Every Little Thing I Adore About 'Stalker'

I’m going to level with you: This film changed my life. Late one Winter night early in my first year at college it transported me to a new plain of experience where everything suddenly appeared richer, more deliberate and beautiful than I had ever thought possible.

As ever, this is a stream-of-consciousness watch-through of one of my favourite films in an effort to unpack and more deeply appreciate how much it truly means to me. Stalker is a special movie for which my love is limitless- and I hope whoever’s reading this already has or can one day find a film that means as much to them as this one does to me. Let’s get to it.

The first haunting chords of Edward Artemiev’s eldritch score bleeding in through the darkness. There’s something so special about this music, conceived in 1979 when electronic soundtracks were still in their relative infancy- which feels uniquely otherworldly in a way so few film scores have managed to capture since. This really is one of those rare movies where I’m utterly captivated from the moment I hit play.

So much could be said for this opening credits sequence. One angle, one room, two men- for almost three minutes. The first time you see the film, the questions here are endless: Who are these people and what is their place in the story? What exactly can we grasp from them through their actions alone, since neither of them speaks a word of dialogue. 

Hilariously, Tarkovsky has mentioned he makes the openings of his films slow so that anyone who walked into the wrong theatre had time to leave before the ‘action’ started. In my mind however, he’s perfectly introducing us to his way of seeing the cinematic world. We are given one angle to observe every gorgeously rich, filthy millimetre of this space for as long as we need. To soak up the mood of the gloomy room and the ethereal score charging it with irresistible atmosphere.

And if you return to this scene after knowing what happens in the film, this long take becomes a silent window into the mind of the Professor: A man who we learn is wrestling with inner turmoil over what he plans to do, and how his scheme has effectively destroyed his professional life. Each second spent here is another tick closer to his intimate space, and it helps us ‘know’ the way he feels to be around before he pops up later in the movie. If we pay attention, a wordless bond is forged here that lands so beautifully as the film goes on.

This unbelievably brilliant ‘opening’ shot. The way the aperture slides to pull us out of the darkness and through the doorway into this room, with a POV dolly that perfectly mimics a viewer literally stepping into the space of the movie. I was lucky enough to see this film at the BFI IMAX recently and this special fibre of film magick fell over the audience when this shot hit the screen. Something about its spectral invitation to this movie’s quiet, haunted world inspires a special wonder that goes beyond words.

Stalker is a film with a constant mastery of visual texture. Just look at this fucking room: Block shapes arranged with simple, modernist clarity and then ripped into a million new directions by the peeling, twisted wallpaper warped by the interplay of light and shadow. Beams filter through the boarded window onto the grubby floorboards all scarred with the dingy passage of time. 

This is a world falling apart, and I vividly remember my whole perspective on the details of life itself changing completely when I first saw this film. Suddenly everything could be fascinating, from stems on a leaf to the subtle shifts in a stream of water. Tarkovsky’s beautiful pacing allows us to soak in every detail of this dilapidated world- and there’s something to be said for big companies spending hundreds of millions on big blockbuster fantasies that cut away so fast all their effort on world-building is wasted; where this relatively cheap Russian flick from the late 70s allows every element of its design to shine and sink into our experience. 

Stalker’s world isn’t to be observed from a distance, but lived in- literally at the same speed of life we actually experience. And how wonderful that this slow pace helped me reflect on my own path through life, instead of presenting one too fast to reach anything except the end credits.

The thunderous rattle of the passing trains cueing in rapturous classical music is such a magical detail which immediately charges the movie with a unique sense of charm. He weaves diegetic and non-diegetic sound together to create this bizarre super/natural fusion which works wonders later in the film. 

Instead of just doing the normal thing of dropping the needle on a big, potent score to underline an emotional moment, Tarkovsky can have the train slowly rattle towards the drama to build intensity and then blast music as the scene climaxes, only to fade it away as the train carries on out across the world. It’s such a brilliant connection of a ‘natural’ element we all understand with a movie technique to maximise the emotional power of both.

The Stalker pulling his jumper down over his gangly, pale legs as he gets out of bed. He’s probably freezing and they can’t afford anything else to wear. It’s a little human touch you don’t tend to see in a lot of films.

The classic Tarkovsky-ism of someone wandering out of a wide shot, then walking right out in front into a CU with a chunky focus pull. Something about these perspective shifts always get me, like the character is literally trapped in a box.

