Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979 – Gueorgui Pinkhassov/Magnum Photos, CC image.
Jack Clarke speaks with Sergey Toymentsev, Assistant Professor of Russian in the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures at Saint Louis University to explore the life and work of Andrei Tarkovsky, one of cinema’s most enigmatic visionaries. From navigating Soviet censorship to crafting a ‘cinematic theology’ deeply rooted in Russian spirituality, Tarkovsky’s films have left an indelible mark on global cinema. Their conversation delves into how Tarkovsky’s legacy, shaped by political repression, philosophical inquiry, and timeless aesthetics, continues to resonate in a world still grappling with the interplay between art, culture, and power.
JC: Tarkovsky’s films, such as Andrei Rublev and Stalker, delve into themes of spirituality and metaphysical inquiry, often clashing with the materialist ideology of Soviet society. How do you see his works navigating or subverting Soviet dogma while still being deeply rooted in Russian spiritual traditions? Can we consider his works a form of ‘cinematic theology’?
ST: It’s tempting to view Tarkovsky as some kind of dissident since none of his films are representative of Soviet ideology or the socialist realist style. But in the 1960s, when Tarkovsky started his film career, Soviet dogma wasn’t that omnipresent or oppressive. In fact, this was the most liberal time in Soviet history, except for perestroika, of course.
Soviet history—and Russian history in general—has been developing in cycles so far, in which each authoritarian regime is always followed by a more liberal one, which nevertheless later transitions to yet another autocracy. After Stalin’s death, Nikita Khrushchev introduced a lot of liberal policies that opened the country to many outside and previously forbidden influences. It was somewhat cool to be a rebel during that time—though only to a certain extent, of course.
Tarkovsky was essentially a product of his time. He was always interested in non-Soviet things: music, art, cinema, philosophies, and so on. Orthodox Christianity was one of his interests. It had been forbidden under Stalin, but during Khrushchev’s period—the so-called Thaw—restrictions loosened and allowed people more freedom for religious and cultural expression.
When Tarkovsky pitched his Andrei Rublev project to the Soviet authorities, it was approved because the political climate was favorable enough at that time. Yet the movie was shelved for five years after its completion because the new General Secretary, Leonid Brezhnev, redirected the regime back to its previous autocratic course. Nevertheless, it was still possible to make films outside of Soviet dogma. Tarkovsky’s Stalker is a great example of this.
In the 1970s, Tarkovsky became very interested in Zen Buddhism, and we can find much evidence of such influence in Stalker. Because of the great emphasis on spirituality in his films, we may certainly view them as a form of spiritual theology. But I wouldn’t say these films were against the ‘materialist’ ideology of Soviet society.
Soviet totalitarianism valued culture very highly by investing in it both financially and ideologically. In the Soviet Union, all education was free, and one could do arts and sports outside of school for free as well. Studying music or painting was a regular part of the Soviet kids’ curriculum. Tarkovsky himself graduated from an art school, and his first diploma film, The Steamroller and the Violin, is about a boy who is a music school student.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yz8JC9z6Wms
So, Soviet ideology required culture and spirituality for its own justification. People were culturally educated in exchange for their freedom. In this respect, Tarkovskian spirituality is very Soviet.
JC: Tarkovsky famously faced battles with Soviet censors, yet his films emerged as some of the most ambitious and philosophical works of their time. What lessons can today’s filmmakers—especially those working under oppressive regimes—learn from Tarkovsky’s ability to navigate censorship while maintaining artistic integrity?
ST: If we read Tarkovsky’s diary, we’ll see that his battles with the censors were quite a big deal for him. He had very many ideas for movies, but he couldn’t realise them because of Soviet censorship. Bergman, for example, completed over 60 films, but Tarkovsky only 7. It’s partly because of his constant fights with the censors for each of his films that he decided to emigrate. He even called his diary Martyrology because he considered himself a martyr of Soviet censorship.
Nevertheless, despite the traumatic effect of censorship on him, Tarkovsky dramatised it too much. Let’s not forget that all his Soviet movies were funded by the state. Furthermore, he reshot his Stalker twice or even three times because the film turned out to be defective, and such excessive expenses were all covered by the state.
A still from Stalker (1979) – A glimpse into Tarkovsky’s creative process. CC image
So, when I read Tarkovsky’s complaints over his battles with the censors, I can’t really take them seriously, since he completely ignored the financial aspect of film production in the Soviet Union, where censorship was simply part of the deal: those who paid for a movie were also responsible for checking if it met the Soviet ideological criteria after it was completed.
