Explaining the ending of Andrei Tarkovsky’s ‘Stalker’
Is there a film that is more uncompromising in its artistic vision, more dedicated to probing the abstract nature of consciousness, and more committed to delving into the metaphysical than Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1979 psychological sci-fi Stalker? The fifth film from the Russian auteur, running at a hefty 161 minutes, is a starkly atmospheric descent into the deepest depths of the human psyche. It is also, however, a film that leaves many scratching their heads once the end credits start rolling. But perhaps an explanation is closer than it may appear.
Set in an unnamed country in an unknown year, Stalker depicts the grainy tableaux of a sepia-tinted world ravaged by an unknown cataclysmic. At the heart of it all is the Zone: an unspecified and powerful abstract area where the very nature of physics and reality ebb and flow like water. Is it the remnants of some alien contact or the result of a great experiment gone wrong? We don’t know, and if anyone in the film does, they don’t tell us. How the Zone came about is of no importance; it’s what the Zone can offer that draws us deeper in.
Due to its dangerous and abstract nature, the border around the Zone is heavily guarded, and the place itself cannot be accessed by just anyone. The landscape within the Zone is as ethereal and philosophical as it is physical and geographical. Navigating is impossible for all except the titular Stalker, who is familiar with its cerebral and beguiling topography and able to traverse without harm by adhering to an ever-changing route. Inside is a place called ‘The Room’, and through either rumour or some unknown psychic signal emitting from the Zone, this Room is known by everyone to possess the power to grant a wish.
The Stalker is chartered by two men to take them through the Zone and to the Room. One of them, a writer, wishes for inspiration. The other, the professor, wishes for fortune and fame for his scientific analysis of the Zone. The Stalker, taking nothing as payment, cites only his philanthropic desire to help deliver to those searching for what they seek. The trio venture forth into the Zone, evading the oppressive security forces on the perimeter, and once in, their journey to the Room begins. But they must be careful along the way, for as the Stalker says, “the straightest path is not always the shortest path”.
The encounters they have along the way and the imagery Tarkovsky hypnotises the audience with can truly only be experienced rather than described. Much like the up-river journey in Apocalypse Now, which interestingly came out the same year, or the search for El Dorado in Aguirre, the Wrath of God, the crossing that takes place in Stalker is as much one of the mind as it is of the land. Upon reaching the Room, there are revelations about intention and identity, and ultimately an agreement is made between the three to leave the Room alone. It is concluded, rather hopelessly, that no one can ever truly know their own desires. As such, it is impossible to be granted one’s own wish.
And as the men glumly go their separate ways, having achieved nothing, the relentless sense of pessimism beats down upon us. The hope they’ve been searching for, however, lies underneath their noses, completely independent from their futile venture into the Zone. If only humanity had faith – the very thing the Stalker himself lamented the loss of – in its own progeny and ability to grow and prosper, it might be able to create the future it’s been so vainly seeking. The writer and the professor were ultimately cynical in their attempts to steal a wish from the Zone and to take a shortcut through the path of progress. The Stalker, on the other hand, despite his regret for mankind’s failings, at least understands the necessity of faith in successfully traversing the Zone.
Without faith, there is nothing, but the realisation of this is in itself an expression of hope, of learning, and as the Stalker’s wife looks directly at the camera and ponders aloud the fate of her relationship with her husband, we understand that we are being asked to ponder with her the fate of mankind. Then, with a tiny movement in a single frame, the lasting image, the daughter moves three glasses on the table with her mind. Tarkovsky has hidden the answer to the question in the most inconspicuous of places, the child. Her hint of evolution and of humanity lurching into another plane of telling us that there is hope for the future, but only if we have faith in our own ability to reach it.
