All language subtitles for Andrey.Tarkovsky.A.Cinema.Prayer.2019.WEBDL.1080p.iTunes.RUS-ylnian

CHAPTER 1
A WHITE, WHITE DAY...

A rock lies by the jasmine

Under the rock - a treasure

Father stands in the road

A white, white day

In the light,
a silver poplar tree

Centifolia, and behind it
winding roses

Milky grass

Never have I been happier
than back then

Never have I been...
happier than back then

Going back there
is impossible

And to tell of it
is forbidden

How overflowing with bliss

This Garden of Eden

Dad...

MIRROR (1974)

An artist feeds on his
childhood all his life.

On what his childhood was like
will depend what his art will be.

It was of course a huge influence
on me, that my father was a poet.

And... his poems
influenced me greatly...

His views on Russian literature...

On art...

It's such a... an unconscious
dependency. And a bond.

I can neither weigh
nor evaluate its qualities.

I can feel more intensely my bond
with my mother than with my father.

Whatever I had to say about that,
I said in the film Mirror.

Whoever saw that film, must've
understood what I had in mind.

My first memory is from when
I was 18 months old.

I remember a house, stairs,
a terrace.

An open terrace.
Steps, and a railing.

A couple of stairs,
five or six.

And between the steps and
the house, a huge lilac bush.

It's cold there,
and there's sand around.

And I'm rolling a pot lid,
an aluminum one, under the railing.

I'm rolling it, and I suddenly
get startled by some noise.

I crawl under the bush
and look up at the sky.

Because this noise, which keeps
growing, is coming from the sky.

And suddenly, through a gap
between the branches,

I see a flying airplane.

This was in 1933.

And I was born in 1932.

These post-war years were
very hard, there was mass hunger.

And I barely remember them.

I just remember the hospital
where I was a patient, in 1947.

As a child I became sick,
of hunger and fear

Peeling the dead skin off
my lips, and licking them

I remember a cool and nasty
taste

And I keep walking,
walking, walking

Sitting on the steps
in my ceremonial uniform

Warming myself, walking in a
delirium, as if under a spell

After the Pied Piper,
into the river

Sitting, warming myself,
on the steps, with a fever

And Mother stands there,
beckoning to me

As if close by,
but I can't get close

I walk a bit closer, stands
seven steps away, beckoning to me

I walk a bit closer, stands
seven steps away, beckoning...

To me...

I think that memory is...
an emotional structure...

that has a colossal significance
for every... person for whom...

the imagining of fantasy is
significant for his profession.

I was only 3 years old when
Father left the family.

And he showed up
only infrequently.

That's why I can only judge by
those moments when

he suddenly showed up.
When he came over.

We lived in two small rooms,
in one of the apartments,

where we lived, in Old Moscow,
beyond the Moskva River.

A few years passed, I was
in school by then.

Father came over one night,
or in the evening, late.

My sister and I were asleep.

And he had an argument with
Mother in the kitchen,

and demanded that she would
give me away...

to him... She didn't want to,
and these demands

caused her great pain,
apparently.

She said nothing to me. Father hasn't
said anything to me either.

But I remember it. And it
showed up as an episode in Mirror.

Ignat... Mother and I wanted to
ask you...

What?

Maybe you'd rather...
live with me?

How?

Well, you can stay here.
We will live together.

You'll transfer to
another school.

Haven't you said something
like that to Mom?

Said what?

When?
Why, no...

I don't want to...

I understood that I would
never go live with Father.

Even though I always dreamt
about it.

I felt pain that I wasn't
living with him.

But I would never in my
life go live with him.

I remember that episode
from Mirror

where she's waiting for
Father's arrival from the city.

That's exactly the way it happened,
I must've remembered it.

Other than that,
I don't remember anything.

But I do know that Mother
loves Father, even to this day.

And has never loved
anyone else.

After Father left our family,

even though we're still
keeping in touch with him...

And him keeping in touch with
us, because I was just a baby...

Soon afterwards the war started.

And life became so
nightmarishly difficult.

And this difficulty fell,
of course, on my mother.

Who, even though completely
ill equipped to handle life,

not only saved the lives
of my sister and me,

but did all she could
to give us an education.

Despite the terrible
circumstances,

she got me to finish
musical middle school,

[...] school of pictorial art.

And now I can't even understand
how Mother could possibly...

do all that. How she could
accomplish that.

Because in [...]
this didn't exist.

If not for my mother, I could
of course never

have become a director.

Mom...

The kerosene stove is smoking.

What?

Come to me, take it,
I don't need anything

If I love, I'll give away,
and if I don't love, I'll give away

I want to replace you, but if
I say that I will turn into you

Do not believe me, poor child
I'm lying...

O, these hands
with fingers like vines

Open, moist eyes

Tiny ears, like saucers

Full of loving song

And wings,
tightly bent by the wind

Do not believe me, poor child
I'm lying...

I will go berserk,
like a condemned man

But I can't overcome
the estrangement

And I can't lap
with your wing

And I can't, with your
little finger, touch your eyes

To see with your eyes

You are a hundred times
stronger than me

You are a song about yourself

And I am the governor
of trees and sky

And condemned by your court

For the song...

CHAPTER 2
THE BEGINNING

THE STEAMROLLER AND THE VIOLIN (1960)

It's a very unclear sensation...

the representation of a child
in a film...

very, sort of, opaque...

Just like the role of women
in my films.