Something just struck me: Tarkovsky spends a relatively long amount of time establishing the family in this bedroom, almost five minutes without a word of dialogue where most movies would kick off on the conversation in the kitchen that follows. 

Is it possible that the fabled ‘Room’ we hear about as the trio explore the Zone is actually right in front of our eyes from the very first scene? Everything the Stalker desires is right here; his dangerous excursions only serve to ply his pockets with enough coin to keep his family fed. At the end of the picture, he even speaks of moving them into the Zone with him. This room, transplanted into ‘The Room’ itself. 

I think there’s an interesting symmetry to Tarkovsky’s presentation of these two spaces, where distant characters are unable to push onward through a frame. They are trapped, in themselves more than anything else, and can only seek to make the view outside their prison slightly more bearable than before.

This Bergmanesque blocking. Tarkovsky was a huge fan of our favourite Swe-daddy, as well as of Robert Bresson. Can you imagine three grand-masters of this medium living at the same time, all adoring eachother’s work and supporting eachother?

I also love how detached the Stalker is in this ‘argument’, he barely engages. His wife seems to think his actions are a paradox of selflessness, where his need to provide for his family puts him at too much risk to ever be worth the possibility of losing him. Part of me thinks the Stalker only refuses to engage because he feels guilty, as we learn later on from his devastating confession of the meaning this humble profession gives his life. Without the Zone, he feels like he is nothing- and it must tear him up inside to realise that he has mutated his care for his family into the best excuse to go again, instead of a vital reason not to.

The way the camera eye, usually so controlled in Tarkovsky films, zooms back abruptly when the wife writhes onto the floor- as if they didn’t plan for her performance and she just went for it. It’s an anguished moment that is given a subtle punch-up in power by this candid moment of shock from the movie’s own perspective.

I fucking love fog and good god did this shot floor me when I first saw it, all those years ago. On a clear day this trainyard is probably as dull as any industrial space- but the crew either waited for just the right weather or utterly swamped the opening scenes in thick fog to create this uniquely otherworldly effect. Its visuals like this that really help to forge Stalker’s aesthetic path as one of the most extraordinary looking films ever shot.

The Writer raises a fascinating point about the mundanity of absolute knowledge which plagues advanced civilisation. All the magic of the old world has been laughed off as mindless rubbish- but in its place we are only left with an empty space in which we often fail to feel our own self is enough to fill. This is philosophy 101 (I’d imagine, I’ve yet to read any) about the 20^th century’s inevitable death of god and human liberation from the structure of divinity inviting a whole new world of problems. 

Our ancient answers of gods and demons might be laughable to some, but the alternative is no answer at all- just an infinite seam of open questions that drown all hope of a life free from doubt. Is it better to live a lie, or face the truth that there is no absolute truth? I also think the Writer’s monologue relates beautifully to the actual meta-construct of science fiction. 

Stalker is not an epic space opera through which we can escape this modern mundanity, it is the path of three men in want of something more exploring the unknown in the hopes of reaching understanding, peace, or self-importance. Even watching the film, you can see how three blokes creeping around an old chemical plant takes a hell of a lot of suspension of disbelief to function as a boldly atmospheric sci-fi journey. 

And yet they are all so desperately devoted the hope of something more that it all works perfectly. They want to find the magic of the Zone just as much as we do the magic of cinema- and so we’re right along for the ride with them.

The Writer’s hat giving this car a surreal character, like something out of a Buster Keaton movie. It’s cute that Tarkovsky includes little gags like this to cut through the cynicism of his world: This frame might be a graveyard of towering industrial limbs reaching up to the sky in vain, but through our human perspective we can still find something to smile about.

The Writer’s verbal diarrhoea irritating the pants off of these two in their first scene all together. He spits out a few hilarious one-liners that are made even funnier as you watch the others just get more and more uncomfortable that he won’t shut up. For all of Stalker’s reputation as a deeply existential “art film” (ugh), it’s got a wonderfully disarming sense of humour.

I think at this point it’s worth noting the way Tarkovsky and the crew keep these length shots moving. In almost every part of Stalker you can look at a shot- either held static or locked in a slow crawl- and see multiple layers of movement. 

In the frame below, light rain dances across the surface of the foreground puddles. The characters themselves all run through it to reach the car. A vent on a nearby house chugs a steady stream of smoke out into the cold morning air. Finally, the thick wall of mist out in the far background rolls along in a steady tide behind it all. Each layer is charged with a piece of movement to keep the frame alive, even if it’s held for a long period of time. 

