All language subtitles for Andrey Tarkovsky. A cinema prayer. 2019 AndreyTarkovskyInstitute-gr

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By the jasmine lies a stone.

Beneath the stone lies a treasure.

On the path stands Father.

It's a bright, bright day.

The silver poplar blooms...

and the centifolia rose,

and behind it the rambling roses,

and the tender milky grass.

Never have I been happier than then.

Never have I been happier than then.

There can be no going back

and no recounting

the bliss that filled

that Garden of Eden.

An artist feeds
on his childhood his entire life.

The shape and form
of his childhood...

determine the nature of his art.

The fact my father was a poet

played a huge role in my life.

His poetry had
an enormous influence on me...

as did his views about his poetry,
Russian literature...

and art.

But it's a kind
of unconscious dependence

and connection.

I can't analyze
or evaluate its nature.

I feel much more connected
to my mother than to my father.

Everything I had to say
in that regard

I said in my film Mirror.

Those who've seen that film

probably understand
what I meant.

My first memory dates back

to when I was
a year and a half old.

I recall a house...

stairs, and a porch.

An uncovered porch

with steps and a handrail.

Five or six steps.

By the steps
was a huge lilac bush.

It was cool beneath it,
and strewn with fresh sand.

I'm rolling an aluminum
saucepan lid down the handrail

when I'm suddenly
terribly frightened by a noise.

I crawl under the lilac
and look up at the sky,

because the terrible noise
that's getting louder and louder

is coming from above.

Suddenly, through an opening
in the branches,

I see an airplane overhead.

That was in 1933.

I was born in 1932.

Those postwar years were very hard,
with famine and such.

I almost can't remember.

I only remember the hospital
where I went in 1947.

As a child I fell ill
from hunger and fear.

I peel the scabs off my lips
and run my tongue over them.

I recall the cool and salty taste.

And I walk endlessly.
I walk and walk.

I sit on the front steps
to warm up.

I wander lightheaded,
as if to the Pied Piper's tune.

I sit shivering on the steps,
trying to warm myself.

And Mother stands a ways off,
beckoning to me,

seemingly so close,
yet out of reach.

I move toward her.

She stands seven steps away,
beckoning... beckoning.

I consider memory
a peculiar emotional structure

of enormous importance

to all those
whose profession revolves

around imagination and creativity.

I was just three
when my father left us.

We saw him very seldom,

so I can only recall
the rare occasions

when he'd suddenly appear.

We had two small rooms
in an apartment

in the old part of Moscow
called Zamoskvorechye.

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

My father came by late one night.

My sister and I
were already in bed.

He argued with my mother
in the kitchen,

demanding that
she grant him custody of me.

She didn't want to

and was of course
terribly hurt by his demand.

Neither of them mentioned it
to me directly,

but I remember it.

Hence that scene in Mirror.

Ignat, your mother and I wanted
to ask you something.

What?

Perhaps it's better
if you live with me.

What do you mean?

Live here with me,
go to a new school.

Didn't you mention it
to Mama once?

What did I say?

When? No. There's no point.

I realized I'd never ever
go live with my father,

even though I always
dreamed about it

and suffered
from not living with him.

But I'd never in my life
go live with him.

I remember her
waiting for my father

to arrive from the city.

It happened exactly like in the film.

Maybe that's why I remember it.

I don't remember much else,

except that I know
she was in love

with my father

and never loved anyone else.

After my father left us...

we tried to keep in touch.

Or he tried to,
since I was just a child.

The war began soon after that,

and life became terribly difficult.

And those difficulties fell
on my mother's shoulders, of course.

And though she was
totally unequipped for life,

she managed not only
to save my sister's life and mine

but to make sure
we got an education.

Despite the dire conditions,

she made sure I graduated
with a major in music,

studying piano

and also painting.

Looking back today,
I simply can't fathom...

how she managed all that,

given the dire circumstances.

If not for her,
I'd certainly never have been able

to become a director.

Mama, the kerosene stove
is smoking.

What?

Come and take it all.

I need nothing.

What I love I give away.
What I don't love, likewise.

I want to replace you,

but if I say I'll turn into you,

don't believe me, poor child.

I'm lying.

Oh, those hands
with fingers like vines,

those eyes, open and moist,

those shells of little ears

like saucers
filled with a love song

and wings curved sharply
by the wind.

Don't believe me, poor child.
I'm lying.

I'll try to break away
like one condemned,

but I cannot bridge this distance.

I cannot wave your wings

or touch your eyelid
with your little finger

or see through your eyes.

You're a hundred times
stronger than me.

You are a song about yourself,

while I'm governor
of tree and sky,

and by your judgment
sentenced for my song.

I must say
I have a very hazy sense

of the role children play

in my films.

It's quite murky.

Same with women's roles
in my films.

