Somewhere in the furthest corners a the primordial muck 'neath the ice-caps a the cultural psyche, somewheres midst those flames all frozen wi the gnashin a the wind, somewheres in the caverns all scrawls an indentations reekin a millennia maddened wi the weight of the ponderin, somewheres down there, so the stories suggest, a man might find the tiny nook in the universe where minds wi feet light enough to travel end up the other side of a kip, whether lain neath headstone or passed out for a couple hours in the glow a the Big Brother live feed.
If'n we can allocate anything so trivial as time to these highways an byways of the eternal musing, if'n we can be so fucking vulgar, y'unnerstann, if'n truly we can, then we can go ahead an note, scrawl, point in the direction of the year 1979, when somewheres 'pon the waves a those seas a densest thought, somewheres on the crest a the tide it so happened that C.S Lewis, Ingmar Bergman an Samuel Beckett done got coiled round one another's knob-ends, the three a them screechin wi indignation, "For the love a fuck, let loose mine knackers!" an "I swear on my last wank I'll cut the eyes out your damn face you don't get your teeth out my arse!"
An diplomacy arrivin on squid-back, high on the power for to null any number a fucks thrown in rage.
What it suggests is that maybe this tragi-comic display might be better served if'n it could be put to use in the pursuit of a worthwhile end.
And from the deck a some ship sails past, Andrei Tarkovsky, he's hollerin to this enraptured trio, "Say now, fuck my eyes, I've got just the end in question!"
Lo, from out the twisted spine a this most unpredictable of collisions, Tarkovsky fashioned Stalker, bein a flick concerning the metaphysical torment an the Christian allegory an the bickerin an ganshin tween the ol' bastards headed someplace or other in pursuit of enlightenment.
Waiting For Godot as shone through the prism of an atheistic industrial hiss, searchin for Christian retort on the outskirts a some Soviet wasteland.
A perilous odyssey for to find God in a land wherein yon being done got shackled an flung headfirst t'wards the concrete nothingness an the fires a dispossession sometimes back in the twenties.
Least, sayin, s'what it appears to be, y'unnerstann, the whole search for God in a slab a Earth none too keen on the bearded trickster, seems to be the crux a Stalker's concerns.
Article comments
1 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
UPDATE - This is the full text of the review that appeared a wee whiles back, but owing to a glitch in the web-net, only half of it showed up. My apologies to anyone who sat through the other, all the while thinkin, but surely this makes not once inch a sense?? now you can see, it doesn't, but it has the illusion of sense wrapped fully 'round it.
2 - Aaron Fleming
Ah I never noticed the madness of that first post due to me reading the original version on Mondo Irlando and then hop-stepping it over to these fine waters to make a comment, this comment here, copied and pasted in all it's pristine chivalry:
Excellent man, well analysed, I think you've hit upon the predominant themes contained within the film text right here. It is indeed a beautiful and intelligent flick, my favourite Tarkovsky.
3 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
thanks again, Sir Fleming! a fella could wax for hours on any section of any one of the notions suggested in the flick. the danger is that eventually you end up far removed from the actual point an have talked yourself towards some other philosophical musing not actually mentioned ANYWHERE explicitly or otherwise in said motion-picture. therein lies the danger of interpretation, i suppose.