Professor tosses bits of the bomb into one part of the waterlogged room, other bits into other parts. There are lots of bits—it’s more complicated, bomb-wise, than it looked at first—but there’s a lot of water too. It’s not only the wiring, the plumbing is shot to hell too. The phone is no longer ringing. There is the sound of birds again and of dripping water, the two not entirely distinct, as
if the birds were amphibious, still partly fish, the sounds one might have heard in the early days of creation, before there were people, when there was no one around to hear, when there was no difference between god and evolution, and Darwin himself was probably just a swimming fish, trying to breathe with wings or fly with gills. The three of them sit there and the camera pulls back, into the Room itself, revealing the water-immersed tiled floor. (None of the humans has made it into the Room—only the camera whose deepest wish has been realized before our eyes.) They’re worn out, by the journey, by the scuffle, by the combination of disappointment and enlightenment, by the uncertain distinctions between faith, hope and belief, by the complex simplicity of whatever it is they have learned or not learned, by not knowing whether the lessons of evolution—of learning as you go—are ever going to be over with. The light, which has been silvery and dank, glows gradually golden and warm, then fades, Turrell-ishly, to dank and silver again. Stalker says what he said at the beginning: How quiet it is here. Can you feel it? It isn’t, but we can. He wonders why he doesn’t come and live here with his wife and child, Monkey, where there’s no one else, where no one can harm them. Is it because at some level he doesn’t want to? That
maybe the Zone won’t live up to his hopes after all, will be unable to sustain, as Fitzgerald said of Gatsby (we are back there again), the colossal vitality of his illusions? A crack of thunder, of unseen lightning. Bringing rain: internal rain, rain that knows how to behave in a room. A shower of room rain, gentle at first, falling between us and the three men sitting there. Then becoming heavier and louder, more storm than shower, falling into the flooded area between us and them. As much a shower of light as of rain even though the rain has no wish to be anything other than what it is. Any such desire evaporated long ago but it will come around again as surely as day follows night. As the rain rains Professor chucks more parts of his bomb—harmless now—into the water which is a thousand small explosions of glitter. The storm is soon a shower again—light rain, raining light—and then the shower is over except for the usual drip and drop and they continue sitting there. Professor lobs the last bits of his bomb into the glitter-ripple of water. Drip, drip. We can see part of it, parts of the bomb that is no longer a bomb, resting on the tiles beneath the water, gone the way of the machine gun and syringes—the opposite of souvenirs—seen earlier.
‘Everything, after passing through time, returns to
eternity,’ writes Unamuno. ‘The scenes of life pass before us as in a film, but on the other side of time the film is one and indivisible.’ A couple of curious fish nuzzle up to the ex-bomb, ascertaining whether or not it might be edible. A black film, inky, with threads of blood—from the fish?—spreads over the water as the sound builds of a train moving swiftly and blaring a bit of Ravel’s
Boléro,
a piece of music whose place in film history is indelibly linked with Bo Derek and Dudley Moore in
10.
Not that Bo Derek is on anyone’s mind, certainly not the fishes’, as vibrations from the train make the water rock and sway over the harmless remains of the bomb and the curiously harmless fish, causing the black oily film to sway and shudder over bomb, fish, water and screen.
IT SEEMS LIKE THE END
but it’s not the end. We are back at the bar,
in
the bar in fact, looking out through the smeary door that has not been washed in the however-long-it-is interlude while they have been busy not thinking about Bo Derek, having the time of their lives— though not quite the time they thought they were going to have—in the Zone. The bar door is open. Across the
stretch of industrial water we can see the power station, looking all Didcot and grey because—oh yes, we’re also back in black-and-white, here in the world that is not the Zone. The noise of the train, the 6:10 to Boléro. Just outside the door is Stalker’s wife, all bundled up in a sheepskin coat and she has their daughter, Monkey, with her, and some crutches leaning by the stairs. The wife comes up the stairs to the boozers—there they are, the three of them. Luger, the barman of few words, is there too, and he’s the first to see her. Uh-oh. They’re back, though we have no idea how they got back. Stalker kept telling them there was no going back but, among the lessons learned and not learned, one might be that there is nothing
but
going back.
