Jim’s review published on Letterboxd:
Am I awake?
Not while works of art like Stalker exist unseen, unread, unheard in my world.
It's no coincidence that every promotional image for Stalker evokes the galaxy brain. This film is the human experience. The stalker takes us on a journey of life, death and rebirth through nature - our nature - to the Zone. The concept of what we call truth is blown apart by means more powerful than any bomb and we're forced into an unbroken confrontation with darkness, eventually returning to a sepia, rust-toned existence.
Each scene effuses the mood and meaning of entire ★★★★★ films. You can't describe it. To describe it is to immediately lose its meaning. Stalker is every film. Cineworld? Stalkerworld. The Glasgow Stalker Theatre. Stalkerflix. StalkerTube. Star Wars? Oh, you mean Stalker?
"I would leave just after the next to last song... and the film would just go on forever."
"In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste!"
"Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash. The triumphs and the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life. We’re going to die. ‘Be of good heart,’ cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced — but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much."
"There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone."