Andrei Tarkovsky - Sculpting In Time.pdf

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SCULPTING IN TIME
Andrey Tarkovsky was born in Zavrozhie on the Volga in 1932. In 1960 he
graduated from the Soviet State Film School with his first film
The
Steamroller and the Violin.
He made five more films in Russia:
Ivan's Childhood,
1962,
Andrey
Rublyov,
1966,
Solaris,
1972,
Mirror,
1978 and
Stalker,
1979. In 1983 he
made
Nostalgia
in Italy and his last film,
The Sacrifice,
was made in
Sweden in 1986.
He died in Paris on 29 December 1986.
Contents
Editor's Note
Introduction
Chapter I: The beginning
Chapter II: Art—a yearning for the ideal
Chapter III: Imprinted time
Chapter IV: Cinema's destined role
Chapter V: The film image
Time, rhythm and editing
Scenario and shooting script
The film's graphic realisation
The film actor
Music and noises
Chapter VI: The author in search of an audience
Chapter VII: The artist's responsibility
Chapter VIII: After
Nostalgia
Chapter IX:
The Sacrifice
Conclusion
Notes
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7
15
36
57
82
104
113
125
135
139
155
164
176
202
217
231
243
Editor's Note
Introduction
This new edition of
Sculpting in Time
contains an additional
chapter on Tarkovsky's last film
The Sacrifice.
He wrote this, and
made revisions to the text of the book, shortly before his death.
Some fifteen years ago, as I was jotting down notes for the first draft of
this book, 1 found myself wondering whether there really was any
point in writing it at all. Why not just go on making one film after
another, finding practical solutions to those theoretical problems
which arise whenever one is working on a film?
My professional biography has been none too happy; the
intervals between films were long and painful enough to leave me
free to consider—for want of anything better to do—exactly what
my own aims were; what are the factors that distinguish cinema
from the other arts; what I saw as its unique potential; and how my
own experience compared with the experience and achievements
of my colleagues. Reading and rereading books on the history of
cinema, I came to the conclusion that these did not satisfy
me, but made me want to argue and put forward my own
view of the problems and the objectives of film-making.
I realised that I generally came to recognise my own working
principles through questioning established theory, through the
urge to express my own understanding of the fundamental laws of
this art form.
My frequent encounters with vastly differing audiences also made
me feel that I had to make as full a statement as possible. They
seriously wanted to understand how and why cinema, and my work
in particular, affected them as it did; they wanted answers to
countless questions, in order to find some kind of common
denominator for their random and disordered thoughts on cinema
and on art in general.
I have to confess that I would read with the greatest attention and
interest—at some moments with distress, but at others with huge
encouragement—the letters from people who had seen my films;
during the years I was working in Russia these built up into an
impressive and variegated collection of questions addressed to me
or things which people were at a loss to understand.
I should like to quote here some of the most typical of these letters
in order to illustrate the kind of contact—on occasion one of total
incomprehension—that I had with my audiences.
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A woman civil engineer wrote from Leningrad: 'I saw your film,
Mirror.
I sat through to the end, despite the fact that after the first half
hour I developed a severe headache as a result of my genuine efforts
to analyse it, or just to have some idea of what was going on, of some
connection between the characters and events and memories. . . .
We poor cinema-goers see films that are good, bad, very bad,
ordinary or highly original. But any of these one can understand,
and be delighted or bored as the case may be; but this one?! . . .' An
equipment engineer from Kalinin was also terribly indignant: 'Half
an hour ago I came out of
Mirror.
Well!! . . . Comrade director!
Have you seen it? I think there's something unhealthy about it. . .1
wish you every success in your work, but we don't need films like
that.' And another engineer, this time from Sverdlovsk, was unable
to contain his deep antipathy: 'How vulgar, what trash! Ugh, how
revolting! Anyhow, I think your film's a blank shot. It certainly didn't
reach the audience, which is all that matters . . . ' This man even
feels that the cinema administration should be called to account:
'One can only be astonished that those responsible for the
distribution of films here in the USSR should allow such blunders.'
In fairness to the cinema administration, I have to say that 'such
blunders' were permitted very seldom—on average once every five
years; and when I received letters like that I used to be thrown into
despair: yes, indeed, who was I working for, and why?
I would be given some glimmer of hope by another kind of
cinema-goer, full of puzzlement, but also expressing the genuine
wish to understand what the writer had seen. For instance: 'I'm sure
I'm not the first or the last to turn to you in bewilderment and ask
you to help them make sense of
Mirror.
The episodes in themselves
are really good, but how can one find what holds them together?' A
woman wrote from Leningrad: 'The film is so unlike anything I've
ever seen that I don't know how to go about it, how to appreciate
either the form or the content. Can you explain? It's not that I lack
understanding of cinema generally . . . I saw your earlier films,
Ivan's Childhood
and
Audrey Rublyov.
They were clear enough.
But this is not. . . . Before the film is shown the audience should
be given some sort of introduction. After seeing it one is left feeling
cross with oneself for being so helpless and obtuse. With respect,
Andrey, if you are not able to answer my letter in full, could you at
least let me know where I could read something about the film? . . .'
Unfortunately I had nothing to advise such correspondents; no
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articles came out about
Mirror,
unless one counts the public
condemnation of my film as inadmissibly 'elitist', made by my
colleagues at a meeting of the State Institute of Cinematography and
the Union of Cinematographists, and published in the journal,
Art
of Cinema.
What kept me going through all this, however, were the
comments which clearly showed that there were people who
minded about my work, and were actually waiting to see my films;
only it was apparently in nobody's interests to further my contact
with that section of the audience.
A member of the Institute of Physics of the Academy of Sciences
sent me a notice published in their wall newspaper: 'The appearance
of Tarkovsky's film,
Mirror
aroused wide interest in IPAS as it did all
over Moscow.
'By no means all who wanted to meet the director were able to do
so; nor, unfortunately, was the author of this notice. None of us can
understand how Tarkovsky, by means of cinema, has succeeded in
producing a work of such philosophical depths. Accustomed to films
as story-line, action, characters and the usual "happy ending", the
audience looks for these things in Tarkovsky's films, and often
enough leaves disappointed.
'What is this film about? It is about a Man. No, not the
particular man whose voice we hear from behind the screen, played
by Innokentiy Smoktunovsky.' It's a film about you, your father,
your grandfather, about someone who will live after you and who is
still "you". About a Man who lives on the earth, is a part of the
earth and the earth is a part of him, about the fact that a man is
answerable for his life both to the past and to the future. You have
to watch this film simply, and listen to the music of Bach and the
poems of Arseniy Tarkovsky;
2
watch it as one watches the stars, or
the sea, as one admires a landscape. There is no mathematical
logic here, for it cannot explain what man is or what is the meaning
of his life.'
I have to admit that even when professional critics praised my
work I was often left unsatisfied and irritated by their ideas and
comments—at least, I quite often had the feeling that these critics
were either indifferent to my work or else not competent to criticise:
so often they would use well-worn phrases taken from current
cinema journalese instead of talking about the film's direct,
intimate effect on the audience. But then 1 would meet people on
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