Solaris (2002)

by John

Despite failing to connect with moviegoers and barely drawing lukewarm praise from critics, Steven Soderbergh's 2002 film Solaris is one of the most emotional, thought-provoking and engrossing Hollywood films shown to mainstream audiences during this decade. The film suffers from a noticeable lack of clarity in its crucial final scenes, but besides this flaw and a few smaller drawbacks, recent American filmmaking has rarely seen a movie of this intelligence and restraint.

What is perhaps most remarkable about Soderbergh's adaptation of Stanislaw Lem's 1961 science fiction novel of the same name is the degree to which it is able to keep all its elements in balance. Solaris must meet the demands of a science-fiction film, a story about relationships, and a metaphysical exploration. Luckily, Soderbergh picks the right element as the driving force of the film: the crucial relationship between the film's two main protagonists, Chris Kelvin (George Clooney) and Rhea (Natascha McElhone).

Soderbergh clearly knows what the vast majority of filmmakers today seem to have forgotten: we must be made to care about the main characters in order to become truly involved in a film. Their problems must be made real and understandable. It's not necessary for us to like the characters, or think what they're doing is right; in fact, some of the best movies ever made feature unlikable protagonists doing unlikable things, and it's a testament to their high quality that their conflicts are able to involve us on an emotional level. We want them to overcome their demons, and even if they don't, the process of relating to their frustrations teaches us something about our lives, broadening the way we look at the world.

Only the best films are able to reach this potential, and when they do, they deserve the highest praise for fulfilling art's most noble purpose. Solaris manages to scratch the surface of this upper echelon of filmmaking; it's headed in that direction, but ultimately is held back by the minimalist style that paradoxically is also one of its main strengths.

Nevertheless, the fact remains that we care about Kelvin's dilemma, and seeing him grapple with his deepest anxieties does teach us something meaningful about love and loss. After being given a distress signal from a friend, Gibarian (Ulrich Tukur), Kelvin is sent to investigate a space station orbiting a faraway gaseous planet named Solaris. As soon as he arrives, he comes across dead crew members. The two that are still alive barely offer any explanation of what has happened.

Eventually, Kelvin discovers that Solaris is somehow extracting real people from the crew members' memories and making them literally come to life. Soon enough, this phenomenon happens to Kelvin as well. His visitor is Rhea, a troubled woman to whom he was briefly married before she died. After overcoming his initial shock and disbelief, Kelvin's first reaction to seeing Rhea resurrected ends up being his wisest, but eventually his deeply anchored feelings of guilt and grief surrounding the circumstances of her death begin to surface in his mind and gradually overtake him.

Soderbergh chooses to take a non-linear approach in characterizing Kelvin and Rhea's problematic relationship, intercutting the story onboard the space station with brief but revealing flashbacks of quiet joy and gritty anguish that take place on Earth. It's an effective, refreshing strategy that keeps the viewer on his or her toes, and gives subtext to the main storyline. There's a lot of truth in Soderbergh's writing for these flashbacks; their particularly naturalistic feel evoke at least some European filmmaking sensibilities, as they lack the gloss that's often shellacked on many American depictions of romance. Both Clooney and McElhone's particularly layered and memorable performances ground the bizarre and futuristic premise with their believable depiction of a flawed relationship. The rest of the handful of performances in the film are also worthy of high praise.

What Solaris manages to achieve most vividly is its astute exploration of intense love and grief. It's this emotional component that's strongest in the movie, rare for a science fiction film. The intellectual side, however, is less focused and developed; massive metaphysical concepts are touched upon only fleetingly, often treated as afterthoughts. The film attempts to toy with our concept of existence, raising sticky issues like whether we can really say what is real and what isn't, or confronting the ironic nature of our existence: feeling that we are real but having no concrete comprehension of the ultimate nature or source of that reality.

The copies of people that Solaris produces act much like humans do, frustrated with the edges of existence that we can never reach, at least while alive. Death also features prominently in the storyline; the film appears to suggest that death is a concept that only relevant while we're alive, as "the other side" is a reality that's inconceivable to our minds. While the film wisely never explains what Solaris is, the strategy doesn't work in the film's final confusing scenes. Ambiguity dissolves into a frustrating lack of clarity, and the film's true intellectual potential remains unrealized.

What is astutely clear, however, is the depiction of Kelvin's struggle to cope with the tragic loss of a loved one that Clooney and Soderbergh make so hauntingly real. Solaris engrosses the most as Kelvin's obsession grows to be more intense, never distancing or alienating the viewer. Soderbergh's cinematography is similarly bewitching, as is Cliff Martinez's ethereal score; on one level, the film could be enjoyed as an elegant exercise in restraint and subtlety. Luckily, Solaris is more than just about style. There's plenty of substance here that provides food for lingering thought and discussion.

Although marred by a vague denouement and an approach that can be too minimalist for its own good at some points, Solaris is an emotionally stirring film that has a lot to offer, especially after repeated viewings. The precision and honesty with which Soderbergh handles the subjects of love and loss is a rarity in recent filmmaking. Solaris has the potential to deepen your outlook on life itself, and that ranks among art's highest compliments.