But Tarkovsky was of a very high opinion of himself, considering himself a creator beyond any censorship, defiantly refusing to compromise with any cuts. This, I think, was a bit juvenile. Had he been more flexible and agreeable with the censors, he could have made more movies.
So, the lesson here for today’s filmmakers is rather negative: not to follow Tarkovsky’s example, no matter how genius you are, and instead find ways for compromise.
JC: In Mirror and Nostalgia, Tarkovsky portrays nature as a spiritual and timeless force, yet von Trier’s Antichrist reinterprets nature as something gothic and foreboding. How do you view this evolution of the ‘spiritual landscape’ in cinema? Do you think Tarkovsky’s idealisation of nature still resonates in contemporary Russian and global filmmaking?
ST: Tarkovsky’s abstract or spiritual landscapes definitely contributed to the style of the so-called ‘slow cinema,’ where an uninterrupted 5- or 10-minute shot of natural scenery has become a cliché already. Tarkovsky really liked the nature of the Central or European part of Russia. As is known, he wanted to shoot his Stalker in Tajikistan first, but because of the earthquake there, he was forced to find another setting, which was in Estonia.
From Stalker (1979) – Exploring metaphysical landscapes in Tarkovsky’s vision. CC image
I suspect that the earthquake was not the main reason for changing the setting; I think Tarkovsky just didn’t like that Central Asian desert enough. He wanted to have that presence of trees, leaves, and grass in the film that would remind him of Russian nature. And yes, you can see the same kind of Central Russian landscape in Mirror and Nostalgia, which might stem from Tarkovsky’s own childhood memories.
Von Trier was fully aware of the spiritual importance of nature for Tarkovsky, and he purposefully turned it into a gothic monster just to piss off Tarkovsky. Von Trier’s relationship with Tarkovsky is very complex: the entire career of the former could be viewed as some kind of struggle to get rid of the latter’s influence. I view Antichrist as von Trier’s most dramatic attempt to get done with Tarkovsky once and for all. And he does it there through nature by making it sinister or demonic.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNIXd1Ty3K0
JC: Tarkovsky often avoided overt political statements, yet his works, particularly The Sacrifice and Stalker, can be read as deeply political in their existential concerns. In light of Putin’s government, the Ukraine war, and increasing censorship in Russia, do you see Tarkovsky’s influence inspiring a new wave of politically charged Russian filmmakers, akin to the Soviet Thaw-era cinema?
ST: I would say more: Tarkovsky was overtly apolitical. Politics was a vulgar thing to him. But I heard how his Sacrifice was recently discussed as a political film in the context of the current nuclear threat to the world. Honestly, I don’t think Tarkovsky’s influence would help contemporary Russian filmmakers to express their political concerns. In fact, it would be counter-intuitive because the very word ‘spirituality’ has become toxic and corrupt in Russia today. The Russian Orthodox Church endorsed Putin’s invasion of Ukraine and many public figures there advocate Russia’s spiritual superiority in the world. For example, Nikolai Burlyaev, who played Boriska in Andrei Rublev, wholeheartedly supports the war in Ukraine, while being an extremely religious person. So, Tarkovsky’s influence would only harm politically minded filmmakers now. And if such influence is still possible, it must necessarily be mediated by von Trier’s cynicism.
JC: Time is central to Tarkovsky’s cinema, particularly in films like Mirror and Nostalgia, where memory, history, and personal experience overlap fluidly. How does Tarkovsky’s treatment of time differ from other Soviet filmmakers of his era? Do you think this approach has a unique resonance with Russian history and identity?
ST: I think Tarkovsky’s treatment of time is unique in Soviet cinema—no one else presented time with such amazing clarity. Not many Soviet filmmakers can be compared to Tarkovsky’s representation of time; I can only name Larisa Shepitko’s Wings (about a female pilot during the post-war time) and Sergei Paradzhanov’s Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. I’m not sure Tarkovsky’s approach to time stems directly from Russian culture or history. His style is very structural, and he has more in common with Alain Resnais. As Deleuze writes in his Cinema II volume, both filmmakers perfectly exemplify the time-image, or the crystal image—the image that is based on the resonance between the present and the past, as well as the actual and the virtual. So, I don’t know any Russian filmmaker who would implement that crystal image in a film with such systematic consistency (or consistent systematicity). Furthermore, this dreamlike equivalence between temporalities extends to other resonances: between Bach and Breughel, different musical traditions in his soundtracks, or between characters and paintings. And certainly, Tarkovsky’s long takes are never too long for me. They are for my students, however, when I illustrate Bergsonian duration through the long takes of Stalker or Nostalghia.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36dhOvzPnIo
JC: Tarkovsky’s depiction of women in films like Mirror and Solaris has been critiqued for being archetypal or secondary to male protagonists. How would you evaluate the role of women in Tarkovsky’s cinema, and do you think there are feminist reinterpretations of his films that deserve more attention?