I have the sense
I didn't manage

to express

all I should have
about children and women.

I've always thought
that children...

are much wiser than us...

and thus I've always tried
to involve them in my films.

For me, children somehow
connect our world

with another world,
a transcendent world

to which they haven't yet lost
their connection.

They will soon,
but they haven't yet.

That's precisely why I feel

that children's roles
are so important.

When a grown-up can't find words
to express something,

I think he should ask a child.

The child will be able
to clarify everything,

even just by his presence.

I have no doubt

that if the famous
Khrushchev Thaw hadn't happened,

it would have been
highly unlikely for me...

to establish any kind
of career in cinema.

I remember that period very well.

It was connected
to the hope we all felt.

We looked
to the future with hope,

full of plans and prospects.

Full of hope.

I remember that time
quite well for that reason.

We all felt connected

by an urgent, irrepressible desire
to express ourselves,

and by the sense that
that was now possible.

But all that quickly
came to an end.

The "hangover after the feast"

set in all too soon.

I remember when
my first film came out in 1962...

Ivan's Childhood.

I remember
how state cinema officials

considered it a pacifist film —

that is to say, negatively.

Because,
according to Soviet thinking,

war can be just or unjust.

It's a rather
Raskolnikovian notion:

Killing is acceptable
if the cause is just.

With a bit of distance
it becomes clear

how hypocritical and false
that point of view is.

Nevertheless,
my film was criticized

on those grounds.

Its strong antimilitary position,

its stance against death, literally,

and against destruction

was viewed
as suggesting an opposition

to death and war
in and of themselves,

regardless of whether
they're just or unjust.

When we speak of war,
we're really speaking of casualties,

because there are
no winners in a war.

Even if we're victorious,
we're defeated...

simply by taking part.

The story behind that film
is quite odd.

Mosfilm began production
on a film to be called "Ivan"

with a different director.

The film was
almost half finished.

Half the budget had been spent.

The footage was so awful
that production was shut down.

Mosfilm began looking around
for other directors.

Starting with the big names

down to the very last people
at the studios,

when everyone else
had said absolutely not,

they asked me.

I'd just graduated
from film school.

I laid down a few conditions:

First, I would read
the story by Bogomolov

on which the film was based.

Second, I wouldn't watch
even one foot of existing footage.

I'd rewrite the entire script.

I'd replace everyone: actors,
cinematographer, art direction.

And we'd start over
from scratch.

"Okay, but you'll only have
half the money."

"That's enough. Give me
complete freedom and I'll do it.

All right.

Let me help you.
- I'll manage.

"I'll manage!"

I know the film
was very well received,

but I really don't think
critics understood it.

They all tried
to analyze the story line,

when in reality it was simply

the youthful creation
of a young director,

a work of art to be examined
from the artist's point of view.

Sartre defended the film

from a philosophical
point of view,

but to me that was no defense.

It should have been
from an aesthetic point of view.

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

His defense was useless to me.

Within this universe
our joyous mind

erects an uncertain shelter.

Men, stars, and angels live

by virtue
of this spherical tension.

We've barely conceived a child

when, beneath its feet,

the membrane bends outward
into the unknown

along the child's circular orbit.

I'm flying!

Hey!

Chase me!

Very soon after the thaw
I sensed a certain chill.

My second film,
begun in 1964...

and completed in 1966...

called Andrei Rublev...

very clearly illustrates
that critical juncture.

Come on!

The film was very well received
by the film community.

I remember that the board
of the film committee

all praised the film very highly —
to my great surprise,

because I myself hadn't
entirely grasped what I'd achieved.

Yet the film was shelved
soon after that

and wasn't released
for 5 1/2 years,

because it was labeled
"antihistorical,"

which was completely untrue.

We'd been extremely careful

to maintain historical accuracy

in depicting the circumstances
on which it was based.

On the other hand,
they called it "anti-Russian."

It was also deemed
too close to Western models

in portraying the protagonist
as far too individualistic.

He was too self-absorbed

and too often
in direct opposition to life

to be a Russian artist —

which was totally untrue.

He couldn't behave otherwise,
because he was a monk.

His entire existence was
in opposition to worldly existence.

That was the point.

That period was
very hard for me.

I could see

that the time of
the Party's 20th Congress was over,

and that hard times
were coming.

Something goes wrong...

or you feel tired, discouraged.

And then suddenly, in the crowd,
you meet a human glance,

and your burdens are made light,
as after Communion.

Isn't that so?

A true poet...

if he truly is a poet,
cannot but be a believer.

Perhaps that explains
the cultural crisis

we've been experiencing
for many years now.

We must remind people more often
that they are people —

Russians, of the same blood,
of the same land.

Personally I can't even remember

when that transition occurred,

when I became a believer,

when I became religious.

But by "religious"
I don't mean I'm without sin.

