Solaris review

After collaborating on Ocean's Eleven, Steven Soderbergh and George Clooney have reunited for another remake, though this one is decidedly less frothy. Solaris is an update of the 1972 Russian film by Andrei Tarkovsky, based on the book by Stanislaw Lem. Set in the dark and claustrophobic confines of a spaceship circling the planet Solaris, the film is a metaphysical contemplation on beliefs, love and death. The questions raised, though tentatively intriguing, are dealt with so ponderously and pretentiously that it prompts little interest in seeking answers. Not that any were offered. As one character points out, "There are no answers, only choices."

For the normally buoyant Clooney, the role of psychologist Chris Kelvin offered an opportunity to explore a more introspective side. A deeply troubled look is almost permanently etched on his face as he endeavours to figure out exactly what is happening to him. His bewilderment is understandable given that little in Solaris makes sense.

Although set in some unspecified future, Solaris closely resembles the stark and sterile look of Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, to which it pays more than a passing nod. Lingering shots of drifting through silent space set the mood for the film which moves with unhurried conviction.

The story begins on Earth, where Kelvin receives an enigmatic call from Gibarian (Ulrich Tukur), the commander of the spaceship, requesting he come to their rescue. When Kelvin arrives on board, he finds Gibarian dead and the two remaining crew, Snow (Jeremy Davies) and Dr Gordon (Viola Davis), delusional and incomprehensible. When Kelvin asks what's going on, he's told little other than he should lock his door at night. Despite taking their advice, his sleep is interrupted by the appearance of his dead wife Rheya (Natascha McElhone).

Soderbergh said he was drawn to the story by its romantic aspect. "I loved the premise: A second chance at love." How Kelvin copes with this opportunity is the film's central theme, given that he's uncertain whether his wife is real, part of a vivid dream or whether he too is a victim of some hallucinatory force that has afflicted all those on board the ship. For the psychologist Kelvin, the questions raised by his wife's appearance and the conversations the two share on life, death and the nature of being, reveal little of substance and even less about their inner selves. Setting Solaris's loftier philosophical aspirations aside, as a love story, it's void of passion. McElhone in particular plays her role with a wide-eyed glaze that shields any degree of emotion.

Solaris provides few glimpses of the European cinematic sensibility that Soderbergh was striving for, instead the film, like the spaceship, floats aimlessly, going nowhere and taking its time getting there.