It's something I haven't
been able, so far, to express.

What it was necessary to say,
both about women and children.

About children, I've always thought
they were much wiser than us.

I always wanted to attract
them to my films.

To me, children are a link
between our world, this world,

and another world,
a transcendental one.

That is, that they haven't
lost that connection yet.

They will, soon,
but they haven't yet.

In that sense, the role of
the child is very important to me.

Where the adult can't find
words to say, to express

something like that, I think
that if you ask a child,

he'd be able to explain
everything.

Even with his [...].

I have no doubt that if
that famous Khrushchev thaw

didn't take place, it would've
been impossible

to count on any kind of
a cinema career

that could've happened for me.

I remember that time
very well.

It was tied to this hope
that all of us were feeling.

Looking into the future
with hope,

full of plans,
full of prospects.

We were full of hope.

I remember that time
very well.

We were all united by this
uncontrollable urge

to express ourselves,
as soon as possible.

And more so, a feeling
that it was possible.

IVAN'S CHILDHOOD (1962)

However, very quickly
it all passed.

The hangover that followed
this period

arrived fairly quickly.

I remember how my first film,

in 1962, Ivan's Childhood,
I remember how it already

was being evaluated by
the regime, by the officials,

as a pacifist film.

Which is to say, being
evaluated negatively.

According to our understanding,
Ivan is both just and unjust.

A Raskolnikov-like conception.

You're allowed to kill,
but only if it's just.

In retrospect, it's very
clear how

hypocritical and false
this point of view was.

In any case, this was
how my film was criticized.

That its anti-war pathos
was so strong,

literally anti-death,
anti-destruction,

that it was perceived as
expressing sentiments against

death and war in general.

And not either just or unjust.

When we talk about war,
we're talking about victims.

Because there are no winners
in a war.

And even if we win a war,
we actually lose it.

Because we took part in it.

The story of this film
is pretty strange.

Mosfilm had a film in production
simply titled Ivan.

It was directed by
someone else.

The film was more than
halfway done.

The money was halfway spent.

The footage was so terrible,
that production had to be shut down.

Mosfilm's administration started
approaching directors.

At first, famous directors.

Finally, the last [...],
they said of course not.

And then they approached me.

This was when I finished
my studies and received a diploma.

I presented them with
a few conditions.

That I will read Bogomolov's
original story.

Then I will not watch a frame
of the previously shot footage.

I will rewrite the entire
screenplay.

I will replace the actors
and the cinematographer.

And the entire crew.

And I will re-do the entire film.

They said, yes, but you'll
only have half the money.

I said, that's enough for me.

If you'll grant me freedom,
I'm willing to do it.

Fine.

Let me help you.
- I'll do it by myself.

"By myself, by myself"!
Eh!

I know that the film
was very well-received.

But I think it was completely
misunderstood by the critics.

They tried to study
the historical aspect.

But in fact it was simply a juvenile
composition by a young director.

It was a poetic creation that
should've been

examined from the point
of view of the author.

Sartre came to its defense,

from a philosophical
point of view.

But to me, that's no defense.

I should've been defended
from an artistic point of view.

Because I'm not a philosopher,
I'm an artist.

His defense was useless
to me.

In the universe,
our mind is happy

Building an unreliable dwelling

People, stars and angels,
living

By the earth's gravity

We haven't yet conceived
a child

And already under his foot

The film not bending
anywhere

On his circular orbit

I'm flying!

CHAPTER 3
THE PASSION ACCORDING TO ANDREI

ANDREI RUBLEV (1966)

I felt the cooling after
the thaw very quickly.

And the second film, which
I started making in 1964,

and finished in 1966,
Rublev,

its story very plainly
shows this turning point.

Go!

The film was very well
received by the film community.

I remember that colleagues
and film committees

all praised the film
very much.

Which was very unexpected
for me, because I didn't

understand myself what
it is I'd done.

Nonetheless, the film
was immediately shelved.

And was not screened for
the next 5.5 years.

Because it was deemed
"anti-historical".

Which is completely false.

We tried to be faithful
to the highest degree

to historical facts.

And to the circumstances
that the film is based on.

On the other hand, it was
also deemed "anti-Russian".

And thirdly, that the film
was made in a West-like mode.

In the way that the conception
of the protagonist

was very individual, he was
too much of an individualist.

He opposes
himself too much,

in life, in order
to become a Russian painter.

Even though this is
absolutely false.

He couldn't not oppose himself,
because he was a monk.

And all his life was in
opposition to vile existence.

And that's exactly
the point.

And this stage was very
hard for me.

At this time it was clear
to me that

the time of [...] was over,
and hard times were ahead.

Something isn't working out.

Or you're tired, exhausted.

And suddenly your eyes
meet someone in the crowd.

In a human way.

As if honored.

And everything is suddenly
easier.

It is, isn't it?

A genuine poet, if he truly
is genuine,

can't be a non-believer.

By the way, this probably
explains this crisis

of culture that we've been
living through for many years.

People need to be reminded
more often

that they are people.

That they're Russians.
One blood, one soil.

When it comes to me, I can't
even remember when

this transformation
happened to me.

When I became a believer.

Became a religious man.

Religious, but that doesn't
mean that I'm without sin.

I'm becoming more and more
convinced that

culture cannot exist
without religion.

In some sense, religion
becomes sublimated in culture.

And culture in religion.

It's a very interconnected
process.

