to exist that cannot be observed by radio, infrared, optical, ultraviolet, x-ray or gamma-ray telescopes and is theorized to be MACHOS, WIMPS, or GAS (see this site for more info on this incredible particle).
Dark matter only reveals its presence by its gravitational effects, guiding the evolution of the early universe and still affecting the motion of galaxies, according to astrophysicists.
Discover Magazine (Jan, 2008 issue) reported that “scientists now believe that during the early universe, dark matter provided the gravitational scaffolding on which ordinary matter surrounding them should have clumped together into hundreds of small satellite galaxies, most of which should have survived today.” But the observed number of satellite galaxies is only a fraction of what the theory predicted. Astronomers call it the missing satellite problem.
So, what does author Philip Pullman have to do with dark matter and why should he care?…This is the Philip Pullman of the His Dark Materials trilogy with his first installment, The Golden Compass, now a deliciously controversial major motion picture (which I will be reviewing as soon as I see it–very soon)… Well…Consider the title of his series, His Dark Materials. While Pullman certainly borrows his title as well as his overarching theme from Milton’s epic poem, Paradise Lost, Pullman’s title and his magical particle, Dust, also takes the concept of dark matter from real science. The mysterious material called “Dust”, which ‘speaks’ through Lyra’s aletheometer is also known as “dark matter” in an alternative ‘parallel universe’ of Pullman’s book.
I find it rather curious and ironic that The Golden Compass opened this past December (2007), so close to Christmas, a religious holiday when Christians all around the world are gearing up to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. The irony lies in the fact that so many Christian weblogs have been vilifying Pullman as not only being an atheist (which is anyone’s prerogative, after all) but for promoting 
anti-God sentiments and atheism to children. However, despite the fact that Pullman adamantly opposes religious authoritarianism, his books uphold the important values of love and sacrifice. And faith (I’ll get back to that later). What I both enjoy and find compelling in a controversy (and Pullman’s particularly) is that at its core lies a challenge to ALL parties to re-evaluate their position amidst new information. A controversy is ultimately a learning experience for all involved. Controversies, like good art, invite the collision of diametric opposed ideas, and provide a nexus point for discussion, change, and—if all are respectful—eventual redemption and reconciliation.
According to Mike Todd of the Vancouver Sun (Dec. 8, 207) three major themes in Pullman’s books enmesh potential controversies surrounding science, art and religion. For instance, Pullman meant for the sinister organization known as the “Magisterium” to represent all ideology-driven theocracies or dictatorships, including secular ones. The concept in Pullman’s book of the “Authority”, who the two child protagonists help to defeat, led to accusations that Pullman advocates the “death of God”. I don’t think he meant this at all. Donna Freitas, a Catholic feminist professor at Boston University calls Pullman “a liberation theologian”, freeing Christians from the traditional church image of an all-powerful tyrant God who “rules from the clouds.” (Douglas Todd, Vancouver Sun, Dec. 8, 2007). Then there is “Dust”, elemental particles (resembling dark matter) that appear to contain a kind of conscious energy, experiments on which the church (in the book) prohibits. Pullman’s own ‘faith’ in these particles can be suggested in his admission to following “panexperientialism”, a philosophy that suggests that all living things, even molecules, have traces of consciousness (shades of Sheldrake’s ideas, autopoiesis and local fields). Another author who explores this concept is SF author, Greg Bear (see his Darwin’s Radio and Darwin’s Children).
Donna Freitas, in Killing the Imposter God, suggested that Dust acted in Pullman’s trilogy as the “divine fabric of the universe.” Could Dark Matter do the same?… Aren’t we all creatures of light…and dark, after all?…
Posted under Nina Reviews. Tags: Golden Compass, Philip Pullman, books, movies, fantasy, science fiction, dark matter