44
The wife could be forgiven for thinking that they’ve been here all the time, on a colossal bender, or having ingested a powerful psychedelic, getting so fucked up that mere survival—the avoidance of liver failure or mental breakdown—seems like an achievement. They all look pretty messed up: rumpled, mud-smeared, damp, but not totally Boris-Mikhailoved—nothing that couldn’t have been the result of a half-decent drinking session. If she didn’t know her husband better…Well, whatever it is they’ve been up to they’re none the wiser for it. Or per-
haps they’re a hell of a lot wiser if, by wiser, we mean sadder and if, by sadder, we mean damper. The thing about wisdom is that it rarely reveals itself in appearances; one never knows what it looks like in human form.
But wait—something
is
different. They’ve got a dog with them. The dog, from our point of view, is the only proof that they’ve been where they say, proof that this place called the Zone exists. It’s like the rose that Coleridge mentions, the one you dreamed you found in paradise (the one, to be honest, that I’ve had cause to mention elsewhere, in a not unrelated context) and then, on waking, find in your bed. Stalker is feeding the dog. Other than that nothing has changed, but then that’s always the way when you go anywhere and come back. Nothing has ever changed, even if the place you come back to has changed unrecognizably, which is definitely not the case with this dump. The lonesome whistle is still blowing, doesn’t sound any less lonesome. Luger is still smoking and the bar is still a bit of a dump. The flickering light, it goes without saying, is still flickering. The wife comes into the bar, one part local sheriff confronting three gunslingers, one part stern mum whose adolescent son and his mates have been caught drinking. And they
have
been drinking, we can see now: they’ve got a beer each and who can blame them? No one could begrudge them a few beers after what they’ve been through, even if it’s not clear what it is they’ve been through. She asks about the dog and plonks herself down on the bench. Does either of you two want dogs? They don’t. Writer has five at home already—seems a lot but maybe he’s got a bigger house than we imagined. So you love dogs, do you, she says. That’s a good thing (as though liking dogs could ever be anything other than a good thing).
45
So, says the wife, are we going?
The dog trots out of the bar, followed by Stalker and his wife. (Could it be that Stalker did set foot in the Room after all, that his deepest wish was to have a dog?) Writer and Professor—the pair of them look so dirty they could be in a socialist-realist drama about coal miners—watch them go: Stalker, his wife, the dog, and Monkey, their kid. Writer is smoking a cigarette, squinting through the smoke in a writerly way, watching them go, looking like he’s learnt something, something that he may one day put
into writing:
An empty bar, possibly not even open, with a single table…
From here on we are in a realm of loveliness unmatched anywhere else in cinema. We are able to believe in something blatantly untrue, an amendment to the idea that men were put on earth to create works of art: that the cinema was invented so that Tarkovsky could make
Stalker,
that our greatest debt to the Lumière brothers is that they enabled this film to be made.
SWITCH TO COLOUR,
to the daughter, Monkey, in profile and in close-up, swathed in a golden-brown head scarf, walking through the bare blur of trees, with the dog. So, colour is not the unique preserve of the Zone after all. Something that is almost snow—sleet, gobs of rain, sky-blossom—is falling. The music on the sound track is that spooky electronic drone again that we heard right at the beginning, before they went to the Zone. We can still see only her head bobbing along but the focus is not as tight and we watch her moving through more of the landscape, covered in snow or pale ash. The lake or river is a dull grey. As the camera pulls back we see
that Monkey is not walking; she is on her father’s shoulders, and the landscape, though desolate, has a desolate beauty. They make their way through the wasteland, Stalker, his wife and child, Monkey, and the dog. In Kenzaburo Oë’s story, ‘The Guide (
Stalker
),’ a dinner guest, Mr. Shigeto, comments on ‘the excellent acting of the dog in [this] scene’. Mr. Shigeto’s wife disagrees: ‘Fine acting on the part of dogs is mere coincidence, with the exception of super movie dogs like Lassie or Rin Tin Tin. And even their acting, she claimed, wasn’t acting in the truest sense, for their roles were always the same.’ She is here echoing a point made by Béla Balézs, that only ‘plants and animals do not act for the director.’ If they are right then this actually fits in well with what Tarkovsky required of his human actors too. Donatas Banionis—Kris in
Solaris
—was uneasy with the director’s lack of interest in psychological motivation and his exacting demands that the characters move a certain number of steps or remain quite still for a precise number of seconds. For Banionis this was not acting but ‘posing’ or ‘counting one-two-three.’ Dogs can’t count but this one does everything required of him, moving like the director’s counter on a Ludo board, tail wagging, tagging
along with Stalker and his wife and child.