If spirituality is needed,
it starts to create

works of art, to give
birth to artists.

And if it isn't, then society
has to get by without art.

The number of miserable
people grows.

Unrooted people, in the
spiritual sense.

Man loses his purpose.

He stops understanding
what he's living for.

So when we talk about religion,
for me this isn't

a strictly personal problem.

This problem is linked to
the fate

of our culture, of our
civilization.

The image is a thing
that can't be divided.

That can't be captured.

Having the properties
of the world that [...].

This is a relationship
that is completely genuine,

with our Euclidean awareness.

We can't perceive it
by sight alone.

But we can imagine its
existence,

and express to it our own
internal regard.

So essentially, the poetic
image can't be decrypted.

If the world is mysterious,

then the truthfulness of the
image is in that the image

also carries within itself
a certain mysteriousness.

The image, when written down,

carries a strictly internal
meaning... a symbolism...

But never an external one,
a plastic one.

It's a kind of pure
metaphysics.

It wasn't an image of God,
it was His materialization.

And that's very important.

Because the best works of
Old Russian icon painters

they are essentially
meditations on the absolute.

The deeper the image is,
the more elusive it is,

the greater therefore it is,

the more rigid is the
construction it calls for.

The most sublime poetic image
is a naturalist one.

And not in an ideological
sense,

but in the earthly
sense of the word.

That's why, when we talk
of the simplicity

of the construction of the
artistic image,

for me, this always indicates

the author touching the earth
with one hand,

and the world beyond
with the other.

Run!

It's necessary not to
forget that we are people.

We're just matter.

Inspired by the divine,
but still only matter.

Because in the afterlife,
everything has a single source.

And made from a single matter.

That's why we're so
terribly irritated

when we encounter art
that

we can call "artistically
pretentious".

Which is expressed in an
exaggerated infectiousness.

Exaggerated only because
of the lack

of internal equilibrium
in the image.

Which is to say,
that it's already a symbol.

A symbol is a thing that
can be decrypted.

Which makes it entirely
anti-artistic.

Because an image is not
a game of charades,

not a puzzle.

Every puzzle and every riddle
has a solution.

When the viewer solves it,
the symbol is exhausted.

In short, it demonstrates
the fact that it has limits.

How can the symbol be limited,
if it reflects the infinite.

We can even say that [...]
is a symbol of the infinite.

A symbol of the world
we live in.

There are no signed icons,
not even one.

The icon painter didn't consider
himself

to be a painter, an artist.

If he had a talent for
icon painting,

he would thank God for that,

because in his mind, with
his craft, his profession,

he was serving God,
he was praying.

This is the meaning of
his creation.

What I'm talking about
is the absence of pride.

The meaning of life is
in knowing...

at least knowing for
oneself...

in believing...
in your own origins...

Where you came from,
and where you're going to.

And what you live for.

You need to feel your
dependence on the Creator.

If you don't feel it,
you turn into an animal.

When you drop down on
your knees

and turn your feelings
to God,

glory emerges from you.

True glory.

In the same way,
true images emerge.

When your craft is identical
to praying to the Creator.

It's like giving a gift.

As if I grew a flower,

and I'm now dedicating
it to someone.

But I need to grow it first.

Art is a reflection in
a mirror

of the most sublime talent
of creation.

We are in this way
imitating the Creator.

We are the very ones that
are created in God's image.

And this is one of the
moments when we resemble Him.

Art is one of man's most
selfless acts.

The meaning of art
is prayer.

This is my prayer.

And if my prayer can become
a prayer for others,

then my art becomes
closer to others.

I'm talking about duty.

And the duty of man
is to serve.

And that's exactly why
this idea is debased,

and becomes a struggle
for power.

In order to not have
to serve.

But to exploit the fact
that others do serve.

Because in the world, there's only
one principle of relations,

and that is to serve.
There's nothing else.

CHAPTER 4
THE RETURN

Our blood is not jealous
in the house

But gapes in the
forthcoming gap

Because the earth is
for the earthly

On earth the limit
is set

The distraught mother
is dreaming

The roaring of
the four horses

Phaethon, and his chariot

And crimson colored
cubic stones

SOLARIS (1972)

We wanted to film an
adaptation of Solaris,

without traveling to
any Solaris.

That would've been
a lot more interesting.

But Lem was against it.

The Russian person is somehow
very connected to nature.

He can't think of himself
outside of nature.

He sees himself
as part of nature.

It is, in a way, an attribute
of the Russian character.

That's why nature, and its
condition,

can have such an impact
on a man's character.

We cut nature out of films,
as if it was useless.

We exclude it.

We think of ourselves
as the main thing.

But we're not the main thing,
we're dependent on nature.

Nature is more important
than us.

We ourselves are the result
of nature's evolution.

That's why I think that
to neglect nature,

in some emotional,
artistic sense, is criminal.

Not even criminal,
it's foolish.

Because it's the only
place where

a sense of truth
awaits us.

Do you remember Tolstoy?

His suffering over the impossibility
of loving mankind as a whole?

Well, I love you.

But love is a feeling
that can only be...

experienced.

But can't be explained.

The concept can be explained.

But you love only what
can be lost.

Yourself, a woman,
a homeland.

Until this very day, love was
unattainable to mankind.

Do you get my meaning,
Snout?

There are so few of us
in the world.

A few billions.
A handful.

Can it be that we're here

to experience people
as a reason to love?

