Every Little Thing I Adore About 'Nostalghia'

Nostalghia is the Tarkovsky film that, over the years, has always felt the most personal to me. Something indescribable deep within the well of its meditation on depression, alienation and sensory numbness resonates with me even beyond the fathomless power of his other stunning works. It’s so wonderful to see that this movie’s lingering reputation as his least successful work is beginning to thaw- because Nostalghia has always been one of the most special works in my lifetime as a lover of cinema. I hope the post below can help open the window as to why. 

Reflecting on the transportive image that accompanies the film’s opening credits, charged with instantly haunting poetic power, I wonder if this is an externalisation of the main character’s inner landscape. Specifically, that of his memories. If we let ourselves slip away from who we used to be, do the relics of our past lives become increasingly more lost in the web of memories that makes up the map of our minds? Have you ever felt utterly lost in who you thought you were, as flashes of your past swim through your mind’s eye like the mercurial currents of a fathomless sea? Beyond living, we are each tasked with the impossible challenge of simply being. To exist alongside something ever-present but always tantalisingly out of reach: Ourselves. Capturing this singular flavour of alienation is, I think, part of what makes Nostalghia such a profound meditation on how it feels to try and live.

The way Eugenia insists Andrei speak Italian to him, as if to pull a mask of belonging over his true nature as a guest of this place. Try as he might though- he will always think in his native language.

I love this little throwaway line, “I cried the first time I saw it”, as if she’s talking to herself. I wonder how many times she’s gone back to see it- and if each time she was seeking to recapture that same experience. This is one of the great fallacies of our relationship with art- that it owes us the same profound experience every time. I think the true mark of great work is its ability to create something entirely new each time we visit with it- and we are only crushing that potential if we seek the same feelings every time. It’s funny, for a few years in my early 20s I slipped out of love with cinema because I was re-watching all of my favourite films with the sole intention of re-experiencing all the same wonderful feelings I’d had with them as a teenager. I’d gone through an intense depression and needed what they’d given me before- but rarely ever found it. I had changed as a person- and the great realisation was finally understanding that I needed to forge new relationships with these movies: That they had so much more to give me than simply what I had loved about them that first, magical time.

How unique a challenge it is to make a film about such a character: Someone who is, in so many words, ‘fed up with beauty’. Perhaps in 1983 this perspective would have felt ridiculous to some- however I feel Nostalghia has a profoundly prescient connection to our modern times: Where convenience has made instant gratification such a cheap commodity that we are able to stuff our eyes with wonder every waking minute of the day. The so-called ‘boredom’ that used to give our experiences vital time to stew into meaningful memories has been blown away by a ceaseless hunger for more of whatever the hell we think is going to move us. Great television series that used to be aired across months and captured the culture’s fascination in speculation and appreciation in the week it took to wait for the next episode are now binged through in a weekend and forgotten about the moment they’re over in favour of the next fast-food item in the queue. A great album that requires several listens to really click with is abandoned in favour of the endless new music you’re itching to get through. And of course social media has now crushed our capacities for attention into fleeting videos mere seconds long, in which the random payout of a quick laugh is enough to keep you scrolling for hours. Drowned in a sea of sensation, many people are gradually going numb. They’re plagued with a strange form of sensory indigestion- and diving into yet another feast is not going to numb the numbness. Andrei’s character is brutally disconnected from his own ability to feel. He is impotent in the very act of living- and his sight-seeing tour through Italy’s artistic treasures only compounds his crippling numbness with deep self-loathing as he torments himself for ‘failing’ to find the beauty so many others see in these special places. Nostalghia is a case study of the modern condition, made decades before its time to shine. I hope, in this context, its status as a work of vital relevance will finally begin to break through its own haunting silence.

Tarkovsky’s brilliant composition here, framing Andrei on the bank of a river of fog that Eugenia traverses without a care in the world. In this achingly pure visual metaphor, all that needs to be said about their relationship is expressed without a word. Nostalghia is a challenging film, undoubtedly- but it’s only as difficult for us as it is for its main character. It asks us to search its mystifying imagery for meaning, however frightening that might feel, because that is exactly what Andrei is trying to do. We must conquer the impossibility of communicating with the film’s un-translatable dream-world by making it our own.

This man’s reproach of Eugenia being a “casual onlooker” might seem rude- but what he says rings true when it comes to unlocking the deeper powers of art. To simply look and expect grace to come to you is not enough. You must engage, to actively create your own unique relationship with the piece if you hope to take the most from it. When she asks what it’s supposed to do, he answers: “Whatever you like, whatever you need most”. Sooner or later, every great work of art becomes a mirror. To the times, to the world- and to ourselves. The deeper we look, the more we are bound to see.