Only that I'm simply
more and more convinced

that culture cannot exist
without religion.

In a certain sense,
religion is sublimated in culture,

and culture in religion.

It's an interdependent process.

If a society needs spirituality,

it begins to generate works of art

and give birth to artists.

If it doesn't need spirituality,
it will make do without art...

but the number
of unhappy people will grow,

the number
of spiritually dissatisfied people.

Human beings
will lose their purpose

and no longer understand
why they exist.

So for me religion is not
a purely personal matter.

It's tied to the fate of the culture

of our civilization.

A filmic image

is something
indivisible and intangible,

possessing qualities
of the world

that it's depicting.

It's the relationship
between absolute truth

and our Euclidian conscience,
let us say.

We can't perceive that truth
in its pure form,

but we can surmise
its existence

and express
our inner relationship with it.

Essentially, an artistic image
can't be decoded.

If the world is mysterious,

the truthfulness
of the image consists

in carrying within it
a certain mystery as well.

The image in an icon painting

has a purely interior meaning
and symbolism,

by no means external or figurative.

It's pure metaphysics.

An icon was not
a depiction of the divine

nor its material manifestation.

This is very important,

because the best works
by medieval Russian icon painters

are essentially embodied
meditations on the Absolute.

The deeper,
the more elusive,

and thus more beautiful
the image,

the stricter
the structure it calls for.

The most poetic image
is rooted in naturalism,

not in some ideological way

but in the earthly meaning
of the word.

Thus when speaking
of simplicity

in the construction
of an artistic image,

for me that always equates

to the artist touching
the ground with one hand

while pointing with the other
to transcendent spheres.

Tatars!

Run!

We mustn't forget
we're human beings...

simple matter.

Spiritualized matter,
but matter nonetheless.

Because in the final analysis,
everything has one source

and is made of the same material.

That's why
we sometimes get so irritated

with what we might call

"artistic pretentiousness,"

which manifests in an overly
exaggerated expressiveness —

"exaggerated"
only due to a lack of balance

within the image.

The image has become a symbol.

A symbol can be decoded.

It's actually anti-artistic.

Because an image
isn't a charade or a puzzle.

Every puzzle or riddle
has a solution,

and when the viewer finds it,
the symbol is exhausted of meaning,

thus revealing its limitations.

For how can a symbol
representing the world be limited

if it reflects
the idea of the infinite?

Generally speaking,
art is a symbol of the infinite,

a symbol of the world we live in.

There are no signed icons.

An icon painter didn't think
of himself an artist.

If he had a talent

for painting icons,
he gave thanks to God,

because he felt
that through his craft,

his profession, and his skill

he was serving God
and praying to God.

That was the meaning of his work.

It's about the absence of pride.

It's crucial to know,

and if you can't know,

to at least believe in your origins,

where you came from,
where you're going,

and what you're living for.

You must feel
your dependence on the Creator.

If you don't,
you become an animal.

When you kneel down
and turn all your feelings to God,

words are born within you...

true words.

The same way
true images are born

if your profession is addressed

like a prayer to the Creator.

It's like a gift.

I grow a flower...

and I dedicate it to someone.

But I must first grow the flower.

Art is the reflection in a mirror

of the highest capacity
for creation.

In creating art,
we imitate the Creator,

because we were created

in the image and likeness of God.

And that's one of the moments
when we resemble him.

Art is one of the most selfless
of human endeavors.

Art is prayer.

It's my prayer.

And if my prayer becomes
a prayer for others,

then my art becomes
intimately others'.

It's a matter of duty.

And a human being's duty
is to serve.

For that very reason
this idea gets distorted

and turned into a power struggle

among those
who would not serve

but would exploit
the service of others.

Because there's just one principle
of interaction in this world —

thank God —

and that is to serve
and nothing else.

Our blood is not jealous of home,

but a chasm opens
in what is to come.

Because what is earthly
imposes upon itself

a limit here on this earth.

A crazed mother dreams

of the neighing
of chariot horses —

Phaethon and his chariot

and crimson cubes of stone.

We wanted to make a film
based on the novel Solaris

without actually traveling to Solaris.

That would be much more interesting,
but Lem was against it.

Russians are
closely tied to nature.

They can't imagine themselves
extraneous to nature.

They feel a part of nature.

This is a trait
of the Russian character.

Perhaps that's why nature
and its manifestations

have such an impact
on a person's character.

We cut nature out of our films

as if it were unnecessary.

We exclude it...

thinking we're what's important.

But we're not.

We depend upon nature.

It's more important than us,

because we're the result
of its evolution.

That's why I believe
that neglecting nature is,

in some emotional
or artistic sense, criminal.

Maybe not criminal.
Just foolish.

Because it's the only place

where a sense of truth awaits us.

Remember Tolstoy?

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

See, I love you.

But love is a feeling
we can experience

but never explain.