Huh?

It seems to me that...

The unclean life sometimes
gives us a chance

to become convinced
of what it says.

It is life itself that
leads us to these ideas.

A cleansing is necessary
because it lets us

cool down from the suffering.

Shame...

That's the emotion that
will save mankind.

TARKOVSKY HOME,
MYASNOYE HAMLET, RUSSIA

I love this house
very much.

It's more than a house,
it's not even a house.

It's a clinic. It can
be anything you'd like.

In this house I can
become a person

that is capable of
writing a book.

A person that can
build a building.

I can do everything that
can be done in this house.

It transforms me into a person.

Frees me up from the necessity
of working for a living.

Professionally...

I could've lived my
entire life there.

But only on the condition
that I would know that I

could go from this house
to any destination I want.

A wonderful house.

It's what I need.
I don't need anything else.

At one time it burned down.

I was so scared of seeing
the burnt down house,

that I didn't go there.

Larisa was the one who
took care of it.

We put our entire soul
into this house

because we were so happy
in it.

So to sell this house,
to leave it,

to betray it, would be like
to betray Larisa.

Which I'm not capable
of doing.

I bow to people who do for
me more than they can.

[...]

Everything that happens
around the house is a miracle,

from the point of view
of the condition, certain moments.

I can't explain it...

I go outside, sit on the
steps, and a film starts.

But not that film,
not fictional film.

But that film that, to me,
means real film.

That's remarkable...

When Larisa is staying
in the country house,

I can suddenly see
incredible things happening.

Birds that fly after her.

Not after me,
after her.

Land on her shoulders,
on her head...

Like in the film, Mirror.

People ask me, what does
that mean?

Why does a bird land on
a person's head?

What is this symbol?

The answer is very simple.

A bird would never land
on the head of a bad person.

It's an amazing house.

My son visits there now.

He'll be happy there.
We're going to live there.

As long as the house stands,
we're going to live in it.

And if it ever gets taken
away from me,

there will be nothing left
for me, here in this world.

On space and time,
the hands

We will put
from up high

But we'll understand
that in the sovereign crown

Are precious stars
of poverty

Poverty, and vanity,
and worries

About our own
joyless bread

And with foreign
constellations, the scores

On our motherland we
will settle

CHAPTER 5
THROUGH A MIRROR OF TIME

For Proust, [...] is much more
important than time.

For a Russian person,
that's not a problem.

Us Russians, we need to
defend ourselves.

CHAPEL AT POSHUPOVO,
RYAZAN OBLAST

For memoir writers, those
that write about their childhood,

Tolstoy, Garshin,
and many others,

usually it's an attempt
to "pay the bill" on your past.

It's always repentance.

There's absolutely nothing else.

MIRROR (1974)

The film inspired
a lot of conversation.

After one such public screening,

with simple, everyday viewers,
a debate flared up.

And because it was late,
a woman showed up

that was supposed to clean
this huge theater.

And she asked the people:
"What are you doing here?

I'm supposed to tidy up.
The film is crystal clear,

there's nothing to argue about.
Go away."

The others said: "Fine,
what's so clear about it?"

She said: "It's very simple.
A man is very sick.

He's afraid that he's dying.
And he's remembering

the many terrible things
he's done to other people.

He wants to apologize.
And that's it."

I think the woman hasn't even
finished primary school.

Even though there were critics,
that, as always,

don't understand anything.

They absolutely never do.
And the more time passes,

the less they understand,
what they're writing about.

And this simple woman,
just showed up and said it.

I think that if I was asked,

what's the common theme
between Ivan's Childhood,

Andrei Rublev, my film
of the Lem novel, Solaris,

or the film I'm working
on now.

I would say that what's
common among them,

or should be common
among them,

is the desire to process,
to immerse ourselves in,

a character in a state
of extreme strain.

A state of a very strained lack
of emotional equilibrium.

Where this character should
either break,

or to be affirmed in
a conclusive manner.

In their belief in their
ideals,

in their faith in their
principles.

When I was trying to edit
the picture

the way it was conceived,

it simply didn't work.
I don't know why.

The screenplay was
completely different.

The episodes were in a
completely different order.

And only with great effort,

and with endless attempts
to rearrange the episodes,

when I despaired of finding
the final version,

and I understood that
the picture was a failure,

I remember the 19th version
of the rearrangement.

It turned out that this is
the way the film works,

the way it looks like
in the final version.

It turned out that dramaturgy
in the literary sense,

in the traditional,
dramaturgical sense,

didn't fit this film.

Film, in its essence,
in its preference,

in its image composition,

is a poetic entity.

Because it's possible
to get by without literalness,

without everyday
consistency.

Even without what we call
dramaturgy.

The specificity of cinema
consists of

the fact that cinema is
called upon

to freeze and to express time.

Time, in the philosophical,
in the poetic,

and in the literal sense.

It was actually born when

man began to sense
a scarcity of time.

It seems to me that a man
of, say, the 19th

or the 18th century, couldn't
have existed [...] time.

He would simply die of
time's pressure on him.

And cinema in essence
is called upon

to poetically grasp
this problem.

Cinema is the only artform
that literally freezes time.

It's theoretically possible
to view

the same piece of film endlessly.

It's a sort of
a matrix of time.

And in this sense,
the problem of rhythm,

the problem of length,
of tempo,

have in cinema their own
special significance.

In the sense that time
expresses itself.