The fact that Eugenia is embarrassed to kneel- and give herself completely to the painting. In spite of the fact that she is essentially in a ‘safe space’, surrounded by “supplicants” to the work- she is afraid of letting herself be that vulnerable. Our post-irony age has knocked the wind out of sincerity- and I’ve seen endless people afraid of being labelled pretentious, to the point where they would rather keep everything at a distance than risk being exposed to something so completely that others might question them. In my mind, if you’re passionate enough about something that some people label you pretentious- then you’re doing something right.

The infinitesimally intertwined wax scars of ancient candles seared into these centuries-old stones. There has always been light here- not out of magic- but because generation after generation have fought to keep it from going out.

One thing I’ve always loved about Nostalghia is how freely it slips between reality, dreams and memories. It’s always felt like a sister-film to Mirror- but where that film was all illusion, Nostalghia give us an anchor in reality with whom to create a vital conflict about the supposed meaning, importance and danger of these fleeting fantasies. This man has drifted so far from tangible living that the borders between his waking life and the endless fog of dreams have crumbled into one, immutable oblivion. His mind has eaten the outside world alive- and we are intuitively invited to share in the confused chaos of his perspective. It barely makes sense to him, why should it be any different for the audience?

I wonder if this is part of the reason Tarkovsky’s films so often prefer to trade on images, instead of words. Images that are also impossible to translate- but only because they speak with a subconscious power that is older than language itself.

I love the way Tarkovsky shoots their conversation as one of total, overwhelming detachment. It seems that there was once a romantic connection between these two people- but their desire has become so blurred by distance that it’s almost completely unrecognisable. Andrei seems insufferably distant, true- but that’s also a part of this film’s tragedy. Deep depression is a downward spiral: It poisons our souls so brutally that we often push the people around us away, spiralling away from all our support systems until we are left alone with the monster it’s made of us. Nostalghia shows us how coming under the thumb of our inner demons can mutate us into something that even our loved ones no longer want to be around. That we ourselves (as well as, crucially, the audience) start to become sick of the sight of. And instead of fuelling change, this can so often simply lead to further despair. We dig ourselves a bottomless pit from which the only apparent escape is to suffocate every inch of light we have left so that nobody else can see what we’ve become. This is not an easy film- and made all the more challenging by the unpleasant feelings it faces- but there is a pulse of quiet, tortured empathy that also makes it achingly human.

This is such a thrilling transition, with Andrei literally staring into the eyes of his past. I’m sure we’ve all zoned out in ways like this- almost to the point where we make our memories physical again in the space around us. I wonder, is this woman an old lover? Is Andrei tormenting himself over leaving her and his family behind, as Tarkovsky himself had done in order to make films outside of Russia? Is his apparently inability to connect and commit to Eugenia a symptom of his own inner grief over the love he has lost? Perhaps he fears hurting Eugenia in the same way, likely he also does not think himself worthy enough to even deserve her.

I’ve always loved this little moment of Eugenia having fun by herself, almost like a child, in the empty corridor. When left to her own devices, she creates a reason to laugh. Meanwhile whenever Andrei is alone, all he can do is stand and stare until he all but resembles a stone-age statue.

This has always been one of my favourite shots in any Tarkovsky movie. Something about its indelible simplicity has always stuck with me. We see, in one simple composition: How difficult it is for Andrei to get any rest. The rain drizzles down as if to echo the tick of seconds on a clock as he lets his life bleed out into the gutter. His window literally opens onto a sheer stone wall. The crew play with the light so delicately as to turn Andrei into a living shadow- almost entirely opaque. And finally, beautifully, the dog suddenly coming out of the bathroom: As the boundaries between reality and dreams have finally slipped across eachother. I love the way Andrei reaches out and strokes the dog, as if this memory of his past offers some small comfort in his impossible quest to rest.

There’s something so tragically tender about Andrei’s visions of Eugenia being comforted by a woman who we might assume is his wife in Russia. It’s such a brutal confirmation of his understanding that he is hurting this person- and that the people from his past know that pain all too well. He can’t seem to bring himself to cut her loose, perhaps he hopes she will eventually see sense and walk away from him. There’s no hope of redemption in his mind, he does not see a way to soothe her himself and connect in a way that will begin to cure the gaping abyss that scars the space between them.