One can explain the concept.

You love that which you can lose:

yourself, a woman, a homeland.

Until today, love was simply
unattainable to mankind, to the Earth.

Do you understand me, Snaut?

There are so few of us.

A few billion altogether. A handful!

Maybe we're here
in order to experience people

as a reason for love.

I think that,
even without purgatory,

life itself sometimes gives us
a chance to confirm

what it's telling us.

It's life that leads us to these ideas.

Purgatory is necessary

to cool down from our suffering.

Shame — the feeling
that will save mankind.

I love that house very much.

It's not just a house.
It's more than that.

It's a sanatorium.

It's anything I need it to be.

There I become a person
capable of writing a book...

or of building
other structures all around it.

I'm able to do anything there.

It makes me a human being

and frees me
from the need to work —

professionally, I mean.

I could live my whole life there,

but on one condition:

that I know for certain
I can leave there

and go anywhere I want.

It's a wonderful house.

It's all I need.
I need nothing else.

It burned down once.

I stayed away,
afraid of seeing the burned ruins.

But Larissa rebuilt it.

We put our souls into it,
because we're happy there.

To sell or leave or betray
that house would be

to betray Larissa,
which I'm incapable of doing.

Because I bow down
before those

who go beyond
themselves for me.

And I remember everyone
who behaves that way with me.

Everything that happens
around that house is a miracle —

that special atmosphere,
those particular moments.

I can't explain it.

I go outside and sit on the steps...

and cinema begins.

Not the usual cinema with a plot.

The type of cinema

that for me is real cinema.

It's wonderful.

When Larissa
is at our country house,

I witness incredible things:

Birds fly along behind her...

though never behind me.

They land on her shoulders
or her head.

Like in that scene in Mirror.

People ask,
"What does that mean?

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

What does it symbolize?"

The answer is very simple:

A bird will never land
on a bad person.

It's an amazing house.

I take my son there a lot.

He'll always feel at home,

and we'll live there always,
for as long as it stands.

And if someone takes it from me,

I'll have nothing left on this earth.

We heap
more and more from above

onto the space and time
of our open palm.

Yet soon we'll learn
that on a sovereign's crown

it's the star of penury
that's most precious.

Penury, vanity, and worries

over our bitter morsel of bread.

And we'll settle our scores
with alien constellations

here on our maternal earth.

For Proust the concept of time
is more important than time itself.

For Russians that's not an issue.

We Russians have
to plead our case against time.

With authors who wrote prose
based on childhood memories,

like Tolstoy, Garshin...

and many others...

it's always an attempt
to atone for the past,

always a form of repentance.

That's all.

This film generated
a lot of discussion.

Once, after a public screening
before a very everyday audience,

a dispute broke out
during the discussion.

It was late...

and a woman came in
to clean the huge hall.

She said, "Quit arguing.
Leave. I have to clean.

Anyway, the film's very clear.
Now leave!"

The people asked her:
"Then tell us: What's clear?"

She said, "It's very simple.

A man fell very ill
and thought he might die.

He remembered all the terrible things
he'd done to others

and wanted to apologize.
That's all."

It turned out she hadn't even
finished high school.

And the many
film critics present

hadn't understood a thing —
as usual.

The more they talk,
the less they understand.

And that simple woman
explained it all.

I think if I were asked...

how I'd connect...

Ivan's Childhood
with Andrei Rublev...

and my film
based on Lem's novel Solaris...

or with the film
I'm working on now...

I'd say that perhaps
what unites them —

or should unite them —

is the desire to develop
and delve into characters

who exist in a state
of extreme tension,

who are going through

an intense spiritual crisis...

in which they must
either break down

or finally get their footing
once and for all

in terms of being
faithful to their ideals

and true to their principles.

When I tried to edit this film...

the way I had
originally conceived it,

it simply didn't work.

I don't know why.

In the script,
everything was different.

The scenes were
in a completely different order.

After a great effort...

and after shuffling scenes
around endlessly...

when I'd lost all hope
of ever coming up...

with a final version,

when I'd realized
the film was a failure,

then I remember
it was on my 19th attempt

at thoroughly reordering everything

that the film finally coalesced
into its definitive form.

It was clear
that dramatic structure

in a traditional, literary sense

wasn't appropriate for this film.

At its core...

film is poetic
in its composition of images.

Because it can do
without being literal

or adhering to the sequence
of everyday life.

It can do without what
we usually call "dramatic structure."

The hallmark of cinema

lies in the fact

that its task is to capture

and express time —

time in its philosophical
and poetic...

and literal sense.

Cinema was born

precisely when people began
to feel a lack of time.

I don't think someone
from the 18th or 19th century

could survive in our era.

They'd simply perish
from the pressure

imposed on them by time.

And it's cinema's task

to articulate this problem
in a poetic fashion.

