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.
But some say otherwise, oh aye, some go out their way to see anythin else, or nothin at all, so long as it comes nowhere near my own hypothesis regarding Tarkovsky’s intent.
The Priest, for example, good friend a mine tends to pop o’er unannounced when the rounds are done, when the parish been tucked up right good for the night, he has no time for any banter a the sort.
“God? Christianity? I’ll have my fuck torn out my very teeth fore I hear any a this wank allocated to yonder flick about the wanderin about in the grass mutterin bout art.”
But it’s so obvious, I’m hollerin, an you, a man of the cloth, hell's fire, are you blind?
“Talk me through it then, if’n you must, take me by the balls an lead me through this pretentious scrawl itchin to be free a your wretched knuckles.”
Well very well then, oh say can you see?
Stalker concerns itself with a fella, The Stalker, in fact, leading two other chaps, The Writer an The Scientist, off an out from the sepia-toned (not Black & White as the DVD cover might suggest) terrors of their homestead (curiously reekin of the industrial an the rural at the same damn time) towards a Technicolor idyll somewheres beyond the outposts a the town.
From the desolation of this police-state Kansas t’wards the Oz said State can’t understand, an so outlaws the exploration of such.
Oh but why? Ain’t a damn cranny to explore, just a buncha grass an trees an water, for the love a blessed Mary, why the hell should they care for half a second’s shit bout whether or not folks go wanderin round these big ol’ slabs a nothin?
Because why? Because here’s why, because somewhere out there exists a room, some sorta get-up wherein folks innermost wishes are granted, wherein happiness is obtained, wherein knowledge is bestowed. An so our Stalker lad is one of an illicit band a such who, for a price I’d imagine, guide small groups a people through this perilous terrain for to fall in awe a this room, this being, this light.
You might say the Stalker is the Priest.
“You might” The Priest glares, “But you might be lookin at a kick in the fuck if’n ever you insinuate that my hair is as wretched as that.”
True, the Stalker has a fairly bizarre skin-head thing goin on, a far ol’ holler from The Priest’s conservative but alla sudden highly fashionable comb-over.
But look here, now, ain’t got a moment for to consider the follicles when it’s all about the banter, see, it’s all about the issues these travellers raise in-between the flingin stuff around an clingin to the sides a walls.
Why, see, why you headin all the way out here anyroad? What the hell do you want?
Or; Why do these writers and scientists head off in the direction of that omnipresent oneness hoverin just outta-reach above folks heads, or behind folks ribs?
Why?
An The Writer, he’s not at all sure, got a lotta uncertainty drippin off a the jowls. He kinda wants to be a genius, or to have his suspicions that he is a genius confirmed, but what good can come of it? The ol’ scribblin, see, far as he’s concerned it’s a never-endin quest to prove his superiority to the world. If’n it ain’t in question, why the hell would he need to ever etch another word, ever need to scar the white a the page wi the blades a retort ever again ever even once?
Certainty. If’n we know, why bother?
The Scientist, he never explicitly states what he’s up to, what he's looking for, but a fairly cut an dried case regardless. He wants to know there’s a God. But the trouble, see, the gnawin at the limbs a his arse-hole; if he does know, if he finds out aye, there it is, God, clear as the filth on the sheets when the dreams drift t’wards the thighs, then he may as well fling the ol’ lab coat also to the fires a Why The Fuck Bother, right ‘longside the ashes a The Writer’s pencils.
Hence the phone-call he receives when approaching the room, another scientist we can deduce, he’s sayin “If you go ahead, you can never be a scientist again.”
Because much as folks might wanna go findin ways for the two to hold hands an kiss an take one another in the mouth ‘side the fillin-station toilet, much as they try to build some sorta bridge tween the two, the ol’ theology, or spirituality, an the science, ain’t no bridge worth a flyin fuck gon’ result.
Who but the most insaniacal a gibberin loons would expect anythin other than the likes a yon bridge out Evil Dead 2, all busted an curled back like the threads a Satan’s filth stretchin t’wards a fella’s very guts?
Who but the mystical bearded relics a some disastrous Middle Age clerical effrontery somehow windin up in the car-park a the Tescos just been built beside the leisure centre, who but those scraggy- eyed exiles would expect science an religious belief to lay in the same bed for any length a time before one cut’s the other’s nuts out at the roots an flings the bleedin scraps to the thunderin intensity a some motorway underpass in the midst a the morning rush?
Who?
All these questions an suggestions to be chewed o’er like the chewiest cud e’er stomped from the brains of man.
And Stalker, it gives plenty opportunity for chewin. Beautiful, transcendental images wash cross the screen at the leisurely pace a some criminal wanderin t’wards the gallows. He knows he’s gonna be gone the far-side a yonder trap-door, ain’t no sense sprintin to the rope.
So sit back and think about these things, cause if the last thing you wanna be doin’s thinkin, the last flick you wanna be watchin is this here, bein Stalker, bein the subject a this heated debate.
So what you have is three folks takin all sortsa risks for to get to a Room they’re not really sure they wanna see, these intellectual types, these folks all too keen on the delightful torments a Not Really Knowing for to give it all up wi nothin by way of reward other than a Yeah, This Is Truth, Right Here.
