“My conscience wants vegetarianism to win over the world. And my subconscious is yearning for a piece of juicy meat. But what do I want?”
Outside of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, no film has ever pushed the boundaries of the science fiction genre further than Stalker. And among those three films, Andrei Tarkovsky’s philosophical maze is by far the one that has triggered the widest range of interpretations and in-depth analysis, often prone to dubious conjecture, that have tried to crack the case wide open to little avail.
Throughout his illustrious career, the Russian director repeatedly wrestled with his own metaphysical anguish, leaving us a string of contemplative masterpieces that favored quiet introspection over conventional narratives that still reverberate to this day. Much like the rest of his work, Stalker is a hypnotizing dystopian tale that stares right into the abyss and delves into the depths of the human psyche; a film that evokes intellectual artistry and perhaps impenetrable understanding as well. From a religious parable to an anti-Soviet manifesto, the movie still opens up to new readings more than four decades removed from its release, and is best understood if seen through the lens of Tarkovsky’s spiritual malaise.
Stalker’s position in cinematic lore has only been further magnified throughout the years on account of its uniquely mystifying conception. Made at the tail end of Tarkovsky’s career in his homeland before fleeing to avoid Soviet persecution, the director and crew underwent a ruthless production near an abandoned hydro power plant in Tallinn, Estonia, where an old factory dumped toxic chemicals upstream of the set. This is widely attributed as the most likely source of the cancer that would prematurely kill several crew members, including the Russian auteur, his wife, and his main collaborator, Anatoly Solonitsyn.
But contrary to what its lofty reputation may suggest, the central premise of Stalker is rather straightforward. Right from the outset, the film introduces us to its lead character and moral compass, the eponymous Stalker (Aleksandr Kajdanovsky), soon revealed to be a sort of professional guide who earns a living by leading people through the Zone — a mysterious, abandoned outpost located in the middle of a post-apocalyptic wasteland where the natural laws of physics seldom apply. Legend has it that somewhere hidden deep within the Zone’s sealed off wilderness lies the Room, a mystical place that is said to grant the innermost desire of any individual who dares enter it.
Much like the original novel, Roadside Picnic, Tarkovsky keeps the true origin of this forbidden place shrouded in ambiguity, hinting at a possible alien incursion or nuclear disaster without granting such a thing as a clear-cut answer. In fact, there’s no proof beyond the Stalker’s word that the Room possesses those aforementioned supernatural powers at all. As far as the viewer knows, access to the Zone is currently restricted and rigorously secured by a military blockade and barbed wire that safeguards it from any trespasser. Needless to say, that doesn’t stop curious wayfarers from trying their luck and hiring the Stalker’s services for a chance at seeing it firsthand.
This brings us to the other two lead characters (Writer and Professor), both of whom go by the names of their respective occupations and will accompany Stalker in his next venture — thus completing the ideological triumvirate laid out by Tarkovsky. Any viewer familiar with the rest of the director’s work will surely know that one shouldn’t take any of his characters at face value, as they always stand in for larger-than-life ideas, conflicting philosophies, and theoretical musings. Stalker proves no exception to the rule; in fact, the true essence of the film lies not so much in the destination but in the spiritual pilgrimage these three individuals undertake on their way to the Room. Tarkovsky used Stalker’s dystopian setting and fantastic elements as mere jumping-off points for fleshing out the real moral conflict of the film and charting the depths of the human psyche. Few scenes would prove as fascinating as seeing these men bicker back and forth, locking horns with each other as they pontificate about human nature, religion, and desire.
The first of two clients is Professor (Nikolai Grinko), described by the director himself as a limited character with a very narrow view whom he wouldn’t want to seek any similarities with. And for good reason — albeit a decisively pragmatic man devoted to the field of science, Professor sees knowledge not as a useful tool but rather a lethal weapon if fallen into the wrong hands. Though at first he claims to be intrigued by the scientific breakthroughs that their expedition may harbor, mentioning among other things a potential Nobel prize as further motivation, we soon learn he has other plans on his mind — most precisely to drop a 20-kiloton bomb to destroy the Room for good. His reasoning? That if it does, in fact, possess such otherworldly powers, it’s just a matter of time until morally corrupt, evil men exploit it without regard for the wellbeing of others. By all means, Professor’s deep-rooted skepticism of the human condition makes a perfect foil to Stalker’s (as well as Tarkovsky’s) unreserved conviction that mankind is inherently good.
By contrast, we have Writer (Anatoly Solonitsyn), who falls on the other side of the ideological spectrum as an idealist man fully devoted to art. Throughout the story, he shows to be very self-conscious of how his work will be perceived, often questioning whether it will endure his own existence as timeless pieces of fiction. At one point, he wonders if there’s a point in creating art at all if it isn’t remembered and appreciated but concludes that there must be no other reason for his suffering than to pour it into creative work. However, Writer has grown disillusioned by the world around him, and has seemingly lost faith in his own talent as an artist, hoping that his trip to the Room will reignite his inspiration and elevate his literary work into recognized masterpieces. It isn’t hard to connect the dots between Writer’s plight and Tarkovsky’s himself — who had to dodge Soviet censorship in order to get his films out in the open — as two creators burdened with their talents who’d grown alienated from their surroundings and were consumed by their lasting legacies. The director described Writer as a man who has lost his way but one, he thought, who will be able to resolve his situation in the spiritual sense.