46
One assumes that if the dog had strayed into the Room he would have wanted to go on as he was, with his untroubled doggy life. Or maybe not. Maybe he was lonely padding around the Zone, wandered into a room and, although he didn’t know this room was
the
Room, his innermost wish—to be adopted and taken home by a nice family of humans— was granted. (Inconceivably cynical, surely, to suggest that his deepest wish was to be a movie-star dog?)
Paradise Lost
ends with Adam and Eve making their way out of Eden ‘with wandering steps and slow.’ There is something similarly touching about this scene, though now it is a nice little family (with a new dog) and it’s not a life of exile and unprecedented adventure that lies ahead but a return to the familiar contentments and frustrations of home. It’s reminiscent, in its dreary, postindustrial way, of the pure winter scenes—enhanced by the Brueghel echoes—in
Mirror.
In the background, across the lake
or the river, is the power station, pouring out clouds of smoke or steam. The dog pads on ahead, tail wagging, and then circles back to join the others. They look like the last family on earth, sole survivors of the catastrophe that everyone else calls life.
A HAND POURS
white milk, the sweet milk of interspecies concord, from a triangular carton (a precursor of the Tetra Pak) into a wooden bowl, careless about the spillage but conscious, surely, that something has spilled over from a similar sequence in
Mirror.
The dog laps it up like a cat. It’s one of the best bits of lapping up in the history of cinema. No one has ever lapped up milk like this before or since—another excellent bit of lap-acting on the part of the dog who was unaware he was acting or, by the standard of the Method, had achieved a state of such complete immersion in his character that he was acting out of—in the sense of
in
—his skin. Stalker lies down by the bowl while the dog continues lapping up the milk like there’s no tomorrow. Stalker is back home and, once again, we’re back where we started. You can’t imagine how tired I am, Stalker tells his wife, stretched out horizontally on the floor of a room crammed with
books. He’s got more books than an Oxford don. This is something we weren’t aware of before. Stalker is not just some Zone fundamentalist—he’s a big reader. I bet there are copies of
Tragic Sense of Life, Wisdom and Insecurity, The Prelude
and everything else mentioned in the course of this summary. Who knows, maybe he even has some of Writer’s books.
47
Stalker is in an exhausted rage about the lack of belief of Writer and Professor, not only these two but everyone like them. He thumps the hard floor and his wife, kindly now, tells him not to get overexcited, to go to bed. It’s damp here, she says. If she only knew! Compared with where he’s been this is as warm as toast! But yes, he sure looks tired. By anyone’s standards it’s been a long and damp day or lifetime—whichever is the longer or damper. A cuckoo clock chirrups the hour—as though
Stalker had brought back a souvenir from one of his previous trips to the Zone; or perhaps it was a gift from a satisfied client.
48
She helps him into bed, taking off his trousers and shoes. As before, he keeps his sweater on— his sweater, which is dirty, soaking and stinky-looking, ripe for the starring role in an advertisement for the latest breakthrough in biological detergents. She tucks him in, sits on the side of the bed like she is looking after a patient, giving him a tablet and water. Some blossom or fluff is floating through the air, the same fluff or blossom that was seen floating through the Zone, in the moments after the land rippled like an acid trip so that the home is suffused with magic. Stalker looked a bit Nosferatulike before, back in the Zone; now, in bed, he looks like Nosferatu as the sun is about to come up. He’s in that exhausted, almost hysterical state that causes you to get more and more worked up over things you can do noth-
ing about. All they can think about, he says, is not selling themselves cheap, how to get paid for every breath they take. No one believes. Not only those two—Writer and Professor, he means—no one. Who am I going to take there? He’s on the brink—or in the grips—of a total emotional and nervous breakdown, tormented by what seems now not so much as a lack in others as his own excess of belief. The worst thing is, not only do they not believe in the Zone, no one even needs it. A devastating possibility: the most wonderful place, the most wonderful thing in the world, and no one even needs it. Effectively people have no need of what they most want, have learned to do without. We see his face and her hand, mopping him, consoling him even though he is inconsolable.