It's an extremely
interesting problem,

and in a way any artform
is poetic

in its best and most
sublime specimens.

Leonardo is a poet
of painting, a genius poet.

It's ridiculous to call
Leonardo, a "painter".

Ridiculous to call
Bach, a "composer".

Ridiculous to call Shakespeare,
a "playwright".

Ridiculous to call Tolstoy,
a "novelist".

Because they're poets.

And in this sense,

cinema has its own
poetic meaning.

Because there's a part
of life, a part of the world,

that was neither understood
nor grasped

by other artforms.

Because what cinema
is capable of,

music can't do, and neither
can other artforms.

The role of artists
in contemporary society

is colossal.

Without artists,
there will be no society.

Because what is an artist?

The artist is the
conscience of society.

The less an artist is
allowed to express himself,

and therefore to communicate
with the public, with the people,

the worse it is for society.

It becomes spiritless,
and man is no longer

able to fulfill his function,
his purpose in life.

It's completely unimportant
where all this is happening.

In Russia, in Africa,
or in Switzerland.

What's important is that
with the disappearance

of the last poet, life
will lose all meaning.

I never dared to ask
Father to write

a poem for a film.

In general, Father has
a good attitude about this.

He gave me a compliment.

He said, "You know what,
Andrey,

what you shoot
aren't films."

And when he said that,
it became easier for me

to live in this world.

The heat of the last leaves

With constant self-immolation

Rising into the sky

And on your way

This whole forest lives
with the same exasperation

That you and I,
for the past year, live with

In the cried-out eyes
the road is reflected

As the gloomy flooded plain
reflects the shrubs

Don't be particular,
don't threaten

Don't touch

Don't interrupt the Volga's
forest silence

You can hear the breath
of the old life

Muddy mushrooms growing
in the moist grass

Slugs penetrating them
to their very core

The skin still tickled
by the wet itch

You know how similar
love is to a threat

Look, I'll soon be back
Watch, I will kill

The sky shrivels up,
holding a maple like a rose

Let it burn even more

Right next to the very eyes

CHAPTER 6
IN THE LABYRINTH OF THE ZONE

I don't know of a country

where there was a larger number
of talented people.

There's something happening
in Russia that can

of course destroy culture.

It's physically possible.

But it doesn't mean man's
spirit can be suppressed.

You see, there's a problem
of freedom.

What is freedom?

Freedom is an internal,
a spiritual freedom of man.

It's not a matter of rights.

Rights can be taken away.

You can't take away freedom.

Freedom is the inherent
privilege of man,

as a spiritual being.

Hamlet observed very simply...

I mean, Shakespeare... put
into Hamlet's mouth

the following:

"I could be bounded
in a nutshell,

and count myself a king
of infinite space".

Or the way the ancients
put it:

"If you want to be free -
be it".

Freedom is a personal problem.

And that's why taking away
a person's rights

doesn't deprive him
of freedom.

And that's exactly why,
in politically unfree places,

we meet people who are
very free.

And traditionally
democratic countries

are at the same time
completely unfree.

Hamlet is the best
dramaturgical, poetic work

that exists in this world.

This is self evident.

Because in this drama

is presented the most
important problem

that has existed in
the time of Shakespeapre,

that has existed before him,
and will always exist.

The tragedy of Hamlet is
not that he physically dies,

as a result of his obsession
with revenge or justice.

That's not it at all.

The thing is that he
dooms himself to death

by trying to fix this
disjointed age.

A man who dooms himself
to serve other people.

By a desire to tie
the torn thread of time.

By submitting to the
historical process of serving,

becoming a catalyst of it.

And in this process,

finally and irrevocably
dissolving.

And this danger to disappear,
to die,

for a movement,
for progress,

to disappear completely,

this is the tragedy
that Hamlet experiences.

Because he disappears
completely, and functions

solely as a catalyst
of this historical movement.

It's a tragedy of identity,
because not every man

would so easily sacrifice
himself for others.

Not every man is
up to this.

REHEARSAL OF HAMLET (1976)
- Hamlet, thou hast thy

father much offended. - Mother,
you have my father much offended.

Come, come, you answer
with an idle tongue.

Go, go, you question
with a wicked tongue.

Have you forgot me?

No, by the rood, not so:

You are the queen,
your husband's brother's wife;

And--would it were
not so!--you are my mother.

Nay, then, I'll set
those to you that can speak.

You go not till
I set you up a glass

Where you may see
the inmost part of you.

What wilt thou do?
thou wilt not murder me?

Help, help, ho!
- What, ho! help, help, help!

How now! a rat?

O me, what hast thou done?

Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?

What is revenge? What is to
fix a disjointed age?

It means... blood. It means
to spill someone's blood.

It means to establish a truth
that

a philosopher isn't used to.

Or a Wittenberg-educated
student.

To cleanse your hands
with blood.

Even in the name
of establishing justice.

Not anyone is capable of it,
and for Hamlet this is a tragedy.

At this moment he stops
being a philospher

and becomes a man
of action.

Creative freedom...
Without this concept,

the concept of creative
freedom, art cannot exist.

It's simply an impossibility.

For example, it's impossible
to seriously discuss

a work of art that isn't
entirely successful

because it was created in a
creatively unfree environment.

If we feel in a work
an absence of this freedom,

it can be said with certainty
that the work was not realized.

In a work of art, nothing
should be perceived

except the work itself.