Cinema is the only art form
that literally captures time.

In theory you could watch
the same reel over and over forever.

It's like a time matrix.

In that sense,
questions of rhythm,

duration, and pacing

find a special meaning in cinema.

Because in cinema,
time expresses itself.

It's an extremely interesting question.

In a certain sense,
any art form is poetic

in its best and loftiest
manifestations.

Leonardo is a poet of painting.

A brilliant poet.

It would be ridiculous
to define Leonardo as a painter...

or Bach as a composer...

or Shakespeare as a playwright...

or Tolstoy as a novelist.

Because they're all poets.

That's the sense in which I said

that cinema has
a poetic meaning of its own.

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

that has never been
addressed at all

by other artistic forms
and genres.

Because what cinema can do,

music and all the other
art forms cannot do.

The role of the artist
in contemporary society

is an enormous one.

Without artists
there'd be no society,

because artists are
the conscience of a society.

The less an artist
can express himself or herself

and interact with an audience,
with other people,

the worse it is for society.

Society becomes soulless,

and in such a society,
people can't fulfill their function,

their purpose in life.

It doesn't matter
whether it's Russia,

Africa, or Sweden.

What matters is that

when the last poet disappears...

life will lose all meaning.

I'd never have dared
ask my father

to write a poem for a film.

But luckily he was kind to me

and paid me
a great compliment:

"You know, Andrei,
it's not films you're making."

With that, living in the world
became easier for me.

From the last leaves
the heat rises to the sky

as if in self-immolation.

And on your path

the whole forest lives
with the same irritation

you and I have lived with
this past year.

Tear-stained eyes reflect the road

the way the gloomy floodplain
mirrors the bushes.

Don't fuss, don't threaten,

don't touch, don't disturb

the damp quiet of the woods.

You can hear
the breath of old life.

Slimy mushrooms grow
in the damp grass,

gnarled by slugs
to their very core,

while a damp itch
still tickles our skin.

You know how love
is like a threat:

"Watch out! I'll be back!
Watch it! I'll kill you!"

The sky cringes,
holding the maple like a rose.

Let it burn hotter, coming closer,
nearly touching our eyes.

I know of no other country
with so many talented people.

Something is happening
in Russia

that could destroy culture,
of course.

That is, the physical
possibility to work.

But that doesn't mean
you can suppress the spirit.

It's a question of freedom.

What is freedom?

It's one's inner freedom,
freedom of the spirit.

It's not a person's rights.

Rights can be taken away.

Inner freedom cannot.

Freedom is
an intrinsic part of a person

as a spiritual being.

Hamlet explained this
very simply.

That is, Shakespeare put
the idea in Hamlet's mouth:

"I could be bounded
in a nutshell

and count myself
a king of infinite space."

Or as the ancients said...

"If you want to be free, be free!"

Freedom is a personal matter.

Thus you can deprive
a person of their rights

but not their freedom.

That's why...

in politically oppressive places

we often find very free people,

while in traditionally
democratic countries

we find people
who are totally unfree.

HAMLET
Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky

Hamlet is clearly
the most important

dramatic and poetic work
ever created,

because it addresses
the most important problem,

which existed both before
and during Shakespeare's time

and will exist
throughout all time.

Hamlet's tragedy
lies not in the fact

that he perishes physically

as a result of his obsession

with revenge

or a sense of justice.

That's not the point.

The point is
he condemns himself to death...

by trying to set right
"time out of joint."

He condemns himself
in the service of others

out of a desire to mend
the torn fabric of time.

He gives his own self up
as a catalyst

in service
of the historical process,

leading to his own final
and irrevocable undoing.

This danger
of vanishing and perishing

in the name of progress,

and being dissolved entirely
in the process —

this is Hamlet's tragedy,
because he completely disappears.

He's present only as a catalyst

for that historical process.

It's a tragedy of the individual,
because not everyone

can so easily sacrifice
themselves for others.

That's not given to everyone.

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?

What, ho? Help, help!

How now, a rat?

O me, what hast thou done?

Is it the king?

What does it mean,
this vengeance

and this setting right
"time out of joint"?

It means... blood.

It means spilling
another's blood.

It means reinstating truth

by means unfamiliar
to a philosopher,

to a student educated
in Wittenberg,

by staining his hands with blood,

albeit in the name of justice.

Not everyone is capable of that,

and for Hamlet it's tragic.

At that moment he ceases
to be a philosopher

and becomes a man of action.

As for artistic freedom,

without the concept
of artistic freedom,

art simply doesn't exit.

It's inconceivable.

For example,
it doesn't make sense to speak

of a work of art
falling short of success

due to a lack
of artistic freedom.

If we sense in a work of art

a lack of that freedom
to any degree,

we can say with certainty
it's a failure.

In a work of art...

we should see nothing
but the work itself.