Cause much as we search for truth, so we say, fact of the case is that we’d have fuck all to do if we found it.
So Stalker, when we boil the fucker senseless, concerns a trio a wanderers mouthin a half-hearted question an takin full-bodied dives t’wards the muck for fear of ever bein answered.
Concerns an atheistic society – a society that demonises the spiritual – an the gallant efforts a someone, anyone, to whisper in the darkness a the tavern shitters, “Here, I know a thing or two relating to God, an I can show you, if’n you wanna see.”
(Fleetin memories; Similar suggestions made in similar piss-dens in similar establishments, resulting not in a trek cross the green plains a Out There, but rather a fairly uncomfortable couple minutes spent neath the gruntin maw a some drunkard headed In Here till the elbows are scourgin the liver.)
(So rumours suggest.)
An what nature does this truth, this god, this being take? What a fella can assume is that, given the evidence, it’s all sortsa Christian.
“So tell me”, The Priest mumbles, “Where in this text, yes, this Stalker, where, pray tell, is ever there a second’s mention of Christianity, what frame, I wonder, contains the sights an sounds of some fucker in the middle of a sentence about ‘By the way, the room, it’s all to do with God and specifically Christianity?’”
He takes a sip a the petrol out the hip-flask.
“I submit to you, wanker, that you are in fact talkin a buncha cock into my face right now.”
An sure enough, Tarkovsky never does address the matter directly. If’n someone wanted to take it as it appears; a flick about three folks head off to some room they’re not supposed to go to an encounter a buncha mental terrors on the way, they’d have every right to do so.
Tarkovsky never says “I’m talking bout the religion, hear me now”, because why the hell would he need to? Why would he need to say what anyone willin to think for a moment can see, can feel, surely as Bring It On is a film about God’s gift to humanity, so Stalker is a film about humanity misplacing the gift, an then oh, I think I know where it is. It’s in church.
“Alright” The Priest concedes, “I’ll give you this much; there’s certainly a whiff a some Godishness goin on in that room, but there's nothin, not a crusted o’er glob a fact that suggests said Godishness is anything at all to do with Christianity.”
An you’re right, certainly, not a damn thing, except for the constant, increasingly explicit references to Christianity littered mongst the dialogue an the imagery.
“Like what?”
Like the following, for to give a brief sample;
The Crown Of Thorns the Writer inspects outside The Room. He tries it on, he waves it around, he flings it to the dusty dirt.
The Writer, in fact, quotes Christ’s very own words. The ol’ Render Unto Caesar What Is Caesar’s affair is invoked at one point.
And this is without mentioning the Augustinian torment on display. All that yackin bout how unworthy he is, he’s too lowly a cunt for to ever gaze upon The Lord.
Also, the rivers that lead to The Room are fulla fragmented chunks a church walls, at one point The Stalker lies down right next to a big ol' Catholic saint peerin up from neath the grime.
And what of the religious iconography throughout? The saints, the fact that there’s three of these travellers, three, no less! Your Holy Trinity, right there, your Three Magi headed t’wards yonder infant!
And the fish!
The fish, that symbol once representin Christian Love And Christ’s Promise To Humanity, now representin right-leanin bigoted anti- Darwinist trigger-happy maniacs (so they say, y’unnerstann, so the folks who know would suggest), nonetheless, there it is, one of the film’s most memorable images, the fish under water slowly bein covered o’er by oil.
“What the hell does that mean?” The Priest’s enquirin, “A fish covered wi oil, buncha nonsense just happens to look mighty profound.”
And me all pointin wi the point-stick, the fish is Christianity, yes, an the oil is most obviously The State. In Stalker The State covers o’er the Room an forbids access to such, just as in yon USSR where, we might reflect, Stalker was produced (twice, in fact, owing to the first version bein shot on film set to deteriorate under little more than a harsh word), Christianity an Religion in general was coated wi thickest tar an set aflame right there on the street.
Oh ye evidence of blinding intensity, an yet The Priest spittin bile cross the carpet.
“This is some buncha bullshit right here, this is some stinky smelly pretentious pseudo-academic bullshit. Not once, hear me, is this stated in the script. Not once!”
An Yours Truly all flustered an faduddled wi frustration. “He doesn't have to say! Did C.S Lewis need to call yon lion Jesus? Did Camus have to call his plague The Nazi’s?”
“Shut up” he scoffs, “You only know it has anything to do with the Nazi’s cause you read it off the blurb on the back.”
I’ll hear no more of this! Flingin the feet skyward, pushin o’er a vase-fulla long-dead tulips, leave this house I’m screechin, leave, an take your stinkin bastard priest-yap with you!
“Gladly! Another moment in this house a foulest gabble an I’ll shit myself asunder.”
I have no time for a theologically minded man who can’t see what’s starin him in the skull, that Stalker, whilst touchin on numerous other philosophical conundrums is, at it’s very shimmerin core, a film about a buncha folks headin towards religion in a country where to do so is the most wretched of taboos.
“And, um, mean, I don’t wanna be rude or nothin”, lass is sayin to me on the phone, “But I just asked if it was any good?”
“Aye, fuckin incredible, among the most beautiful motion pictures I've ever for a second gazed upon.”
“That’ll do” she says. “S’all I needed to know, really.”