Regrettably, in the 20th
century, the meaning

of the artwork has transformed
and now demonstrates

its own presence.

The presence of the author,
the presence of gesture.

STALKER (1979)

I wanted my next film
to be drier, more ascetic.

This is the word that
expresses my aspirations.

Because I think that
a sort of an Olympian serenity

of an artist is very
important

in the creation of art.

The artist shouldn't fuss,
shouldn't stammer.

And shouldn't express his
interest externally.

Because the artist's
temperament should be

expressed as little
as possible, externally.

I think that Stalker
is the most successful

of all of my pictures.

In the sense that the
intention

correlates to the result.

And not only because
of that, but also because

it's structured in
a simpler manner.

It uses very few devices,

that is, expressive devices.

This is very dear and
very important to me.

And obviously Stalker
expresses my condition

as an artist during
the past few years.

For me, this is a film
about a man

who, of course,
suffers defeat, practically.

But as an idealist, he remains
a knight

in the name of spiritual
values.

So our protagonist, Stalker,
is on the same level

as Don Quixote,
as Prince Myshkin.

Literary characters whom
we might call

"ideal characters".

And exactly because they're
ideal, they suffer

defeat in real life.

So for me this is a work

that expresses the strength
of the weak man.

Belief in the dependency
on the spirit

that gave birth to this man.

The subject is that it
doesn't matter what a man does

in the name of what he
feels in his soul,

as a link to a higher power.

I've always suspected that

actions that can be absurd,
senseless, impractical...

Doing the impractical thing
is, to me,

the sign of a sublime spirit.

It's a mark of
unselfishness.

Because there are other
ideas, because the world,

structured as it is,
cannot create a spiritual man.

But that very force
makes him act

in an impractical way.

Yes... You're right,
I'm a louse.

I haven't done anything
in this world.

And I can't do anything.

I could give nothing
to my wife.

I have no friends, and it's
impossible for me to have any.

But don't take away from
me what's mine.

They took everything
from me already...

beyond the barb wire.

Everything I have is here.

Here...

In the zone...

My happiness...
My freedom...

My dignity,
everything is here.

The people I bring over
are just like me.

Miserable, ground down.

They have nothing...
to hope for.

But I can help them.

No one can help them,

but me - a louse - I can!

I weep for joy
because I can help them.

That's it. I don't
want anything else.

I'm willing to grant
an actor absolute freedom,

if before starting work,
he demonstrates

total dependency
on conception.

In short, I'm intolerable
as a director,

if the actor doesn't share
my views on the conception

of the film we are making.

And I love actors, and
grant them total freedom,

if they share it.

This is the most important
thing...

One take, or two, or three,
it's completely unimportant...

What's important to me that
you won't show me anything.

It's important to me,
that it'll be the way it is...

You know yourself where
you can give,

where to add and
where to subtract...

Only you can control this...

Later on, this won't
be allowed...

You understand, right?
- No, I don't.

It's all on the edge...
It's on the edge...

Attention!
Places!

Speed!

Shot 288, take 1.

He just walked up to me
and told me to go with him,

and I went.

And I never regretted
it later.

Never...

There was a lot of grief...

I felt scared, and ashamed.

But I never regretted it,
and I never envied anyone.

That's just the hand
I was dealt.

That's life,
that's us.

And if there was no grief
in our lives,

then I'd rather if
there was no life at all.

It would've been worse.

Because that way...

there wouldn't be
happiness either.

There'd be no hope.

So...

CHAPTER 7
AT THE ORIGINS OF NOSTALGHIA

Only 2 nights this week
I haven't dreamt the dream.

And it's an especially
amazing dream.

I can't even document them.

And I don't even need to
document them.

Because I can't separate
myself from them.

[...]

And there are some dreams,
that I know have

great significance.

Significance not for us,
but for our children.

For others.

In these dreams we see the
power of closeness to God.

NOSTALGHIA (1983)

Nostalgia is an
all-encompassing feeling.

A man who experiences
nostalgia essentially

remains in his homeland,
and doesn't separate

from his family.

In a happy home, a man
cannot experience nostalgia.

Because he will feel that
his soul cannot expand

in those directions it
may be drawn to.

A man is formed by love.

Love is the ability to sacrifice,

an ability to gift
oneself to others.

If love runs into obstacles,

man will become warped,
tortured.

And when you feel this love,

and when you see these
terrible limits

that mankind has erected.

Obstacles that we set
for each other.

And then man will
suffer because of that.

This happens when lovers
are separated.

The protagonist suffers
because he is unable

to be friends with everyone.

He suffers because he can't
spend even a few more

days in this country.

He finds a friend,

who is also suffering.

This attribute is the
reason he finds him.

We need to demolish borders,
he says.

So everyone can live freely.

Without experiencing these
clashes between

systems of [...].

Because there will be
many problems anyway.

And this creates a completely
impossible existence.

He suffers from the
disorder of life.

An all-encompassing disorder.

He cannot be happy because
a huge number of

people are unhappy.

His problem is a problem
of compassion.

It is a purely Russian idea.

He can't actualize his
idea of compassion.

BAGNO VIGNONI,
TUSCANY, ITALY

Is he writing of Italy?

He's working on a biography
of a Russian musician.

Zoe!

Why did he come here?

This musician was studying
at the Bologna Conservatory.

and he spent summers here,
for the hot springs.

When?

In late 18th century.