This moment where Andrei compliments Eugenia is so quietly heartbreaking. Domiziana Giordano’s performance is subtly brilliant: You can see the bright spark of warm disbelief flash in her eyes when she first hears him, then a whole wash of emotions through joy, excitement, fading hope and ultimate sorrow as he gradually retreats from his own affection. Perhaps he’s so twisted up in his own mind about his ability to connect with so-called ‘great’ artistic beauty that he suddenly doubts his judgement of hers. He thinks he’s insulted her somehow- and turns away. For such a distant film, it’s an unforgettably human exchange.

I love that in Domenico’s dismal quarters, the only point of life and light is shrouded behind a veil- as if, like the bright sunlight behind it, looking at it directly would be too much for his eyes.

This paralyzing moment of sensory sterility. This promised chamber of “faith” turns out to be little more than an ashen husk- and Andrei can only press himself into the corner and fail to feel all he hoped he would as Beethoven’s music soars through the silence. There’s such a great moment of disconnection here, where the sudden and jarring musical cue intentionally fails to find purchase with the scene it’s scoring and we are left wandering the room, like this ghost of a man, in search for a feeling that will make it real. I also love how in his previous film Stalker, a man wore a crown of thorns. Here, Andrei’s is a crown of cobwebs.

 This piercingly eerie picture of a blind doll that’s practically grafted into the skin of the room. Is it an expression of Andrei’s misplaced childhood- one elegantly revealed from its cloak of shadow after his failure of feeling? I wonder if this rotten, haunting, inhuman figure is how he feels about his relationship with his own lost innocence: Those vital sparks of youthful wonder he has so ruinously neglected throughout his life until his inner child has been warped into this Frankenstein of Theseus- so hideously twisted by the empty efforts to reignite its life that it is no longer recognisable.

I love the way Domenico distrustingly studies himself in the mirror, as if he’s looking at some unwelcomed stranger whose standing in his place. It’s a moment that so strikingly underlines this film’s chilling fascination with the terminal dissonance of identity.

Josephson’s portrayal of a mentally disturbed man buried in the darkness of his belief is so horrifyingly real- and it presents a tremendous challenge to our empathy. We often have little idea what he’s trying to communicate- and indeed Andrei struggles to converse with him in his second language. It’s a brilliant metaphor for Domenico’s mind having fractured beyond words- and rather than pushing me away from the movie with his inscrutability, Domenico’s insanity makes me lean in and really fight to understand such a ruin of a man. His character’s incandescent opacity is such a perfect counterpoint to Andrei’s numb transparence.

I can’t think of anyone who captures the sheer, seething texture of dilapidated desolation better than Tarkovsky- and who couldn’t love the immense detail of degradation present in every corner of Domenico’s ‘home’. Italy was arguably the birthplace of modern civilisation- and he is living in its bones.

Always and never.

I love the way Eugenia throws this into her breakup speech. She can barely summon the will to really release her full frustration because he gives her nothing to work with.

That’s the real tragedy of their relationship: Andrei gives so little that Eugenia has convinced herself it’s her own problem. He is a non-existent entity in her life that she’s felt unable to leave because he’s given her no reason. She seeks in him the same meaning he searches for- and both of them turn up a blank hand. Her only choice is to walk away, start again- purge this little episode of wasted time from her life- but look what good that did him. Nostalghia is not a romantic drama- but it’s tragic understanding of how weak communication poisons a relationship is shockingly well observed.

Tarkovsky always had a quirk for making characters move around and reappear in surreal ways throughout unbroken shots and I think his fascination with this technique hits its peak in Nostalghia- brilliantly capturing the restless re-organisations with which Andrei’s hazy, dream-like memories shift like sand through his fingers.  

I can’t fully express why- but this fleeting image of an ancient angelic statue long-lost underwater, its face turned away into the sea of reeds that have bloomed around it, has always struck me as one of Tarkovsky’s most moving images. I can’t articulate what it means to me- but from the moment I first saw it, it’s a shot I’ve never been able to forget.

The way Andrei wanders these ancient Italian ruins with a half-empty bottle of cheap looking, store bought “RUSSIAN” vodka. It’s as if his connection to his native land is an addiction- a creeping poison he drinks down in the flooded rubble of a new place he knows will never really feel like home.

I love the visual metaphor of Andrei wandering through what might as well be his own tomb, wading through an ocean of memories whose details he can never quite make out through the ripples his restless movements make. Slowly, inevitably, the water is rising- and he is still no closer to understanding what it really means.

Arguably my favourite line Tarkovsky ever wrote- and I adore the way that Andrei says it while looking right into the lens. I’ve seen it more logically translated as “unspoken feelings are unforgettable”- but that just doesn’t have the same special poetic ring, does it?

