Nostalghia, a film Andrei Tarkovsky directed while he was out of Russia and in Italy, is almost as personal, if not more-so, than his film the Mirror. The main character's first name is Andrei; there's mention of a poet named Tarkovsky (possibly Andrei's own father, if I'm not mistaken); the main character, while trying to do something else with his time (write a biography on a musician) is distracted by his personal turmoil over his family, who are back in his homeland, as was Tarkovsky to a degree (he might have been in exile, I'm not sure). And on top of this, we're given a substantial amount of black and white scenes, often either in slow-motion speed or directed by Tarkovsky to seem like such, from dreams and memories that call for a time and place that is specific but also ethereal, strange and probably symbolic.
So why then does the film not work if the creator's soul was poured entirely into it? I think, perhaps, there is almost *too* much of a reliance on creating a mood of meditation, for there to be total concentration upon the atmosphere that Tarkovsky has created- as he has in all of his movies- upon which is a sort of world unto itself, seen through its filmmaker in a way no other can see it. This may be expected for one already familiar with the director's methods, but even still there's so many silent moments, so many long takes with the most slight of camera movements, so much contemplation in place of dialog (there's only a few scenes where we see characters communicate in that manner), that it takes a lot out of the viewer to stay with the ideal of spiritual redemption that Tarkovsky is after.
Or is it redemption? Is it just simply a quest into oneself? Why does Andrei follow Domenico (brilliantly played in subtle/not-so-subtle form by Erland Josephsson), who cannot be really relied upon as a source of redemption or actual thought provocation? This is a man, after all, who yells out his speeches to bewildered crowds in a town square and then proceeds to go through a very severe act on himself (to Beethoven's 9th no less!) There's a lot of mystery to this character Andrei, and the actor portraying him, Oleg Jankovsky, is so subdued and detached at times that his female translator counterpart (possibly mad as well) can barely get a rise out of him save for the bloody nose. This strange sensation to seek in to a character that Tarkovsky leaves open to much interpretation, plus the procession of shots that seem to last for about as long as imaginable, makes it an uneasy viewing experience.
But at the same time that there's this uneasiness, there's also a wonderment that is going on as well. I couldn't pull myself away even if a part of my mind screamed out "where's the plot?" There's such a strong sense of direction going on, the moods created in certain places (i.e. the fog over the hot springs at the Spa, the darkness in the bedrooms, the chilling sensibility to the flashbacks/dreams), almost in spite of the lack of a really solid story, as it becomes less about what happens than about what is in this character, the nature of this exile in Italy as it makes Andrei pull into his own existential finale of sorts. That finale, as some may have read, is extraordinary, maybe the whole reason, as with Sacrifice's fire finale, that Tarkovsky made the movie in the first place: the poet carries a candle, as suggested by Domenico, across a sacred pool, and when it goes out he goes back, and does this again, and again, until finally he makes it across. Never a cutaway, always intuitively shot by Tarkovsky's cameraman, and it brings on a whole other quality that crosses paths between what is fiction in the film and reality in front of the camera.
While I praise the film, and recommend it, it's not the kind of work that someone who isn't familiar at all with Tarkovsky should see as an introduction. On the contrary, this might be more worthwhile as the final work in his (saddeningly) small body of work, as its pace and modus operandi can be further appreciated. Grade: A-
So why then does the film not work if the creator's soul was poured entirely into it? I think, perhaps, there is almost *too* much of a reliance on creating a mood of meditation, for there to be total concentration upon the atmosphere that Tarkovsky has created- as he has in all of his movies- upon which is a sort of world unto itself, seen through its filmmaker in a way no other can see it. This may be expected for one already familiar with the director's methods, but even still there's so many silent moments, so many long takes with the most slight of camera movements, so much contemplation in place of dialog (there's only a few scenes where we see characters communicate in that manner), that it takes a lot out of the viewer to stay with the ideal of spiritual redemption that Tarkovsky is after.
Or is it redemption? Is it just simply a quest into oneself? Why does Andrei follow Domenico (brilliantly played in subtle/not-so-subtle form by Erland Josephsson), who cannot be really relied upon as a source of redemption or actual thought provocation? This is a man, after all, who yells out his speeches to bewildered crowds in a town square and then proceeds to go through a very severe act on himself (to Beethoven's 9th no less!) There's a lot of mystery to this character Andrei, and the actor portraying him, Oleg Jankovsky, is so subdued and detached at times that his female translator counterpart (possibly mad as well) can barely get a rise out of him save for the bloody nose. This strange sensation to seek in to a character that Tarkovsky leaves open to much interpretation, plus the procession of shots that seem to last for about as long as imaginable, makes it an uneasy viewing experience.
But at the same time that there's this uneasiness, there's also a wonderment that is going on as well. I couldn't pull myself away even if a part of my mind screamed out "where's the plot?" There's such a strong sense of direction going on, the moods created in certain places (i.e. the fog over the hot springs at the Spa, the darkness in the bedrooms, the chilling sensibility to the flashbacks/dreams), almost in spite of the lack of a really solid story, as it becomes less about what happens than about what is in this character, the nature of this exile in Italy as it makes Andrei pull into his own existential finale of sorts. That finale, as some may have read, is extraordinary, maybe the whole reason, as with Sacrifice's fire finale, that Tarkovsky made the movie in the first place: the poet carries a candle, as suggested by Domenico, across a sacred pool, and when it goes out he goes back, and does this again, and again, until finally he makes it across. Never a cutaway, always intuitively shot by Tarkovsky's cameraman, and it brings on a whole other quality that crosses paths between what is fiction in the film and reality in front of the camera.
While I praise the film, and recommend it, it's not the kind of work that someone who isn't familiar at all with Tarkovsky should see as an introduction. On the contrary, this might be more worthwhile as the final work in his (saddeningly) small body of work, as its pace and modus operandi can be further appreciated. Grade: A-