One of my other favourite film-makers Theo Angelopoulos talks about each shot being a living, breathing thing. He designs his films around each piece being an essential part of the puzzle with an internal rhythm of its own that begins and ends precisely when it needs to- no sooner. 

In shots like these, we can see how a simple wide of a town can be layered with interesting little visual details that all contribute to the movie’s world-building and atmosphere. Always look for opportunities like these, and don’t be afraid to condense your coverage into a single frame if you know you can bring it to life.

For those of you who don’t know the story, that little ‘A.K’ on the wall has reminded me of a dreamy day Japanese master Akira Kurosawa remembers spending with Tarkovsky. 

The Russian director held a private screening for his then new film ‘Solaris’ for Kurosawa. Afterwards, they went drinking together- at which point Tarkovsky got pissed as a fart and started singing the theme tune to ‘Seven Samurai’ “at the top of his lungs”- which Kurosawa dutifully joined in with. 

There’s something so wonderful about this story, particularly since it wasn’t long after Kurosawa had just endured a severe depression and suicide attempt, as he said this experience really made him feel happy to be alive. The magic of cinema.

Stalker’s one-of-a-kind sound design specifically for footsteps. Seriously, the sound of feet (somewhere around the world, Quentin just perked up) in this movie is so bizarre it really needs to be noted: Some strange cocktail of watery reverb and this dreamy, backmasked echo. The film’s otherworldly atmosphere would be incomplete without this beautiful detail.

This random worker almost slipping over on the wet plywood as he runs to raise the alarm. This unplanned stuff is like gold dust for film productions, when everything else is so meticulously controlled it’s nice for moments like this to breathe kinetic energy into your picture.

The Writer’s hunched-over figure as they wait for the coast to clear. Is he recognising all too late what will happen if they are discovered, doubling-over in fear at the thought? Or has the rocky road jived up the booze in his belly that he’s now trying to hold down? Maybe a bit of both.

The blinding light that floods out of the gate to the Zone when it first opens. We know this checkpoint is man-made but something about this moment floods the area with even more mystery.

The most ‘action-packed’ moment in the movie. Seriously, it’s so bizarre to think of a scene where three guys in a jeep perfectly time a sprint across enemy territory to break into this secret supernatural compound while bad guys blast them with machine guns… in an Andrei Tarkovsky movie. And to his credit, this tense tracking shot behind the car is great stuff.

Nothing much to say here except this shot is just gorgeous. The depth, mist and Tarkovsky’s characteristic affinity for water come together to form something stunning. Alongside Blue Velvet and Jacob’s Ladder I would be amazed if this movie didn’t have some influence on the Silent Hill aesthetic. It’s all right there.

I can’t tell you how much I love this rail-car journey, comprised almost entirely of shots of the backs of these characters’ heads. When I first saw this movie I had NO IDEA a film could shoot people this way, and I think this unique use of perspective actually inspires a more intimate connection with these people. When you are shown the front of someone’s face, you’re reading their emotions- but when you can only see the back of their head, you’re invited to imagine them.

Tarkovsky spoke about colour being “too beautiful” to use for an entire film, and freely swapped between it and monochrome in almost every film he made. But no-where is this effect more transcendentally moving than here, in Stalker, where one simple cut washes away the desolate sepia and warped music to strike us with the clear, rich- lethally silent wonder of the Zone in full colour. It’s such a quiet, haunting moment as the railcar comes to a halt and we sit there with the trio staring out into the deep distance- wondering. A sequence of pure cinema that will stay rent free in my heart for as long as I live.

I like the way the Professor reveals the mysterious backstory of the Zone by speaking of its fabled wish-granting Room as a “rumour”. It makes sense, coming from his place of scientific scepticism- but also presents a key doubt that belies every step these men take through this dangerous place: Is the Room actually real? Are wishes really granted here, or has the Zone’s cosmic radiation also mutated the truth and become an event horizon of lethal human desire? 

Stalker’s impact on my life can be measured in appreciating the little beauties of nature and experience, but also slowing down to make the most of the journey. This is not a film about answers, but the endless questions that drive us onward- no matter how great the danger- towards something more than life gave us yesterday. 

It’s the pursuit, instead of the end goal, that matters most. Because in the end, life’s response all to our doubts is usually buried six feet underground. The answer to all questions, inevitably, is death- but to ask is to seek life.

The way the Writer’s logical questions are continuously brushed off, often with silence. The movie makes it crystal clear these mysteries are ours to own, whether we leave them open-ended or not.