I adore the way we hear poetry from unsourced voiceover, then pan over to reveal Andrei’s book of poems caught in his makeshift fire. It’s as if they’re being carried into the air on the fumes- recited one last time before they return to ash.

The striking desolation of this vision, in which Andrei wanders what almost feel like post-apocalyptic streets, long since abandoned by any semblance of life. I wonder if this is how he experiences the world even in reality: While everyone else is lost in the bustle of the city, he wanders streets that appear empty- with only their silence for company.

I so appreciate the fact that Andrei asks this, it’s such a bitterly honest thought for a depressive to have.

This awesome mirror switch-out really speaks for itself. So well done.

It’s quite intriguing that when Andrei walks through populated areas; their soundscapes are generally dominated by a crushing silence. And yet- in these empty, ancient ruins- he seems to be able to hear the long-dead voices of history. It perfectly sums up his character: Numb to the pulse of the present but all ears to the echoes of the past.

This unforgettably alien staging, so artificial that it feels drained of all humanity. Domenico’s audience feel more like statues than people, relics of a race that has long since stopped listening to the truth.

Such a poignant, thought provoking line. Civilisations fall- and yet we survive.

I love this little human moment Domenico has before his lethal gesture. I can’t tell if he’s forgotten the next line of his grand-standing speech, or if he’s genuinely forgotten that the next step of his plan was to burn himself alive. There’s an achingly tragic human comedy to this little flit of forgetfulness.

Josephson’s pause here is so mortifying. For one horrifyingly brief moment, Domenico escapes himself and realises what he’s about to do.

Zoe’s heartbreaking reaction to her owner’s actions. The dog so clearly senses something here is very, very wrong- but like all the onlookers is powerless to stop what’s coming. It’s particularly chilling too that, amidst a sea of human faces- the most empathetic figure in the crowd is an animal.

This whole sequence is stunning- but the music warping as the speaker shudders to life, having missed its moment, is such a perfect touch on top.

There’s something so brutally inevitable about this shot of Eugenia arriving, alongside the police. Everyone else is still standing like statues- and we hear no diegetic sound. The world is silent- cut off- totally unable to save Domenico. 

The way Andrei jolts in embarrassment the first time the candle goes out and casts his eyes around the bath, as if to check if anyone saw him fail. It’s such a great choice to underline how much this seemingly insignificant task means to his character.

I think part of what makes Nostalghia so profoundly powerful is its total commitment to capturing something Bergman described so brutally in 'Persona': "The hopeless dream of being". Andrei has drifted so far away from life that he sees it as an outsider, doubting his own agency as if he were just a ghost in his own story. He is impotent in life itself: Unable to feel, unable to maintain a relationship, barely able to keep up a conversation- numb to all that keeps us moving through existence. And in this crushing inertia, Tarkovsky collapses the entire sweep of our shared human folly into one perfect, beautifully mundane metaphor: The attempt to carry a candle across a stretch of land, without it blowing out.

Captured in one unbroken take, the film's jarringly simple finale gives us time to reflect on all we have seen- and in what context our own attempts at life fit alongside this pursuit. Again and again throughout life, our light goes out- and we are forced to find our way back to some home base in the dark and try to begin again. We can charge this scene with as little or as much meaning as we would like: Poke our fingers through the holes in Andrei's desperate fallacy, or lose ourselves in the seething intensity of importance that radiates from his achingly pure pursuit. Ultimately I think Nostalghia was Tarkovsky's wildest gambit: Facing into the true emptiness of existential despair, to the point where the very blood of each image has drained from its frames and we're left with a pallid, desaturated shells of life. I can see why people become frustrated with Andrei, why they grow tired of his actions and wish he would simply snap out of his malaise: But that reaction elegantly mirrors the voice of his own inner self-loathing. 

Nostalghia forces us to empathise with humanity at its most remote, to the point where many viewers find meaning utterly inscruitable in the mercurial web of dreams and memories that drown the man's earthly reality. But surely at some point we have all felt like this: So brutally overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of life that it seems to shrink our own importance until it dwindles into the distance. Nostalghia is a fresh, vital, ironically realistic take on depression because it so vividly captures the experience of trying to find yourself in the things that used to define you, only to discover that they have become so distant that you no longer seem to possess them. How long does it take before our memories grow so distant that they start to feel like dreams? Before we are strangers in our own soul? Whatever the weight on your shoulders looks like, what choice do we have but to keep lighting our little candle- no matter how many times life snuffs it out- and once again fight our way back out across the darkness?