Unfortunately,
during the 20th century,

the meaning of creativity
has shifted away from the work

to focus instead on
the artist's presence or signature.

I wanted my new film

to be even drier
and more "ascetic."

That's the word
that expresses my aspiration.

Because I believe that
the artist's Olympian calm

is vital to the creative act.

An artist shouldn't be
bustling about,

carrying on...

and externally demonstrating
his or her concerns.

Because usually, the stronger
the artist's temperament,

the less it's expressed externally.

I think Stalker
is the most successful of my films

in that the end result
matches the initial concept.

And also because
it's simpler in construction,

with a pared-down number
of expressive devices,

which is very important to me.

Stalker clearly expresses
my frame of mind as an artist

over the past few years.

For me this film
is about a man...

who is, of course...

facing defeat...

in practical terms.

But since he's an idealist,

he remains chivalrously loyal

to his spiritual values.

The protagonist

is of the same stuff
as Don Quixote and Prince Myshkin,

literary characters
whom we recognize as ideals,

and because they're ideal,
they're defeated in real life.

For me this work expresses

the strength of the weak man

who believes
in his dependence

on the spiritual force
that gave him birth.

What I'm saying is that...

it doesn't matter
what a person does

in the name of what
they perceive in their soul

as a connection
with a higher being.

I've always suspected
that these actions might seem

absurd and meaningless,
utterly impractical.

To me such impractical behavior

is a sign of a lofty spirituality.

It means selflessness.

Because there are
other ideas,

and the world, conceived
and structured as it exists now,

can't satisfy
a spiritual person.

That specific force
that urges them

to behave impractically
is very important.

Yes, I'm a louse.

I've never achieved anything,
and I can't do anything here.

I have nothing to give my wife.

I can't have any friends,
but don't deprive me of what's mine.

They took everything from me
behind the barbed wire.

Everything I have is here.

Here, in the Zone.

My happiness,
my freedom, my dignity.

They're all here.

The people I bring are unhappy
and tortured like me.

They have nothing left to hope for.

Nobody can help them.

But I can — a louse.

A louse can help them!

I weep for joy
because I can help them.

I ask for nothing more.

I'm prepared to give
an actor absolute freedom

if, right from the start,

they demonstrate total loyalty
to the film's concept.

But I'm unbearable as a director

if the actor doesn't share
my point of view

about the film's concept.

But I adore
and love those actors

who do share it,
and I give them absolute freedom.

This is the most important thing.

One or two takes,
300 or 600 feet —

none of that matters.

What matters is that
you not "show" me anything.

It's important that you yourself feel
where to give more,

where to give less.

Only you can control that.

Keep it in check.

You understand?
- Yes.

It has to stay right on the edge.

All right! Places, everyone!

Camera!

Take 288/1.

But when he came up to me and said,
"Come with me," I went.

And I've never regretted it.

Never.

There was a lot of grief

and fear and pain.

But I've never regretted it
nor envied anyone.

It's just fate.

It's life. It's us.

And if there were no sorrow in our lives,
it wouldn't be better.

It would be worse.

Because then there'd be
no happiness either.

And there'd be no hope.

That's how it is.

I have these dreams
nearly every night,

and they're amazing.

They go very deep.
I can't even write them down.

And I needn't anyway,
since I'm inseparable from them.

Dreams can be divided
into two groups:

simple dreams,
which I remember simply as colors,

and those that I know
have profound meaning.

Those are not for us
but for our children and other people.

In those dreams we ascertain
the power of spiritual connection.

Nostalgia is
a totally enveloping feeling.

A person can feel nostalgic

while at home in their own country,
surrounded by loved ones.

A person can feel nostalgic
even in a happy home,

because they feel
their soul can't expand

to the extent it desires.

Love is what shapes
human beings.

Love as a capacity for sacrifice,

for offering oneself up for others.

If love is obstructed...

it warps a person
and wears them down.

When you feel that kind of love
and encounter the terrible barriers

erected by humankind,

the barriers people place
between themselves and others,

then you begin to suffer,

just like when lovers are parted.

The protagonist suffers
from the impossibility

of being friends with everyone.

He suffers because he can't stay

in that country
just a few more days.

He finds a friend
who's also suffering.

That's what
brings them together

We must destroy the borders

so that all can live freely

and not suffer
the consequences of the collision

between social systems.

Because there will be
enough problems as it is.

But the borders between us
make life unbearable.

The uncertainty of life pains him,

the complete uncertainty of life.

He can't be happy

when so many people
are miserable.

His problem

is compassion,
a purely Russian idea.

He can't achieve
his idea of compassion.

Is he writing about Italy?

He's writing the biography
of a Russian composer.

Then why come here?

Because that composer
studied in Bologna

and came to these baths
every summer.

When?

The late 1700s.

Who was it? Tchaikovsky?