I’ve always adored this tracking shot, the way the camera actually tramples leaves as if it’s an eerie presence observing our characters that pushes through the carcass of a burnt-out car and the withered corpse inside to find an inner frame on the trio- gazing out across a sea of devastated tanks. This place’s struggle between serenity and malice sit against eachother like oil and water- always in conflict but also locked in a paradoxical harmony. Its human intrusion that stirs the danger here- when we are gone it must be the most peaceful place on earth.

We all have those weird flash-bulb moments in our memory where something special is captured and related to an image, without us really noticing until it comes back to us in the future. For me, this random shot is inextricably linked to my first time sharing this film with my best friends at university. 

They had never seen a Tarkovsky film and I’m eternally delighted that they both absolutely loved it. Something about sitting there in one of their rooms with all the lights off into the early hours of the morning with barely a word spoken between us will always stay with me as a deeply meaningful moment in my life- and this shot, for whatever reason, is always the one that triggers that memory.

The dry humour of the Stalker politely asking for a drink and then slowly pouring the last of the Writer’s booze away.

The cold intensity of the Writer’s behind-the-head POV shortcut to the Room. Tarkovsky talks about “pressure” when it comes to the flow of a film, in holding shots to the point where they build a wall of energy which can explode out across a cut to the next shot. Nowhere is that better delivered than here, where a huge- distant wide shot suddenly SLAMS into this uncomfortably intimate angle as the unknowable danger of this place feels more palpable than ever.

One of my favourite special effects shot in cinema history is this long take of the trio chatting in the field, which pans off to a close-up of the Stalker talking about the enigmatic movements of the Zone- then returns to the original frame where a colossal wall of fog has swept across the Room and obscured it from view. 

Something about this moment feels so magical to me, ultimately because it is captured in real time. Chopping this film’s long takes up into shorter shots would neuter the weight of real space and time which bottle up so much of its unique power. This sequence feels totally real, it unfolds right in front of our eyes without feeling forced or obscured. 

We don’t even hear what I would imagine were a fleet of fog machines churning away to make this happen. We just get the truth of the moment, for as long as it takes to hit us like a ton of bricks. Perfect.

The way the Stalker flashes a look right near the lens several times throughout the movie, as if to acknowledge the audience’s presence in the space. Tarkovsky finds these subtle little ways of making the movie that much more immersive. I’ve always felt wordless fourth-wall breaks have a capability to involve you more deeply in the experience of a film, instead of pushing you out. You are seen by the characters, they know you’re on this journey with them.

This well of mercurial water, oscillating through an ocean of darkness as the Stalker seems to recite a poem or prayer about his hopes for the trip, perfectly visualises the shifting waves of doubt and beauty that spark across the mind. This little metaphysical aside, a favourite of Tarkovsky, again invites us to push literally inside the minds of our characters and in doing so welcomes our own deepest perspectives on what is happening here- and what we might want out of the Zone ourselves.

I’ve seen this film countless times and have only just noticed you can actually see the Professor’s rucksack at the start of this tracking shot. The movie warns them that they’re running in circles but they, like me I guess, are just too sucked in to notice.

The trio all finding a place to lie down and rest, cheekily insulting eachother as they doze off, will always be one of my favourite parts of the film. There’s again a wry charm to this sequence, where in such a ‘slow’ film Tarkovsky includes a scene where all the characters fall asleep while cracking cheap jokes at eachothers’ expense. 

It really hammers home that this movie is inspirationally comfortable in its own skin, happy to head in whatever direction necessary to explore its own inner depths- and equally contented to let its tired pilgrims have a nap by the river. It’s a chance for us to take a breath, too, and reflect on all that’s happened so far. Lovely.

The Stalker’s dream, so uniquely transportive in its quiet wonder. What seems to be his daughter reaches out across space with a poem she’s reading, her voice tumbling into the silence with an eerie giggle as Artemiev’s score rises up to meet a bird’s eye tracking shot of the riverbed. 

I wonder, are we within the Stalker’s mind here? Are these objects actually relics of his past life that now litter the sea-bed of his dreams? Religious icons from a time before he lost his faith, pictures of a late holiday destination he wishes his family could return to, a machine gun from military service and so many more little trinkets all marooned in the shifting current of his memory. 

He awakens and looks right into the camera, holding our gaze for more than a moment, as if to confirm we have intruded the private space of his mind and know more than we ever should have. It’s a sequence only Tarkovsky would reach for, let alone pull off with such transcendental grace.