Who was it? Tchaikovsky?

No, his name was Sosnovsky.

Wait...

That's him, the one who
married the local girl!

Don't think so, he was in
love with a Russian serf.

It's unexpected, and
pretty terrible.

For the first time, I found
out that the leaders

of the Soviet film industry
don't consider me

to be a Soviet director.

Because they sent their own
jury member to Cannes

who was assigned the task
of damaging my success

at this festival, in 1983.

It was Bondarchuk,
Sergei Bondarchuk,

a Soviet director.

I still don't understand
why this order was given.

I made a picture about
the inability of

a Soviet, Russian man,
a member of the intelligentsia,

of living in the West.

I could've assumed anything,

a regular, traditional
incomprehension

of my cinematographic
language

or of the aesthetic aspects.

But I didn't expect from
my leadership,

my countrymen, my leaders,

such a traitorous
stab in the back.

I suddenly found myself

to be completely unnecessary,
over there.

And imagine what would
the Soviet leadership

do to me upon my return
to Moscow after this

participation of mine
at the Cannes festival.

I simply couldn't have
acted in any other way.

I couldn't return to
the Soviet Union.

My wife and I were simply
forced to stay here, in the West.

Even though I have no
illusions about

life in the West,
and despite the fact

that part of my family
stayed in Moscow.

This was a very hard and...

difficult decision for me
and for Larisa.

Regarding the country,
Larisa and I haven't

made a decision yet.

What's important for us
is to make this decision.

Everything else is
completely meaningless.

If, for 20 years, I had the
chance to make 5 pictures

in Moscow, having more or
less diplomatic relations

with my cinematographic
leadership.

But now, after the scandal
at Cannes,

it was clear to me that
I will no longer

get the chance
to make anything.

SAN VITTORINO,
LAZIO, ITALY

I feel very sad, having
been torn away

from my viewers,
from my friends.

From my homeland.

And of course, most of all,

I'm afflicted, depressed,

by the impossibility to work
for those I have

considered until now
to be my viewers.

This is, for me,
a great drama.

And I will of course
suffer greatly

for being torn away
from you.

Torn away from those who looked
forward to and loved my films.

And for whom I have worked
until now,

and will continue to work.

I had no escape,
I had no choice.

What happened was the
true and only logical step.

After the conflict between
me and the cinematographic

leadership in Moscow.

SAN GALGANO,
TUSCANY, ITALY

The hunt is ending

I've been hunted down

A greyhound is hanging
from my hip

I throw my head back
until my horns dig into my ribs

Horns sound off
They're cutting my tendons

Poking a gun barrel in my ear

Falling sideways, horns
tangled in the wet twigs

I see a dull eye with
a blade of grass stuck to it

A black, ossified apple
without a reflection

The legs will be tied and
the pole will be passed through

Thrown on their shoulders...

CHAPTER 8
ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE APOCALYPSE

TARKOVSKY'S PLACE OF PILGRIMAGE,
SANTA MARIA, PORTONOVO, ITALY

The Apocalypse, the Book
of Revelations, is perhaps

the very greatest piece of
poetry that has ever

been created in the world.

It is inspired from
on high.

It is something which
encompasses, embraces

all the laws given to man
from on high.

We turned out to be spiritually,
in the historical process,

less evolved
than materially.

And we're paying for
that dearly.

If humanity will die, it will
only be because the process

of human development
was [...].

And because humanity did
not develop in the

spiritual sense. What
guided humanity was fear.

Man guards himself against
the world,

instead of finding a way
to dissolve in the world,

and finding contact
with this world.

Communication between people
was transformed by man

into the infliction of pain
on one another,

irritating, unnecessary,
diseased.

Instead of transforming
contact into pleasure.

We grab at the closest
available toy.

We believe in the stone ax,
and not in the magical

impact of the fatherly glance,
or wish,

which could've prevented
that hammer's strike.

Regarding salvation,
our last time on earth

leads us to the idea
that there is meaning

in personal salvation.

[...] denying life and art.

There are no prospects now
without the idea

of coming together against
the evil of the world,

as exemplified by
the atomic bomb.

You saw yourself the damage
done by one small station

that happened to explode.

Imagine if there were
ten of them.

It's possible that the drama
of our future

lies not in war,
but in the gradual destruction

of the ecological niche
reserved for man's emotions.

Even without war, we will
suffocate in this [...].

This is why the problem
of art and of salvation

in our times becomes even
more relevant.

It's important to
get it done in time.

TARKOVSKY'S FIRST HOME IN ITALY,
SAN GREGORIO DA SASSOLA, LAZIO

When I talk about spirituality,

what I mean first of all is
man's interest

in what is referred to
as the meaning of life.

This is at the very least
the first step.

The man who asks himself
this question,

he can no longer descend
from this plane.

He can only become
more evolved.

To ask yourself this question,
of why we live,

and where are we going,

what is the meaning of
this presence on this planet

during these...

[...] of each other,
during the 80 years

that we get to spend
in this world.

To speak plainly, a man
who isn't asking himself

this question, or hasn't
asked it until now,

is a figure without a soul.

And an art, or an artist,
that isn't concerned

with this problem, is
not an artist at all.

Because he isn't a realist.

Because he eschews one of
man's most

important problems, that
which makes man what he is.

And only when we start
to engage

with these problems, only
then emerges

what we call true art.

I think that the meaning
of life lies in

the elevation of our
spiritual plane

in the time we are allotted
in this world.