No, his name was Sosnovsky.

Didn't he marry a local girl?

I doubt it. Sosnovsky was in love
with a Russian slave.

It was a horrible
and unexpected blow.

I suddenly realized
for the first time

that the Soviet film authorities
didn't consider me

a Soviet director,

because they sent
their jury member to Cannes

with the task of completely
undermining my success

at the 1983 festival.

It was Sergei Bondarchuk,
a Soviet director.

I still don't understand
what prompted that desire.

With Nostalghia I was declaring

the utter impossibility
for a Soviet or a Russian intellectual

of living in the West.

I'd have expected anything —

their customary inability
to comprehend

my filmic language

or some other aesthetic aspect.

But I never expected
the authorities of my own country,

my fellow countrymen,
my superiors,

to stab me in the back
so treacherously.

I suddenly realized I was
no longer needed in the USSR,

and I imagined for a moment
what would happen

if I were to return to Moscow,

given the Soviet authorities'
behavior at Cannes.

I simply had no other choice.

I couldn't return
to the Soviet Union.

My wife and I were compelled
to stay here in the West,

despite the fact
that I have no illusions

about life in the West,

and despite the fact...

that part of my family
was still in Moscow.

It was a terribly difficult
decision for Larissa

and myself.

Larissa and I haven't yet
decided on the country.

The most important thing
is to come to a decision.

None of the rest matters.

If in 20 years of being
on "diplomatic terms"

with film authorities in Moscow,

I was able to make
just five films there,

now, after the scandal at Cannes,

it's clear I wouldn't be allowed
to make anything else.

It makes me terribly sad
to be cut off from my audience,

my friends, and my homeland.

And of course most of all

I'm sad and depressed

not to be able to work

for those I considered —
and still consider — my audience.

It's a real tragedy for me.

I'll of course suffer terribly
from being cut off from all of you,

all you who looked forward to
and loved my films,

all you for whom I worked

and shall continue to work.

I had no other way out.
I had no choice.

What happened
was the only logical step

after my clash
with the Moscow film authorities.

Lord, do you see how he's asking?

Why don't you speak to him?

Can you imagine what would happen
if he heard my voice?

Let him feel your presence.

I do so constantly.

He just doesn't notice.

The hunt is over.

They chased me down.

A hound hangs from my thigh.

I throw my head back

till my antlers rest
on my shoulders.

I bellow.

They cut my tendons.

They shove a rifle in my ear.

He falls on his side,

his antlers clinging to wet twigs.

I see a dim eye,

a blade of grass stuck to it.

A black, ossified ball
reflecting nothing.

They'll tie his legs together,
pass a pole through,

and sling him
over their shoulders.

From a historical perspective,

our spiritual development

has lagged behind
our material development,

and we're paying for that.

If humanity perishes,

it will be only because
the process of human development

wasn't harmonious,

and because humanity
didn't evolve spiritually

but was driven by fear.

Humankind defended itself
against the world

instead of merging with it

and establishing
a connection with it.

Humans transformed interaction...

into a painful daily leveraging
of power against one another

that is irritating, useless,
and excruciating,

instead of making that exchange
something pleasurable.

Mankind grabbed
the first toy available,

and it believed in that stone ax

rather than the magical effect
of a human gaze, or of desire...

that could have prevented
the blow of that ax.

As for salvation...

life on this planet recently
seems to suggest

that it perhaps makes sense
to save our individual selves

as quickly as possible,
thereby denying life

and, consequently, art.

There are no hopes
for the future today.

There's a notion
of joining forces

against the global evil
represented by the atomic bomb.

But you've seen

what the explosion
of a small nuclear plant can do.

What if ten were to explode?

In fact, the greatest concern
for our future

may not be war

but the gradual destruction

of an ecological niche
for humans to exist in.

Even without war...

we'll suffocate in this atmosphere.

That's why the question
of art and salvation

is becoming
increasingly relevant today.

There's no time to lose.

By "spirituality"
I mean first and foremost

that a person be inquisitive

regarding what is referred to as

"the meaning of life."

That's at least a first step.

A person who has asked
that question

can no longer fall
below that level.

They will begin to evolve.

They will wonder...

"Why do we exist?"

"Where do we come from,
and where are we going?"

"What's the purpose
of our presence on this planet

during — let's flatter ourselves —
the 80 or so years...

that we have in this world?"

To put it simply...

a person who doesn't ask

or hasn't yet asked
those questions

is soulless, lacking in spirit.

An artist who doesn't take
those questions seriously

isn't an artist,
because he's not a realist.

He has neglected one
of the most important questions,

one that makes us human.

When we begin
to address these issues...

is when what we call
"true art" emerges.

I believe...

that the meaning of life lies

in elevating our spiritual level

in the time we're given to live.

Even if it's just one iota
compared to when we were born,

our life won't have been
lived in vain.