In his book Sculpting in Time, Tarkovsky described art and science as two valuable means of assimilating the world, equating the former to an endless system of spheres, “each one perfect and contained within itself,” while comparing the latter to “an unending staircase.” The director, unlike Writer, argued that an artist should not see his work as an act of self-gratification but of sacrifice, where “the sincerity of his self-expression is the only pledge of his worth.” In that regard, Writer and Professor are both obvious stand-ins for their respective fields who, despite clashing ideals, represent two sides of the same coin as individuals equally poisoned by cynicism and terrified of a force beyond their comprehension. They would both qualify as what Tarkovsky personally coined as ‘spiritually impotent’: individuals who have strayed from their path to enlightenment and desperately need to take a leap of faith of some kind. A closer look at the director’s canon of protagonists informs us of a few narrative counterparts to Stalker’s main dilemma.
In Andrei Rublev, the titular 15th-century icon painter struggles to find inspiration for his work through hardship, endlessly tormented by the tragedy that surrounds him — from Tatar invasions to Pagan persecutions. It’s only by witnessing the work and relentless spirit of another young artist that he’s encouraged to continue his paintings and become one of the most memorable artists in Russian history.
Nostalghia, the first film Tarkovsky made on foreign soil following his self-imposed exile, centers around a homesick Russian writer who can’t find solace in the Tuscan countryside. During his retreat, he stumbles upon an eccentric neighbor who begs him to cross through a mineral pool with a lit candle; a simple, absurd challenge that he claims will somehow save the world and imbues the writer with a newfound appreciation for life.
In both cases, a disenchanted artist who finds no purpose in a bleak world ruled by materialism befriends a seemingly idiosyncratic character, a ‘holy fool’ if you may, who serves as the catalyst for his path to enlightenment (awakening him in a spiritual sense) and restores his faith by virtue of their passion, selflessness, and love for mankind. This brings us back to Writer and Professor, who in a similar fashion place all their remaining hopes in Stalker, an altruistic man with lofty ideals whose only joy derives from helping others attain their desires by guiding them to the Room, with no interest in entering himself.
And it’s precisely these virtues and moral conviction that both Writer and Professor evidently lack that makes them incapable of entering the Room once they reach its threshold. Keep in mind that the Room allegedly grants one’s innermost desire, but that doesn’t mean that it’s the thing one believes to yearn for the most. This point is further exemplified on their walk through the Zone, where Professor recounts the legendary story of a former Stalker named “Porcupine” who had lost a brother in one of his hazardous treks and entered the Room in order to bring him back to life. However, upon his return, he didn’t find this fulfilled and instead came back home to a large sum of money — meaning that, subconsciously, he longed for wealth more than the return of his dead brother. This unbearable realization drove a guilt-ridden Porcupine to hang himself soon after.
Much like Porcupine, Writer and Professor are afraid of what they’ll discover once their desires are manifested. For them, ignorance is bliss and far preferable to confronting their inner demons or acknowledging their wretched values and priorities — even at the expense of fulfillment. The Zone then becomes a sort of supreme judgment of character that looks into the soul of each wayfarer and exposes their true character. What’s the real nature of our fears and desires? Are we selfish and narcissistic by design? Do greed and pride reign supreme? These are the obvious moral quandaries that one must confront in the Room and can only be ascertained by embracing what you seek.
Granted, Writer and Professor risk their lives and go through a perilous expedition only to come back empty-handed. Taking that into consideration, one could easily be inclined to deem their trip a resounding failure. But in typical Tarkovsky fashion, the road proves far more insightful than the finish line. As our characters ultimately learn, meaningful change is only possible from within, through self-reflection and some moral reckoning. Faith, altruism, and selfless love are mankind’s redeeming qualities, and it’s upon each one of us to live by them, much like Stalker does. In Tarkovsky’s own words:
“Stalker is a tragedy, but tragedy is not hopeless. Tragedy cleanses man. I believe that only through spiritual crisis healing begins. In this film I wanted to make some sort of complete statement: namely that human love alone is — miraculously — proof against the blunt assertion that there is no hope for the world. This is our common, and incontrovertibly positive possession — that essentially human thing that cannot be dissolved or broken down, that forms like a crystal in the soul of each of us which is all a person can count upon his existence.”
Stalker comes to a close in a deliberately anticlimactic ending that, far from being a cop-out, plumbs and deepens Tarkovsky’s meditation on the human condition and underscores the film’s central paradox — concluding that our subconscious desires are not necessarily what we would like to believe, and might be better left unknown. Likewise, the Room is left as a vague abstraction that could be interpreted in endless different ways, but arguably remains as powerful just as that. Is it a religious parable for eternal salvation — the Garden of Eden perhaps — a cautionary tale on nuclear warfare, psychoanalysis, or an allegory of life in the Soviet Union? You could make a pretty strong case for any of them. And yet, much like mankind’s all-consuming quest for knowledge or an absolute “truth,” Stalker might not be meant to be fully understood. Its message might be, after all, the fact that there isn’t just one.