ST: It’s true, Tarkovsky’s depiction of women is not favorable. The women we see in his films are dependent, hysterical, and very secondary to male roles. Furthermore, if you read Tarkovsky’s diary, you may find lots of nasty and misogynistic remarks about women. Nevertheless, feminist reinterpretations of his films are still possible. First of all, Tarkovsky rejects hegemonic masculinity, as it is evident in Andrei Rublev and Stalker. In Rublev, the emphasis is put on the protagonist’s passivity or non-action: the character Rublev takes a vow of silence and only observes what’s happening in medieval Russia for most of the film. In Stalker, the protagonist is similarly passive as well as very gentle and fragile. For Tarkovsky, he represents some kind of knight of faith. For the Stalker’s role, Tarkovsky cast Alexander Kaidanovsky, who was previously famous as an action star. Kaidanovsky later confessed how he suffered while crushing himself as a man in order to become the Stalker that Tarkovsky wanted to see. Playing the Stalker had a profound impact on Kaidanovsky, who decided to become a director himself after this experience. His film Simple Death, based on Leo Tolstoy’s novella “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” is very Tarkovskian. So, rejection of hegemonic masculinity could be one way to reinterpret Tarkovsky in a feminist way. Another way could be to look at nature in a Tarkovskian manner, that is, by aligning oneself with it as if you were part of it, given that nature is usually gendered as feminine.
Ethereal Imagery in Solaris (1972) – Tarkovsky’s sci-fi masterpiece on memory and love. CC image
JC: Despite being deeply rooted in Russian history and culture, Tarkovsky’s films continue to resonate globally. What is it about his vision—whether it’s his spiritual inquiry, aesthetic style, or philosophical depth—that makes him a universal filmmaker? How do you think his works speak to modern audiences living in an increasingly fragmented and digital world?
ST: Yes, we may say that his cinema has a universal appeal. But I would add that his universality is of a European kind. He was Soviet through and through, yet he desperately wanted to transcend his Sovietness and become European instead. And I think he succeeded. While casting his actors, he was more interested in those types whose facial features were recognizably European. When he was working on their dress code, it also had to be somewhat neutral and European. His Nostalghia is half-Italian, and Sacrifice is shot in Sweden, whereas his Solaris and Stalker take place in some imaginary European, definitely non-Russian town. But what makes him universal is not necessarily the European look of his films, but precisely the fact that he was striving to become what he was not.
I’ll give you another example to clarify my point. In Russian Ark, Sokurov portrays Russia as the other of Europe. Since the 18th century, Russia wanted to become Westernized: by adopting European architecture and Enlightenment ideals, by inviting European painters and other experts to work in Russia, etc. Russia’s emperors themselves were mostly German. This is why Sokurov’s protagonist, the French diplomat Marquis de Custine, often laments that the Russia built in Saint Petersburg is fake, it is but an imitation of Europe, it’s not real Russia. The real, authentic Russia, he says, is in Moscow, which was anti-Western at that time. But for Sokurov himself, Russia becomes universal when it wants to become European: by adopting European cultural and humanistic values, it appropriates and preserves them as their own.
So, to become the other of Europe is the way for Russia to become universal because becoming other than oneself is the way to become universal. Something similar, I think, happened with Tarkovsky. What’s truly authentic in his films is his constant desire to transcend his immediate Soviet environment and adopt and absorb European values through culture: such as poetry, music, painting, God, you name it. Tarkovsky’s knowledge of classical European culture was typically Soviet, he knew as much of it as he was allowed to know and have access to by the Soviet authorities. But what matters here is not the content itself but the very desire to become part of that content because he thought that content represents human universality.
Haunting Vision in Nostalghia (1983) – Tarkovsky’s poetic reflection on exile and memory. CC image
To sum up, I would say that what makes his cinema universal is his desire for transcendence. We may call it “spirituality,” of course, but technically speaking, this is no more than a desire to become other than oneself or non-Soviet, which was a very typical desire of the Soviet intelligentsia in the 1970s. To respond to your second question about his contemporary reception, interestingly enough, people still like him. The students in my film-philosophy class like him a lot, for example. They don’t like that he is too slow, of course. But other than that, they can easily relate to his cinema. And I think this is precisely because his project of self-transcendence worked out well.