I think evil and the devil

are the absence
of good and of God...

like shadow and light.

Humankind harbors evil

as well as good.

And the purpose of our existence

is above all to fight
the evil within us.

That's why we were given free will.

We can fight evil,

or we can let
the evil within us prevail.

It's up to us, and us alone.

The worst thing
is when we begin

to fight evil
not within ourselves

but within others.

This film, to be shot in Sweden

and to be called Sacrificio
in Italian, or Sacrifice...

is the logical evolution
of Nostalghia

and of the central character
of Domenico,

a provincial math teacher.

But of course it will take on
certain new angles

much more relevant
to the issues I mentioned before.

Once upon a time long ago...

an old monk lived
in an Orthodox monastery.

His name was Pamve.

One day he planted
a dried-up tree on a mountainside...

just like this.

Then he told his young pupil...

a monk named Ioann Kolov...

that he should water
the tree every day

until it came back to life.

This film speaks
about personal responsibility

when events come bearing down
swiftly and inevitably.

It's dedicated
to personal responsibility

and the intention and desire
to become involved

in those events
that we usually entrust to politicians,

those professionals whose occupation
is to plan out our future,

to interact with other countries,

social categories,
social strata, etc.

That's precisely
what my film is about:

involvement of the individual

in contemporary social processes,

and the desire
to return the individual

to the very heart of events.

It's a parable, an allegory,

that narrates in poetic fashion
the fate of a family

in a very tense and dramatic way,
in my opinion.

As I was saying...

we were enchanted as we took in
the beauty of the place.

We couldn't tear ourselves away.

The stillness, the quiet...

And...

it was clear that the house

was made just for us.

And it happened to be for sale —
a real miracle!

And you were born in that house.

Do you like it?

Do you like your house, my boy?

The more evil triumphs,

the more reasons
there are to create art.

In fact, all the more reasons.

Art is...

how should I put it?

As long as human beings exist...

they will instinctively
strive to create.

In a way, that's what binds them
to their creator.

And what is creation?

What is the purpose of art?

Why does it exist?

Is it good or bad?

Is it something constructive,
or just art for art's sake?

But one thing is clear:
Art is prayer.

That says it all.

Through art
humankind expresses hope.

Everything else is irrelevant.

All that which
doesn't express hope

and isn't built
on a spiritual foundation

has nothing to do with art.

If someone were to ask
where I see hope for the future,

I'd say only in Russia,
despite everything.

Hope in the sense...

that civilization may end

before the first nuclear bomb falls.

That will happen when the last man
who believes in the creator dies.

A civilization without spirituality,

without belief in the immortality
of the human soul,

is no more
than a gathering of animals.

It's no longer civilization.

It's the end, the decline.

That's why I see in Russia

many more signs
of spiritual rebirth

than here, in the free West.

There was a time
when I could name those

whom I considered my teachers.

But now only those
come to mind...

whom I would call
not so much "masters"

as "holy fools,"

who don't belong to this world,

lunatics.

With no offense intended
toward anyone living,

among them
I would consider Bresson,

Tolstoy, Bach, and Leonardo.

Ultimately, they all were crazy...

because they didn't have
to think up their art.

They all were possessed.

People like that frighten me

and at the same time inspire me.

Their work

is absolutely impossible to explain.

So much has been written
about Tolstoy

and Leonardo and Bach.

Yet no one really managed
to say anything at all.

Thank God
no one could explain their talent.

That means
it's impossible to explain.

Miracles can't be explained.

A miracle is... God.

BELIEVE IN SPITE
OF EVERYTHING.

FAITH IS KNOWLEDGE
THROUGH LOVE.

For my part,
I'm not afraid of death.

It doesn't frighten me.

Perhaps the only thing
that's scary...

is physical suffering.

For a person who has...

some understanding of life,

I don't think death
can be frightening.

I'm sure of that.

I'm not sickened by the thought
of approaching death.

On the contrary.

Sometimes I feel that death...

and even the sense
of despair around it...

can bring on
an incredible sense of freedom

that we've never experienced
before in our lives.

A masterpiece could be
bearing witness to a soul

passing by you

and clearly moving upward,
somewhere skyward,

sweeping past you
and leaving behind

just a breeze that you feel.

That is sufficient for a work of art

to become a creation of genius.

A delicate breeze
wafts through your heart,

and you fly and fly headlong.

Meanwhile,
love on a photo negative

holds your soul by the sleeve

as, grain by grain, like a bird

it steals what it can
from oblivion.

It won't let you
be scattered to the winds.

Even when dead,
you'll live on —

not completely,
just a hundredth part,

beneath our breath,
in our dreams,

as if you're wandering
in some field

in the land beyond.

All that's dear, alive,
and visible to the eye

takes flight again and again

if the Angel of the Lens

takes your world under its wing.