When I discovered Tarkovsky, I was 17. I ran to my mother and told her: look, look what I found... it's slow, you have to observe, and I was so euphoric I didn't even notice it wasn't the right moment because she was eating, and Tarkovsky requires utmost attention. So I tried to convince her, to snatch a few seconds to make her watch those long tracking shots over the grass, and in the dirty water... nothing, I didn't see the necessary attention in her eyes, I continued to feel alone, but in the company of a good auteur. I had naivety to spare. I felt like I had discovered someone in the world who understood me.
The film I was trying to show her was Stalker, which I had already watched twice. I had downloaded it by mistake instead of a video game of the same name: by mistake... imagine how much change a mistake can bring... because from that day on, I underwent a drastic plot twist; I even forgot about the video game, forever. I had never seen anything like it before; I didn't even think... certain cinema existed. Yet it existed, and it came from Russia. I was so taken that I started studying Russian so I could rewatch the films in Russian... needless to say, I abandoned the mission; I didn't have enough guts, time, or desire to delve into a language as complex as that, and to this day I had to settle for translations, dubbing, and subtitles.
But I was so enthusiastic that someone, over a beer, suggested I go study cinema at university, and right then I liked the idea, so I decided to enroll the following year... pity though that, upon completing my studies, I didn't learn to appreciate anything else outside of Tarkovsky (who, by the way, they didn't even introduce to me), and I was even forced to end my relationship with cinema in general, which I haven't followed or watched since.
My history with cinema was solely my history with Tarkovsky, nothing more and nothing less. Apart from a small love affair with noir, which also signed off my graduation thesis... there was no other relationship besides that. I loved nothing. Everything felt like bait to me... a hook hanging in the sea of existence. Cinema felt like a clever trap, an entertaining monstrosity... a diversion to escape the here and now, a consolation, a plaything to waste time.
Films shape our imagination: the good and the bad. Sometimes you think you're on the right path, but in reality, it only sounds right because you saw it in a movie, even if you don't remember it. Sometimes a path frightens you just because it recalls a terrifying scene. When we get the impression of having lived a moment that reminded us of a scene from a movie we liked... suddenly a notification rings in our head... like video game sound effects when you earn a bonus... and life seems to have found the right fit, the correct combination. It would be a bit like the Tao. There, yes, Cinema as the Tao of modern times. It is the Way: non-action is when our life finds references in cinema.
With Tarkovsky, on the other hand, I had to admit I felt more alive; I watched him to meditate and contemplate, I watched him to reconnect with the earth, with living itself, with the very sense of being here... because I liked the way he filmed things, slowly... giving you time to absorb them fully, to transcend them. With Tarkovsky, I realized I wasn't the only one looking at things in a certain way, slowly, savoring them down to the atom and beyond. Without ever losing sight of the awareness of being present.
Right after, I also bought Solaris... and watched it twice... 6 hours straight. In that moment, I understood myself a little better, and I realized that my way of looking at things wasn't wrong, but simply another one that needed to be embraced.
With love, to Tarkovkskij