Another brilliant back POV shot of the terrified writer’s silhouette, this time descending through the pretty horrifying, claustrophobic tunnel that stands as the final obstacle to the Room. I love the way Tarkovsky holds this shot as the Writer gets further and further out of reach- and safety- then waits for the other two to catch up and starts following him again. 

It’s all relates to that concept of retaining a living weight of space and time within your scene- the tension is palpable because it’s literally alive right in front of you the whole time- with no cuts to obscure its effect. There’s also barely any dialogue in this scene: We’re just left hanging with the deadly rhythm of those haunting footsteps in an agonising crawl through the space.

Longtime DoP legend Rodger Deakins once said it would be his all-time dream project to have worked with Andrei Tarkovsky- and it’s not hard to see why. This film’s stygian frames are just stunning.

This effect with the bird is so wonderful, literally just a simple jump cut in the same way that early experimental films like Meshes of the Afternoon would make things ‘disappear’ with a simple editing splice. The difference here is that it almost feels like the power of the Zone is playing with the fabric of the film itself, zapping a flying bird out of existence and then shunting it back a few frames to fly out again. In such a patient film, the instant power of this simple effect creates a disarmingly thrilling contrast.

Another masterful example of Tarkovsky’s approach to living motion in long takes: The sets of spirals swirling away at his feet in the water- that gorgeous slow-motion cascade of what seems to be dust on the far right- all set against the creeping motion of the dolly as it pushes in on the Writer’s confession. Like Fellini says, Tarkovsky never interrupts an emotion. This scene will run for as long as it needs at whatever pace feels natural- and be all the better for it.

This hilarious double-take they all do by the phone. Seriously, it shouldn’t be undersold how sneakily funny this movie is the whole way through.

There’s something so serenely melancholic about this image and the story it tells, perhaps of a married couple who ventured to the zone to find contentment and ended up rotting in eachothers’ arms. And yet the green stalk growing up through their bones projects a spine of hope- maybe a fulfilment of their wish that life would go on. Maybe the whimpering dog was once theirs, having survived and stayed with its now long-dead masters; preserved by the power of the Zone. 

There is a whole other movie living in this throwaway shot and, perhaps, since the dog comes back with them as a pet- maybe this image is a projection of the Stalker and his wife’s future should they go to live here. Peace and regrowth, to repeat the cycle again and again- in eachother’s arms.

The profound simplicity of the trio’s final choice, something which resonates with me even more as I get older. A shortcut to your desires will only cause you to lose faith in the value of your life pursuing them. Your greatest want will be emptied and replaced the moment you attain it because existence could never be as simple as filling in a blank space with something that makes us infinitely happy. 

Instead of taking the shortcut, the trio accept that their journey to the threshold of the room came with an understanding that to enter after all their effort would be to miss the point. The passage of their lives is far more valuable than the sum. All their worldly possessions will wither after they’re gone, same as the world around them has decayed completely. The Writer’s art will eventually be forgotten, lost to time. It is in the pursuit of life as an ongoing force that fills these people with purpose, instead of spending their time pining for the end credits of their own experience. Stalker perfectly subverts the ‘special knowledge’ most sci-fi flicks crave as their final solution and instead emphasises the journey. The questions, instead of the answers. 

It provides us with an experience that slows the regular break-neck pace of mainstream cinema to our actual speed of life and encourages us to make use of every second: Taking in the infinite detail of its richly textured world, driving into the hearts and minds of its characters by the intimate bond their shared presence creates with us, weighing their words and existential questions against our own feelings and at last basking in the transcendental atmosphere of the entire experience. Stalker re-frames the way we approach film, unshackling itself from conventional narrative and opening its arms to the endless power of the moment- instead of the sardine can of story that tries to cram life into a set space of time. 

I suppose the question becomes: What would you rather do with your life? To bend it into a continuous highlight reel of snappy scenes and cheap entertainment that flashes by so fast you have no time to appreciate it and spend the intervening spaces craving another hit? Or to slow down, in this world that seems hell-bend on driving our attention span for meaningful experience into the last surviving nano-second of ‘now’, and attempt to take in everything that makes the world magical- even if it’s falling apart. 

Our constant factory-press of productivity, racing against time as fast as we fucking can, will only reward us with a shortcut to death. Stop rushing towards the day where it’ll suddenly be too late to take your time, and live a little. Appreciate every little shred of life you can wrap your heart around. After all, the answer is in the attempt.