Stalker ★★★★

There is meaning in Stalker, leering just beyond a mockingly opaque veil of obscurity. I've read that Stalker is a much more appropriate incarnation of cinema. Free of any connection to literature or theatre. Encapsulating what cinema truly must be, unconnected of these vestiges that have helped persist film into being. It's true, Stalker passes the threshold, carrying it's sci-fi and sociological musings from the light of plain narrative into the surreal. Into a world of sepia and muted colours. Into a picture of many textures and filthy puddles. Of wide eyed bald men huddled in industrial marshes sitting quietly, simmering in manmade inventions–both industrial and emotional.

There's a quote in Stalker, the Writer talks about searching for meaning. For a specific meaning. But once you give it a name, it loses its original identity. And you're left still none the wiser, back at the beginning. Boxing in this imaginable yet unfathomable truth somehow obliterates it. Muddles it. Like throwing a rock into water. Sure the ripples fade away but the water carries memory. Forever unsettled, forever changed. There is meaning in Stalker. But it has no name, must have no name. For naming it would distort its effect. The musings of the Writer and Professor. The superstitions of Stalker. The ending scene with Monkey. The Room? Meaning does them no justice. Andrei Tarkovsky means to invite you to observe. And not utter a sound

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