Stalker

Stalker

will i ever get over how fluidly the camera moves? how every scene looks like it contains its own world of details? there's something nearly omniscient about the lens, peeking through slightly ajar doors and gazing down daunting corridors. the film itself is an echo chamber. the questions are malleable, mutated, ever multiplying; the answers are few, if any. something like hope permeates those profuse, littoral greens. remnants of something like hope simmer under the sepia and give too much weight to the gray reality. there are no villains. there are no heroes. i'm not even sure if there's desolation. there's just a great, unsatisfied yearning. there's also a beautiful, wild, joyous, lively dog. and of course there's Monkey, who is the Zone and who isn't the Zone. she is part of the fantasy, the dream, the lie; she shows what the world really is, what Stalker cannot see for himself, what her mother does not have the fortune or time to feel. this is the quietest place on Earth. the sound of emptiness is nearly deafening. and yet there is so much beauty, so much attention paid to every moment. somehow there is everything where there is nothing left. or maybe it's the other way around. maybe there's no way, because this isn't linear, and it isn't ordinary, but it also isn't extraordinary. see how abstract this is getting? see how we're getting nowhere clearer? i have to believe though that it's through this abstraction that we inch ever so infinitesimally closer to some sort of concretization. even if that belief itself is as close as i'm going to get to solace, to hope, to an answer.

and i'd like to believe that Stalker is not really for the good or the bad, the non-believers or the believers. i'd like to think its stake in art is for the dreamers.

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