Even if it's one iota
higher than it was

at the moment of our birth,

then our life was not
in vain.

To me, evil and the devil

are an absence of goodness
and the absence of God.

Like shadow and light.

SACRIFICE (1986)

Evil is what a man carries
within.

Carries it just like
he carries goodness.

And the meaning of
our existence

is to conquer the evil
that is within ourselves,

And in that sense, we are
given what we call free will.

We can conquer evil,

or we can allow evil
to conquer us.

And the responsibility
falls on us alone.

The most terrible thing is
when we start

to battle the evil that is
not within ourselves,

but the evil in others.

GOTLAND, SWEDEN

I will be filming this
picture in Sweden

and it will be called,
in Italian, Sacrificio.

That is, sacrifice.

It came out of,
flowed out of, Nostalghia,

and of the central Italian
image of the witch,

a provincial math teacher.

But it does of course
acquire new traits,

and more significant ones,
in that aspect I discussed.

Once upon a time

there lived an old monk,

who lived in a Russian
Orthodox monastery.

His name was Pamva.

One day he planted a dried up
tree on a rocky slope.

Just like this one.

And he ordered his
novice monk,

whose name was Johann Kolov,

to water the tree every
day, until it comes to life.

This picture is about a man's
personal responsibility

in the face of events
that are thrust upon him,

rapidly and inevitably.

He devotes a personal
responsibility and possibly

a wish to somehow participate
in these events, which we

delegate to those whom
we call politicians.

Professionals whose role
is to program our future,

and international relations,
relations between

categories of society, etc.

This is the story that
is told by my film.

The story of the participation
of the individual

in the contemporary
social process.

And the desire to return
this man into the events.

It's a parable, a story
with a moral,

that tells, in a poetic
form, a story of one family,

in this dramatically
intense form.

As I said, we froze,
enchanted by all this beauty.

We stood and watched. We
couldn't tear ourselves away.

Silence, peace...

And... it was perfectly
clear that this house

was built just for us.

It turned out that it was
for sale. It was a miracle!

You were born in that house.

Do you like it?

Do you like the house,
my son?

The more evil prevails,

the more cause there is
to create works of art.

There's more reason for it.

Art is...

how can I say this...

As long as man exists,
man will instinctively

be compelled to create.

In this way, he is bound
to the Creator.

Because to create...
what is to create...

Why does art exist?

Why?
Is it good or bad?

Is it constructive?
Or is it art for art's sake?

But one thing is clear,
that art is prayer.

And this says everything.

Assisted by art,
man expresses his hope.

Everything else
is completely meaningless.

Everything that doesn't
express hope,

and that isn't built
on any spiritual plane,

doesn't have anything
to do with art.

If I was asked, where do you
see hope for the future,

I would say, only in Russia.

In spite of everything.

Hope in the sense that...

the end of civilization
may happen before

the first atomic bomb
is even dropped.

It will happen the moment
the last man

who believes in the
Creator will die.

Civilization without
spirituality,

without belief in the
immortality of the human soul,

when it is at most an assembly
of animals,

this is no longer
civilization.

This is the end everything.

And in this sense,
I see in Russia

more signs of some kind of
a spiritual rebirth

than here,
in the free West.

EPILOGUE
AN ETERNAL RETURN

There was a time when
I could name

the people whom I considered
to be my teachers.

ROCCALBEGNA, ITALY
Now, in my mind remain

ROCCALBEGNA, ITALY
only those that I couldn't

even call "masters", but
almost "holy fools".

People who are not of
this world.

People who are mad...

And not to offend any
of those still living,

I would name among them
Walson,

as well as Tolstoy, Bach,
and Leonardo.

All of them were,
of course, crazy.

Because they never
sought out

anything that was
in their head.

All these people were
possessed.

People like these
scare me.

And at the same time
inspire me.

To explain their art
is completely impossible.

So much has been written
about Tolstoy,

about Leonardo, about Bach,
and yet no one could

write anything about
them that made any sense.

And thank God that no one
could explain any of it.

This means that to explain
it is impossible.

It is a miracle, and miracles
cannot be explained.

A miracle is...
God.

When it comes to me,
I'm not afraid of death.

It doesn't frighten me.

THE LAST TARKOVSKY HOME
IN FLORENCE

The only frightening thing
is physical suffering.

Death... For a man that has
a conception of life,

death cannot be
frightening.

I'm certain of this.

The thought of the coming of
death does not make me sick.

Doesn't make me sick at all,
quite the opposite.

I sometimes even think that
death,

the sense of hopelessness,
can grant the most

astonishing feeling of freedom.

One that we have never
experienced in life.

A work can become a masterpiece

when it is a testament to
a soul passing next to you,

and it is clear that it is
passing

into the world above,
into the heavens.

As if dissipating.

Leaving behind itself
only a waft,

a wind that you can feel.

This is enough for a work
to become a work of genius.

In the heart blows
a slight wind

And you're flying,
flying headlong

Love on a strip of film

The soul holding you
by the sleeve

Oblivion, like a bird

Stealing grain - and so what?

Keeping it from blowing away

Though you're dead,
and yet alive

Not in full,
but in one hundredth

Under the muffler
and in a dream

As if you're wandering
around a field

On the way to the beyond

All that is lovely,
visible, vivid

Repeating its flight

If the angel of
the camera's lens

Will take your world
under his wing